Why turn over her fate to a man she had never met?

  Finley stared at the name Jarrod Grady written across the page and then underlined.

  Like her, Winthrop had never been married or engaged before.

  Why the sudden marriage? At fifty it wasn’t likely that she was rushing to start procreating. With all her accomplishments it didn’t seem plausible that she’d wanted to impress anyone or to attain a particular personal milestone by getting married. Her life was one milestone after another according to Google.

  Whatever the reason for the marriage—love, bucket list, whim—once it was done, it was an agreement. A contract. Agreements and contracts involved trust. It was possible Winthrop had learned of his deception and lost it. Killed him without really meaning to. It happened.

  Finley tried to imagine how she would have felt if she’d learned of Derrick’s lies while he was still alive. What would she have done? Walked out? Waged a major fight? Kicked him out? She couldn’t see herself doing him bodily harm.

  That said, she was only human. One never knew what one would do until tested by an event. Winthrop would be no exception.

  There were times when even the best human could be pushed too far.

  5

  The Widow

  Midnight

  Pettit Residence

  Penrose Drive, Brentwood

  Jarrod was dead.

  After the initial turmoil of emotions, Ellen felt oddly numb about his death.

  She supposed that was normal . . . under the circumstances. Worse, she couldn’t think . . . couldn’t seem to grasp what she should do next. She’d been standing here, unmoving, in her dear friend’s guest bedroom for half an hour.

  Deep breath. Pull yourself together, Ellen.

  Laney, her lifelong friend and considerate host, had offered Ellen wine or a cocktail, water or coffee . . . whatever she needed. Ellen wasn’t at all sure what she needed.

  Jarrod is dead.

  She had explained to the police how her husband was not the man she’d thought he was. He had tricked her. Used her. Despite great and oddly unexpected emotional difficulty, she had provided all the necessary details.

  The detective had displayed some amount of sympathy as she’d explained that she had felt entirely foolish about arriving at fifty and still having the kind of needs that ultimately rendered her vulnerable to this sort of betrayal. What was worse, she had unfortunately allowed her deep, desperate feelings of loneliness to blind her to the truth for far too long.

  The stoic detective had said nothing. He’d only nodded and waited for her to go on with her story. But some degree of understanding remained in his eyes. The man had a mother. Of course he understood. Any good and kind man would. Even Jack Finnegan had seemed to soften as she told her story the second time, but whether his visible concern was real or for the detective’s benefit, she couldn’t say. Finnegan and his investigator, Finley O’Sullivan, were the best criminal defense team in the Nashville area. Ellen had chosen them precisely for that reason—despite her own attorney’s reservations.

  The step had been necessary to navigate what was to come.

  Ellen’s story wasn’t a new one. Age, loneliness—no amount of power or money made one immune to those all-too-human weaknesses. She had first seen Jarrod the night of her ridiculously grand half-century birthday celebration. Her friends had thrown her a huge party at the Bridge Building. Jarrod had served as a member of the waitstaff. That alone made what had happened in the end all the more preposterous. No doubt people would wonder what she had been thinking.

  Obviously, they would imagine, she had not been at all.

  She smiled. She supposed she could live with that.

  Ellen had presented the facts in the official interview at the precinct, and how could anyone doubt her? The uncomfortable questioning that followed was nothing more than a necessary step of the investigation.

  Ellen had not one thing to fear.

  She walked to the bed, where her overnight bag sat. Jack had driven her back to her home, where she had been allowed to gather a few things under the close watch of a uniformed officer. She flinched at the memory of yellow crime scene tape and all those markers where evidence had been flagged. The blood. She shuddered. The people still milling about in their protective gear, gathering prints and fibers. The images had been more challenging than she’d anticipated.

  She wished the nightmare had not happened in her home. She’d built the house twenty years ago, when she’d closed her first multimillion-dollar deal. She’d personally selected each light fixture, every paint color . . . every single thing that went into the making of her dream home.

  Now it would never be the same.

  She gathered her pajamas and cosmetic bag from the jumble she’d thrown together. She crossed to the en suite. A long hot shower would help, and then she intended to have that drink Laney had offered. In fact, she wanted two or perhaps three. Whatever it took to relax her after today’s trials.

  She shuddered at the idea that so many reporters had gathered outside her home. Thankfully, Jack had been able to slip her away unnoticed, preventing anyone from following them here.

  In the bathroom, surrounded by cool white tile and gold-tone fixtures, she shed the clothes she wore. They weren’t the clothes she had been wearing that morning. The police had taken those. She’d had to remove and drop every item of fabric and jewelry from her body into an evidence bag. Her favorite walking shoes as well.

  The forensic technicians would be looking for blood splatter or other evidence that she had been close to the victim when he was murdered.

  Ellen knew with certainty the effort would be futile. When she had entered the house after her walk and gone in search of her husband, she hadn’t moved beyond the bathroom door, although she had said she’d checked his pulse. She hadn’t. There was no need. He was dead. She had known he was. Why move closer than necessary?

