“Thank you.” It was the best Finley could hope for. “We owe it to these women to finish this. Bear in mind I have a flight back to Nashville later this evening.”

  Lawrence stepped out of her office to make her call. Finley took a water bottle from the silver tray on the table between the two sofas.

  She was close. All she needed was confirmation.

  Dagne Residence

  Riverly Road, Atlanta, 1:30 p.m.

  Since Lawrence was local, she drove Finley to her client Meredith Dagne. The client’s home was grander than Winthrop’s, and Finley wouldn’t have considered that an easy feat. Yet here she sat in a home that better resembled a palace than a house.

  Dagne was older than Winthrop as well, early sixties, and she was in ill health, multiple sclerosis, late onset.

  Grady-Wilensky was a total scumbag. Fury roiled inside Finley.

  “We met at a friend’s anniversary party,” Dagne explained. “He was with the caterer.”

  Sounded like the bastard stuck with a tried-and-true strategy. Or maybe food service and laying on the charm were his only business skills. No, that wasn’t right. Celine Jones had mentioned his ability with accounting software.

  “We dated for a few weeks,” Dagne continued. “I selfishly thought I should grab on to whatever happiness I could for however long possible. Then my condition worsened, and I was forced to tell him about my diagnosis.” She clutched the arms of her wheelchair. “I assumed he would disappear, but he didn’t. He insisted on doing all possible to make my life comfortable and to ensure my happiness. For a time, he was like a godsend. I felt truly blessed.”

  Finley and Lawrence waited while she composed herself. “I gave him access to one of my accounts. I provided him with a credit card, a car. He moved into the house. And then large sums of money started to disappear. He had no idea that my accountant monitored all my accounts. I’d asked him to begin that service when I was diagnosed. I have no family, so I couldn’t be certain what sort of help would end up taking care of me.”

  “There were a number of measures,” Lawrence offered, “we instituted for when Meredith felt she would be more vulnerable.”

  “Lisa wanted me to press charges against him,” Dagne went on. “But I couldn’t. There were things I didn’t want to be made public, and when I confronted him, he threatened to do exactly that.”

  “Which is why I met with him last Friday,” Lawrence explained.

  “The final payoff,” Finley guessed. What a bastard.

  “Five hundred thousand for his continued silence,” Dagne said. “I had to consider the value of my peace of mind.”

  “How could you be certain that would keep him quiet?” Finley directed this at the attorney.

  “It was a twofold payment. Half a million now and another half million upon her death. As long as he kept his word.”

  Unbelievable. Finley turned to Dagne. “May I ask you a personal question?” Everything she’d heard so far was exactly what she’d expected, but it didn’t connect Marsh to Dagne.

  Dagne laughed softly. “What could possibly be more personal?”

  “When you met him, were you seeing a therapist?”

  Dagne frowned. “I was. How did you know?”

  And there it was. “Dyson-Mekler?”

  Surprise flared in the older woman’s eyes. “I still see Dr. Mekler.”

  Finley pushed to her feet and walked to where Dagne sat. She showed her a photo of Marsh. “Did you ever see this woman at his office?”

  Understanding fell over the older woman’s face. “Yes. Until she left last September or October, she was the receptionist. She was always so kind and helpful.”

  Finley showed the photo to Lawrence, then returned to her seat. “I have reason to believe this woman is his partner.”

  Dagne held Finley’s gaze for a long moment. “And you say he is dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Dagne nodded. “Good.”

  When the nurse insisted it was time for Mrs. Dagne’s afternoon nap, Lawrence offered to drive Finley to the airport. If she was lucky, she could catch the earlier flight. She needed to get back to Nashville ASAP.

  “What’re you going to do?” Lawrence asked.

  Though Finley had not mentioned their client, Lawrence was aware the firm was representing someone related to Grady-Wilensky.

