Very good points.

  “Maybe he was singing,” Finley suggested. Some people liked singing when they showered. Derrick had even belted out a tune while blow-drying his hair. The memory sent warmth flowing through her. She banished the sensation. Try as she might, she could never fully block the memories or the reactions they prompted.

  Whether or not the water was running or there was music would likely be in the report made by the first officers on the scene. The two were on Finley’s list to interview. If the crime scene unit finished with the house today—and they should—a look around would help her work out the scenarios more fully. She hadn’t seen photos or anything else at this point.

  “I do that,” Dennis said with another of his wide smiles. “I sing or hum whenever I’m doing just about everything.” He winked. “Even when I’m weighing organs. Kind of distracts from the reality.”

  “Wow.” Finley stuck her fork into the bed of greens on her plate and feigned interest. Dennis had been a little odd even back in high school. Some things never changed. “Didn’t I hear you’d just had number three?”

  A big grin slid across his face. “I did. Another boy, Raymond. Two boys and one girl now.”

  He launched into a story about his oldest child’s exploits. Finley smiled as much at his animated face and actions as from the stories. She had checked his social media to catch up on what he and his wife were up to. She’d had no idea they had three kids already. Where was the time going?

  She suddenly felt old. And alone.

  Derrick attempted to slip once more into her thoughts, but she pushed him away. She’d been doing more of that lately—the pushing-away part. The longer she put off going there, the longer before she learned more details of his betrayal.

  Until recently she’d never really considered herself a procrastinator, much less a coward. But she was a bit of both lately. At least where Derrick was concerned.

  Her cell vibrated in her jacket pocket, and she pulled it free just far enough to check the screen. Boss. “Sorry,” she said to her lunch date. “I have to take this.”

  Finley pushed back her chair and stepped across the small dining area to the wall of windows that overlooked a well-tended garden that stood within the embrace of the building. She imagined the courtyard had once been a smoking area.

  “Hey, how was court?” she asked Jack as she glanced back at Dennis, who was wolfing down his burger.

  “Your mother didn’t give me any grief for a change. You might want to check in with your dad and see if she’s okay.”

  Finley chuckled. “It was probably the navy suit. That one really brings out the blue in your eyes.”

  He grunted. “I may have cast a few charm spells in my time, but your mother was never one to fall victim.”

  “I’m guessing this means we have news on the Winthrop case.”

  “You got it. This is the good kind of news, though. Detective Ventura says you can do a walk-through of the crime scene. Give him a call. He’s available between now and two; then he has a meeting.”

  “Good deal.” She and Ventura must be on the same wavelength. The worst part of investigating any case was the waiting for some sort of authorization. “I’ll call him now.”

  “Catch up with me when you’re done for the day,” Jack said.

  “Will do.”

  Finley put her phone away and headed back to the table and her favorite forensic tech. “That was the boss. I’ve gotta run.”

  Dennis stood. “We should do this again.” He gathered their lunch remains onto his tray. “You know, my brother is single now, and he’s always had a huge crush on you.”

  “Thanks for the lunch and your expertise,” she said, dodging the comment. “Congrats again on the new baby.”

  Finley hurried away. Part of her had wanted to explain to Dennis that she wasn’t interested in dating anyone. Just because her husband had been gone more than a year didn’t mean she was ready to move on.

  Outside she slowed her pace. Caught her breath. At the Subaru door she hesitated before climbing inside. Why had the idea of moving on unsettled her so? Had her running for the nearest exit?

  Derrick was dead.

  Derrick had lied to her.

  She swallowed a wad of emotion. Because she wasn’t ready to bury him—emotionally speaking—yet. She had to know everything first.

  Living with the secrets wouldn’t work. She could not put him behind her until she knew all there was to know.

  You may never know everything.

  Matt had warned her. Jack too.

  They were wrong. She would. Because she wouldn’t stop until she had what she wanted.

  Winthrop Residence

  Morningview Court, Brentwood, 1:30 p.m.

  Finley parked at the curb outside the yellow tape that draped along the sidewalk and flanked the Winthrop property. She checked her teeth to ensure no lunch particles lingered, then climbed out. It was unseasonably warm, and she decided to leave her jacket behind. She tucked her cell into her bag and headed for the crime scene perimeter. She ducked under the tape and walked directly to the lanai, where Ventura waited.

  Luckily the reporters hadn’t drifted back to the residence. Like her, they knew the victim’s spouse wouldn’t be coming back to the scene of the crime for a while.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Finley said as she approached the front door.

  Ventura had already unlocked and opened it. He sported gloves and shoe covers. Noting her attention on his, he pulled a pair of each from his pocket for her.

  “No problem,” he said. “Crime scene tours are part of the job.”

  She slipped on the shoe covers, grateful for her practical flat mules—even if they were old. “Anything new on the investigation you can tell me about?”

  He executed a tight shake of his head. “Nothing yet.” He raised his eyebrows. “You?”

  “Nothing yet.” Finley tugged on the gloves. “Lead the way.”

  He gave her a nod and stepped inside. She followed.

  The Winthrop home was just like the many other decadent homes around Nashville she’d had reason to visit—whether on official business or as a child growing up with a mother determined to rule the world. Winthrop’s home was elegant in an understated way. Not over-the-top grandiose.