  Besides, there had been much to do. After the initial shock of finding him, her brain had kicked into gear, and by sheer force of will she had taken care of a few unexpected loose ends around the house. Then she had called the police. The first officers had arrived in under ten minutes. She hadn’t expected any less in her prestigious neighborhood.

  One of the officers had escorted her to the great room and seated her out of the way of the activities that would need to take place in her home. The officer, a woman, had taken down the basic information by the time the detective had arrived.

  Ellen turned on the shower, then gathered a towel before stepping beneath the hot spray. For long minutes—she had no idea how many—she stood under the water, hoping to wash away the horrors of the day.

  The last words she had spoken to Jarrod, ordinary words—good night, love you—echoed through her. He had repeated the same to her. They hadn’t slept apart as she’d stated, because she had not confronted him about his betrayal. If she had, he would have promptly left before the grand finale. She could not allow that to happen.

  But it had happened. Only he hadn’t left . . . he’d been murdered.

  Her fingers worked shampoo through her hair, the foam slipping down her skin. As she rinsed away the soap, she struggled to analyze the feelings invading her, an odd sense of calm followed by a strange giddiness. Quite frankly, she wasn’t sure how to feel just now. Hurt that someone had murdered her husband? Frustrated that she hadn’t done it herself? She had no frame of reference for this particular event. She pushed the unsettling feelings aside. Strength and focus were essential now. This regrettable business had ended today as planned. Well, almost as planned.

  Fortunately, Ellen was always prepared for the unexpected.

  After finding him, she had quickly put away the incriminating documents and images and alerted the others not to come. Nothing she hadn’t been able to handle.

  Life was quite often like business. Even when your journey veered off-track, you simply recalculated and adjusted your trajectory.

  Ellen had done exactly that today.

  With a turn of the gold-toned handle, she shut off the water and stepped from the marble-and-glass enclosure. As she moved the towel over her body, she studied her reflection. She wasn’t in bad shape for her age. She was often mistaken for someone ten or fifteen years younger. A clean diet, a steady exercise regimen, and good genes served her well. Even the lack of facial wrinkles she could chalk up to her dear mother. She’d had flawless skin when she’d passed, despite the cancer that had eaten away at her.

  Today’s ghastly events aside, Ellen had come a very long way from her tragic childhood. Anger trickled through her. No one was taking that away from her.

  Her lips tight, she arranged the towel around her dark hair and squeezed out the water, then rubbed the length of it between the folds of thick fabric. Gray had long ago invaded her brunette tresses, but the best stylist in Nashville was at her beck and call. She deserved a bit of luxury in her life.

  Ellen reached for her pajamas. The silk fabric slid down her skin. She shivered and wished she could somehow know her husband’s final thought. Shock? Disbelief? Denial? How stunned he must have been to see the face of his lover as she wielded that fateful blow. Then again, Ellen couldn’t be precisely sure of the killer’s identity. There was, it seemed, more than one suspect—a turn of events she had not anticipated at all. Obviously, she had missed something.

  Whatever the case, it was over now. There was only the matter of the cleanup details. Those would all be handled swiftly.

  She had taken care of everything. She was in control.

  Some said that when the heart stopped beating, a surge of utter fear spread through the motionless blood and instantly depleted it of oxygen.

  Ellen hoped he had felt that incredible fear.

  Renewed fury seared through her. She hoped he was in hell, where he belonged.

  The rage died an instant death, and another overpowering emotion welled inside her. She closed her eyes against the tears that began to stream down her face. She wasn’t supposed to feel any of this agony . . . this loss. No. No. No.

  She dropped to her knees on the cold tile and wept like a child.

  Jarrod was dead.

  6

  Monday, September 19

  9:20 a.m.

  Winthrop Financial Consulting Group

  Commerce Street, Nashville

  Before heading out for this morning’s interviews, Finley had rendezvoused with Jack at the office to hash out their agendas. He would be in court a good portion of the day. Finley’s goal was to start nailing down the big picture and then to begin the process of homing in on the details that spoke the loudest.

  Last night she’d spent a good amount of time researching their client on the net. Nothing had jumped out at her. Nothing unexpected floating on the World Wide Web. Endless career accolades and achievements. Winthrop had reached a pinnacle few could hope to attain.

  But no one was perfect with only great things in their history. There was always some amount of ugly. It was only a matter of finding it.

  Finding the rest of Winthrop’s story started now.

  Finley nosed her Subaru into a slot as close to the ground floor exit as possible. Parking garages were always too dark, and there was never enough security. No matter the number of muggings or assaults that occurred in downtown parking garages, the incidents never seemed to get the attention required from the right people to change the issue.

  A perfect example of not homing in on the details that mattered most.

  A grin stretched across her face. Maybe Matt could put a bug in the governor’s ear.

  She surveyed her surroundings before getting out, then locked her doors as she walked toward the exit. Part of her was always on alert for any sign of the two thugs who kept an eye on her for Dempsey. So far, she hadn’t spotted either this morning. Not that they watched her every day, more that they checked in at mostly irregular intervals. She did the same. Tracking one or both down from time to time, like last night.