  “It’s a sensitive situation,” Finley agreed. “But you have my word I will inform the detective on the case about all that I’ve learned, and I’ll give him your contact information.” That she could do without divulging details about Lawrence’s client. If a criminal case related to Marsh was opened, involving Dagne would be the detective’s battle with Lawrence.

  “Thank you,” Lawrence said when she’d pulled to the curb at the drop-off zone. “As emotionally draining as this was for Meredith, I’m certain it’s heartening to some degree for her to know she wasn’t the only one who fell for him.”

  “I’m sure,” Finley agreed. “Thank you.” She reached for the door. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  “I looked you up, Finley O’Sullivan,” Lawrence said, waylaying her. “I don’t know the details of why you’re doing this investigator gig, but judging by your record as an ADA, if you ever want to go back into practice, call me. I can always use another warrior.”

  Finley smiled and exited the car. The woman had no idea.

  Once she’d changed her flight and tackled the security line, Finley called Jack to give him an update.

  “I’ll pass Marsh’s details along to Ventura,” Jack said. “The sooner they start looking for her, the better the chances of finding her.”

  Finley agreed. “The Miami destination was probably a ruse. If she headed out of town in her car, she could be halfway across the country.” Nothing they could do about that. “I’ll let you know when I land.”

  “There’s been some developments here, Fin.”

  She didn’t like the sound of his voice. “Developments?”

  “That detective. Eric Houser, the one working on Derrick’s case.”

  “Yeah,” Finley said, her heart rate starting to climb. She should have called him at some point today to follow up on Whitney Lemm, but she’d gotten so caught up in her search here that she’d forgotten. “What about him?”

  “He was shot last night at a dive motel over on the west side. He wasn’t found until this morning. Apparently, the housekeeper went into the room and—”

  “Is he dead?” Ice filled Finley’s veins.

  “No,” Jack assured her. “He’s alive. Barely. His ID was missing, so the staff in the ER didn’t know who he was when he went into surgery. Obviously, he didn’t show at work, and his partner couldn’t find him, so he started checking in with hospitals. The partner got to the hospital and was able to see him briefly while he was in recovery. He says Houser roused long enough to say your name. It took his partner a while to figure out that Finley was you. He called here looking for you. He wants to talk to you as soon as you’re back.”

  “What about the woman?” Finley’s chest felt on the verge of exploding.

  “The prostitute they found in the room with him?”

  “She’s not a prostitute,” Finley argued, frustration joining the other emotions raging inside her. She was on her feet, walking back and forth in front of the row of chairs at the gate. “Houser went to the motel to pick her up and to talk to her. She’s Brant’s girlfriend—Whitney Lemm—the one who shot him.” Finley’s hopes sank. “She’s a possible link to Dempsey.”

  “Sorry, kid, but she didn’t make it. The setup in the room looked like Houser picked her up and things went south. The motel manager claimed he didn’t even know she was in the room. It was supposed to be empty.”

  Outrage roared through Finley. “The fucking manager knew because I rented the room from him and took Whitney there. Houser was going to move her to a safe house and then interview her.”

  “Slow down,” Jack said. “Explain this to me.”

  Finley took a breath, fought the urge to cry. What the hell was wrong with her lately? “I decided to do the right thing. I told Houser everything. He was going to help.”

  “Damn, Fin,” Jack murmured. “You’re killing me here. You have to be more careful. That could’ve been you dead in that room with Lemm.”

  “But it wasn’t,” she argued, renewed outrage blasting through her. “Just tell me if Houser’s going to make it.”

  “The partner called me again a little while ago. He says the prognosis is good. But he’s bugging the hell out of me about talking to you. I told him you were out of town and you’d talk to him when you got back.”

  “Thanks, Jack. Sorry I didn’t tell you about Houser before I left.”

  “No problem, kid. Just promise me you’ll do like we talked about and stop all these clandestine meetings with shady characters.”

  Finley managed a tight laugh. “Then how would I ever dig up the stuff our clients hide?”

  Jack was the one laughing now. “You’re right. Secrets are never hidden in safe places with nice people.”

