The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(73)

Finley walked up to the first person she spotted inside. “Is Mr. Cosgrove here?”

“Checking in a beer delivery in the back.”

“Thanks.” Finley didn’t wait for an invitation. She walked beyond the bar and through the staff-only doors. The driver of the beer truck had just rolled in the last of the order. Cosgrove signed the invoice, and the driver was on his way.

Cosgrove turned and noticed he had company. “Can I help you with something?”

She extended her hand. “Finley O’Sullivan. I’d like to speak to you about the Charles Holmes case, especially as to what your relationship was with him and any details you can provide related to the time he spent frequenting your establishment. I understand he was a regular.”

Cosgrove nodded. “Now there’s a blast from the past. Just so we’re clear, he and I didn’t have a relationship other than him regularly patronizing the place. Twice a week usually. Sometimes three.”

Finley nodded. “Did you ever see any trouble out of him? Any violence?”

“He gave all indications that he was a lover, not a fighter. Believe it or not, considering what we know now, there was never any trouble here with him.”

“Was he into dancing?” This was more like a dance club than just a hangout place.

“Not really. Not that I recall anyway. He usually hung out until he hooked up with someone, and then he was out of here.”

“Was he working the crowd for more than a pickup?”

Cosgrove shrugged. “I can’t say for sure, but judging by the one-offs he left with, I suppose anything is possible. He was a popular guy. Had his own little group of fans who hung around him.”

She showed him photos of Cecelia and Olivia. “Did you ever see either of these women here with him?”

“The twins.” He laughed. “They were here on a fairly regular basis.” He shrugged. “One of them was, anyway. She hung on his every word. I never got it. The guy was not what you’d call handsome and had no real personality. He was nothing more than another wannabe country music star. But they flocked to him like he was the last loaf of bread on the shelf with snow in the forecast.”

When Finley would have asked her next question, he held up a hand. “Before you ask, we do not and never have served alcohol to minors. We do, however, allow entrance to seventeen-to twenty-one-year-olds.”

Finley hadn’t planned to ask about his door policy, but she nodded her understanding to appease any worries he might have had. “Was there ever anyone in particular you noticed him with? Maybe one woman who kept up with him more than anyone else.”

“You know, I told the detectives on the case all this last time around. And they never investigated it as far as I know. I guess they figured they had their killer. No need to waste time. At any rate, there was this one girl who spent a lot of time with him. I don’t know if she’s relevant.”

“Can you tell me anything more about her? Describe her?”

“I can’t remember her name. She had dark hair and eyes. Kind of petite. Always well dressed. You might look on the bulletin boards up front. People used to leave photographs of their visits here. We had photo booths back then. The crowd loved them. The woman you’re looking for may be in one of the posted photos. I can’t be sure, but it’s worth a look. If you have more questions, just ask.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks.” She retrieved a card and passed it to him. “Please call me if you think of anything else that might be relevant to our case.”

“Sure thing.” He accepted her card, started reading the info there as she walked away.

At the front of the building Finley found the four large bulletin boards on each side of the corridor that stretched from the double entrance doors to where the club opened up, zooming three stories high and extending the width and remaining depth of the building. The boards were crowded with the narrow strips spit out by a photo booth. It took a little time, but Finley found one of Holmes all hugged up with a young woman she recognized immediately.

Cherry Prescott Inglewood.





27


6:28 p.m.


Inglewood Residence

Morning Glory Court

Brentwood

At the gate Finley pressed the call button.

A full ten seconds elapsed before the lady of the house said, “Yes.”

“Finley O’Sullivan. I apologize for showing up unannounced, but it’s urgent that I speak with you now.”

Another extended pause before the gates began their slow swing inward. Finley drove through and parked. By the time she was out of the car and up the steps, Cherry was waiting on the porch just outside the door. A yellow swimsuit adorned with a wrap in pastel colors showed off her fit body and her nice tan.

“We should talk out here. My husband is in the pool with our son, and I’d like to get back to them.”

“Tell me about this.” She held up her cell and showed the shot she’d made of Cherry all smiles while hugged up with Charles Holmes, the bland photo wall in the background.

Cherry looked away. “I was young and foolish. Everyone hung out at the Paradise.” She shrugged. “People would grab you and drag you into one of those old booths for a memento. It was free, and everybody did it.”

Really? Did she think she was getting off that easily? “This is Charles Holmes. You claimed you’d never had contact with him. Never even met him . . . and yet here you are.” Finley put her phone away. “I’m guessing you forgot about that incriminating photo.”