  It wasn’t that difficult. She had studied the thugs from that night: Billy Hughes, deceased; Chet Flock; and Tark Brant. She had ferreted out where they lived, their preferred hangouts. The vehicles they drove. A background search had given her a good many details. The two still breathing were longtime muscle for hire. Hughes had been as well. Criminal records were lengthy but mostly ancient history. Flock, the oldest of the trio, had the least interesting criminal record. Brant, on the other hand, had a list of small-time transgressions on his rap sheet from his twenties. His thirties had proved cleaner, save a couple of assaults. At forty-one, he appeared to have learned how not to get caught. Getting caught looked bad on one’s résumé. Hughes’s history had looked pretty much the same. All three appeared to have been on Dempsey’s personal security payroll for the past five years, at least until Hughes had screwed up and gotten himself fired. He’d fallen back into his old holdup habits, a bad decision that led to his untimely demise in a convenience store back in July.

  One down, two to go.

  Shifting her thoughts back to work, Finley exited the parking garage.

  Commerce Street traffic was negligible at this hour, since most of the white collars who worked in these high-rises were already in their offices. She hesitated. News vans lined the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Evidently building security had kept them away from the entrance. Finley considered her options. Not that great, but she could manage. She hustled across the street in the middle of the block rather than walking to the end and using a crosswalk. She didn’t move toward the building until she was parallel with the entrance; then she darted for her destination.

  She had reached the glass doors by the time anyone noticed. Evidently none of the reporters recognized her, since no questions were shouted. A security guard opened the door, she flashed her ID, and she was set.

  The thirty-story building had a shiny glass facade. Winthrop’s offices occupied the top floor. A personal assistant would be meeting Finley and showing her around as she interviewed those closest to Winthrop in her professional world. Their client had meetings all morning and, of course, was required to be at the investigating detective’s beck and call. Finley didn’t consider the woman’s need to work the day after her husband was murdered particularly odd. God knew Finley would have worked the day after Derrick’s murder if she hadn’t been in a coma. Work was essential to her survival—to her mental health. Admittedly, Finley would most likely have been working on finding those responsible for his murder, but she and Winthrop were different people from different worlds. Winthrop had never been involved in law enforcement and would instinctively look to the police to find the killer while she distracted herself with her business.

  Assuming the killer wasn’t her. Finley didn’t have a clear picture of innocence or guilt quite yet, but she also had no reason to doubt Winthrop’s story. Finley’s singular task was to ensure no one else could doubt it either.

  Finley showed her ID again at the security desk in the stylish lobby and was directed to the appropriate bank of elevators. Sleek concrete floors and glass walls were flanked with enough potted trees and plants to feel like a conservatory. On the top floor the car stopped and the doors opened to a smaller, more intimate lobby.

  A young woman, late twenties maybe, waited for Finley. She smiled broadly, white teeth gleaming, makeup light and flawless. A pink blouse with a ruffled neckline and cuffs accented the casual yet elegant gray suit. Finley wore brown slacks and a scooped neck tee with a khaki jacket. Her version of casual didn’t even get close to elegant. The wrinkles didn’t help any more than the well-worn mule loafers. She should shop for new shoes. Maybe unpack the iron she was certain she had purchased a million years ago. It was in a box somewhere in Derrick’s garage.

  One of these days, she promised herself.

  Liar.

  “Good morning, Ms. O’Sullivan. My name is Tobye.” The assistant extended her hand. “Whatever you need, you let me know, and I will make it happen.”

  Finley shook the outstretched hand. “Good morning. I appreciate your time.”

  “Ellen has provided a list,” Tobye explained as she blithely turned and moved toward the corridor ahead, “of partners you will want to interview.”

  “Partners?” Finley hadn’t been aware any of Winthrop’s employees were business partners.

  “Ellen prefers to think of all her employees as partners in our common goal of maintaining excellence. Those on your list are the senior partners.”

  Interesting strategy. The lobby, though small, was tastefully designed. Lots of light poured in through the glass wall that made up one side of the generous space. The layout was three specific seating areas along with an inviting reception desk. Tobye led the way beyond the space and into a wide corridor flanked by doors on either side. Even the interior walls were glass, allowing Finley to see the conference table in a large meeting room and desks in the private offices beyond. Some were darkened for privacy. Her host noted the names of the partners at each office space.

  Music played in the background, but the volume was turned down to a soft level that was barely audible. The distant sound was somehow relaxing. Unlike the lobby, the floors in the corridor were softened with thick carpeting. The walls were a taupe so pale it was almost white. Very soothing environment.

  Tobye paused at a door labeled Conference Room Four. The room beyond the glass wall was smaller and had a cozier seating arrangement than the other conference area Finley had seen. A woman was already seated at the table. She appeared to be reviewing an open notebook.

  “Here we are.” Tobye passed a single page to Finley. “Those are the five names Ellen provided. Jessica Lauder, first on the list, is waiting for you.” She gestured to the woman beyond the glass. “If you wish to speak with anyone else, just let me know, and I’ll track them down for you. Otherwise, the partners will come to you, one after the other, for a private meeting as requested.” She opened the door to the small room. “I’ll be in my office just over here.” She gestured to the room directly across the corridor. “If you need anything at all.”