  Never. They were in places no decent or sane person wanted to look.

  27

  5:50 p.m.

  The Murder House

  Shelby Avenue, Nashville

  Her shabby little house had never looked so good.

  Finley paid the driver and stepped out of the car, her messenger bag draped over her shoulder. Her emergency overnight bag in hand. Staying overnight had never been the plan, but these days with flight delays and cancellations, one never knew. There had also been the risk that staying overnight would be necessary if she couldn’t pack all the needed meetings into one day.

  Matt’s car was behind hers in the driveway. He sat on her porch steps, the jacket and tie gone, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He smiled as she walked toward him. The car that had delivered her sped away, likely headed back to the airport for another arrival.

  “I would have picked you up at the airport,” her friend said as he pushed to his feet. He took the overnight bag from her and moved aside for her to climb the steps.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d be back tonight, much less a little earlier.” She unlocked the door. “You know how it is.”

  “I do indeed.” He followed her inside, carried the bag to her bedroom. She would have tossed it on the sofa.

  She needed wine. Now. “You want a beer?” She headed for the fridge. His yes had her reaching for the beers left in the six-pack she’d shared with Houser last night. She hoped like hell he would make it through this. With her free hand she grabbed the bottle of rosé already chilled and bumped the door shut with her hip.

  She had called Houser’s partner as soon as she landed and given him most of the story. She’d opted to start at finding Lemm in her garage rather than across the street from the Turnip Truck. She was supposed to go to the precinct tomorrow and make an official statement. She’d also called the hospital and learned that Houser’s condition had been upgraded to good. Her relief at the news had been so profound she’d almost wept.

  Matt joined her in the kitchen before she rounded up a clean glass. She did sometimes miss the dishwasher she’d had at her condo.

  “Nita told me you’d changed your flight and what time you’d be home, so I took the liberty of ordering pizza.”

  The doorbell sounded just then.

  “Right on time,” he said with a grin.

  “You’re my favorite guy,” Finley shouted after him as he hustled to the door.

  “I won’t tell Jack,” he teased as he opened the door.

  While Matt interacted with the pizza delivery guy—judging by his deep voice—Finley poured herself a hefty glass of wine. She downed a good portion of it and almost moaned at the promised relief. God, she had needed that. She closed her eyes and attempted to stop the whirl of pieces from this case in her head. She needed a few hours of space away from those thoughts to put it all into perspective.

  “You want to eat in here or in there?” Matt called from the living room.

  She opened her eyes, forced away thoughts of the case. “In there. I’m on my way with the drinks.” She refilled her glass, tucked the bottle under one arm, and grabbed the six-pack ring with its remaining beers.

  She joined her friend in the living room. The two of them piled onto the sofa, drinks on the coffee table. They devoured slices of pizza. Finley couldn’t think about anything else until she’d finished off two. As often as she forgot to eat, she sometimes made up for it when she did. And though she appreciated Matt showing up at her door unannounced and having ordered pizza, she wasn’t looking forward to whatever was on his mind. They had known each other forever, and showing up unannounced was not his MO except in an emergency, like when he couldn’t reach her and he was worried. He was far too considerate and gentlemanly.

  Finally, fingers greasy, wine bubbling down her throat, she listened while Matt launched into what he had to say.

  “I found a connection”—he shrugged—“think the loosest definition of the word . . . between Dempsey and Derrick.”

  The warm, spicy pizza turned to a cold, hard lump in her stomach. “I asked you not to get involved with the investigation. Houser can handle it.”

  Shit. Maybe not. He was in the hospital, and God only knew what his memory of the events that had happened would be like. She should be at the hospital sitting at his side. Except she wasn’t family, and with the new visitor restrictions, the chances of her getting in to see him were less than zero. Damn it.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear,” Matt said, wiping his hands on a napkin and then reaching for his beer, “but Houser was shot last night. He’s in pretty rough shape. The chief says he’ll make it, but he’ll be out of commission for a while.”

  Finley grabbed her own wad of napkins and swabbed at her mouth and then her hands. She tried valiantly to tamp down the flash of regret wrapped with intense frustration, but it wasn’t happening. This . . . thing with Derrick was out of control. It was one thing when she put herself in danger for the sake of finding information, but putting other innocent people at risk . . . Breathe, she told herself. This had gone too far.

  “Why do you think I asked you to stay out of this?” She threw the knot of napkins on the coffee table. “Dempsey will do all in his power to keep trouble away from his door.”

  Matt stared at her then. “But it’s okay for you to poke that bear.”

  “I have no choice,” she snapped before she could stop herself. Her lips clamped together to prevent any other words from slipping out.

  “Because he had someone you love murdered?” Matt’s jaw hardened with his own mounting frustration. “The son of a bitch almost killed someone I care deeply about. Don’t I get the same privilege?”

  She glared at him. “I didn’t die.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Anger spiked in his voice. “It’s okay that he did what he did because you survived? I don’t want him to get away with it.”

  Finley closed her eyes. Fought to regain her composure.

  See, I told you the guy’s in love with you.

  Derrick’s voice floated through her, and she could barely breathe.

  “Houser was almost killed because of me,” she blurted, unable to hold back all the secrets and lies anymore. It had to end somewhere. “That guy in the convenience store, Billy Hughes, you saw the video. I wanted him to die.” She shrugged. “Or maybe I wanted him to kill me, but I wanted all of it over.”

  Matt started to interrupt, but she stopped him with a raised hand. “I’m far from finished. The dead woman they found in the motel where Houser was shot and think is a prostitute, she was Tark Brant’s girlfriend. She killed him. I was there. She thought he and I had a thing, and maybe we did. He was there . . . that night. He was the one who . . . raped me. For months I’ve been watching him. I”—she slapped her chest with her hand—“wanted him to know I was watching him. He’s dead and I’m glad. But the woman—Whitney Lemm—shouldn’t have had to die because of what I did. Houser shouldn’t have been shot because of what I asked him to do.”

  Only when she shut up did she realize she was shaking. Matt moved closer, pulled her against him, and hugged her tight. She tried to push him away at first. Wanted him to understand she was dead serious about his involvement. But she was tired. Tired of pretending all that mattered was getting the people responsible for what had happened.

  When in truth she was the one responsible for what had happened. She was the one who got Derrick killed. She took Dempsey’s son from him, and he took Derrick from her. Fair was fair, right?

  Finley couldn’t cry. Until the other night, she’d thought she had forgotten how. But now, she didn’t have any tears left inside her. She wanted . . . this . . . over.

  She stiffened. Wait. What had Matt said?

  She drew back. “What connection?” Matt’s words suddenly filtered through all the crap and sank into her brain.

  Matt held up a hand, stopping her this time. “You need to give me a minute to catch up, Fin. You were there when Brant was shot?”

  “The girlfriend—Lemm—said she had information about Derrick. But when I got there, she just warned me off her boyfriend—Brant. Then he showed up. Based on the fading bruises Lemm was wearing, the situation wasn’t going to end well. Apparently, she was aware, so she shot him.” Finley exhaled a big breath and said the rest. “She was going to shoot me, too, but I talked her out of it.” The whole story sounded far worse looking back. At the time it had felt like it all worked out. Not so much now.

  “Does Jack know about this?”

  She nodded. “Houser knows too. I told him everything.”

  Finley didn’t miss the flash of hurt in her friend’s eyes. She’d told two people, but he wasn’t one of them.

  “Sorry I didn’t tell you too. I wanted to protect you.”

  The way he stared at her now, she could see that he wasn’t buying it.

  “I had to tell Houser in order to get help for Lemm. Jack is my boss and . . .” Jesus Christ, what was Jack? He’d always been like an uncle to her, but everything was different now. He was—had been—in love with her mother. Did Matt know?