  “We haven’t found anything downstairs that suggests a home invasion. No sign of forced entry whatsoever.”

  “Any other evidence?” she asked, watching his posture, his face, as he spoke.

  “Nada.” He shook his head, obviously not happy to have to give that answer. “The primary crime scene is upstairs.” He gestured to the staircase that rose from the center of the entry hall.

  “You mind if I have a tour down here first?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  He showed her around, like a real estate agent who didn’t really want to be at work today. She studied him, which was her reason for the request. Ventura was younger than she’d first estimated. Definitely under forty. He didn’t look like the type who went all out at the gym, but he appeared fit. His suit was crisp today. Not sporting wrinkles like last night’s attire. The reddish hair and freckles gave him a sort of boy-next-door quality. His hazel eyes were more forthcoming than the usual jaded detective’s.

  “How long have you been doing this gig?” she asked as they entered the kitchen, which was nothing short of a chef’s dream. Lots of gleaming stainless and brass with no shortage of white stone and tile. White cabinets too.

  “I started later than most,” he said. His hands slid into his pockets as he assessed her. “I was thirty before I joined the department as a uni. I made detective at thirty-five. Couple years ago.”

  “Have you worked a lot of homicides?” She wandered across the room, heading for the family room.

  “A few.”

  Which meant this was either his first or second one. No surprise. His inexperience could prove to their benefit, but it could also make him more dogged about coming out on top.

  The sofa cushions appeared to have shifted a bit from the victim’s night spent sleeping there. A throw hung haphazardly over one arm, half on the floor. A pillow sporting an indentation that could have been made by the victim’s head was nestled next to that same arm. Otherwise, everything in the room, from furniture to framed photos on tables and shelves, appeared as it should.

  “Did you find an abundance of beer bottles in the trash somewhere?” she asked, recalling Winthrop’s description of the condition of the room where her husband had slept.

  Ventura nodded. “Six beer bottles, all empty.”

  “Doesn’t sound like enough for a serious hangover,” she commented.

  Ventura hummed a note of agreement. “Not for me anyway.”

  Who knew? Maybe Grady was a lightweight when it came to alcohol, or perhaps Winthrop just didn’t recognize a real hangover when she saw one. Then again, there was always the chance that he’d snorted or swallowed a recreational drug, in which case it would show up in the tox reports. Shafer had said the preliminary screen was clean. Time would tell.

  “Did you find an overnight bag belonging to the victim?”

  Ventura nodded. “Taken into evidence, but I will tell you there was nothing exciting in it. Just a change of clothes and toiletries.”

  “Thanks.”

  From the family room they moved through the rest of the downstairs. The home was immaculate. Nothing askew or out of place. There had been an update of the interior in recent years. Fresh, light, and airy. Not the heavier, stuffy decor of fifteen or so years ago. Finley’s Spidey sense perked up when they reached the door to the home office—the vault-style one with the keypad for gaining access.

  The room sported lots of locked cabinets. A grand desk that overlooked the rear courtyard and gardens. The view beyond the window was the usual sanctuary with a good-size ornamental fishpond instead of a pool. Finley surveyed the desk, eyed the old-fashioned calendar sitting front and center. She flipped through the pages. Hair appointments. Dental cleanings. Personal stuff.

  “You took the case that held the murder weapon?” Of course he had, but she wanted to know more about it.

  “We did. It appeared someone had taken the box and slammed it against the corner of the desk, shattering the glass.”

  As he spoke, she noted the damage to the wood on the front right corner. The finish was scraped, the curved corner gashed.

  “According to the housekeeper,” he went on, “the display case usually sat on that shelf.” He pointed to the center position of the lavish built-ins along one wall.

  “Anything interesting from the housekeeper?” Finley asked as she surveyed the rest of the room.

  “Nothing useful. Mr. Grady was kind and helpful. Mr. Grady was good to Ms. Winthrop. He made her happy. No witnessed disagreements. He never complained.”

  “Send me her name and contact info, please.”

  “Sure thing.” He dragged out his cell and shared the info.

  When her cell had vibrated with the incoming contact, she said, “I’d like to see the photos taken while the body and the evidence were in situ.”

  “I can make that happen.”

  He should have made it happen at this meeting. She opted not to say so and risk pissing him off this early in the game. So far, he was Mr. Agreeable.

  “I read up on you.”

  She looked up. Ventura stood in the doorway, one shoulder leaned against the doorframe. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. You’re not a typical law firm investigator.”

  She surveyed the blotter pad, read the notes jotted there. “More typical than you know.”

  “Don’t play it down,” he tossed back. “You’re super smart. Graduated at the top of your law school class at Vandy. Made all kinds of big splashes at the DA’s office.” His mouth quirked into a smile. “And now you’re killing it as an investigator at a top law firm.” He gave a succinct nod. “But the one thing that tells me more than anything else about how good you are is that most of the detectives who’ve worked with you don’t like you.”

  His assessment prompted a kick of pride. A girl had to get her thrills where she could these days.

  “How do you know that?” She rounded the desk and walked toward him. Finley had had no idea she was so popular around the watercooler.

  “Plenty have filed complaints against you.”

  She paused face to face with him. “You probably will too.”

  “No.” He didn’t withdraw from her probing glare. “I won’t.”

  She lifted one eyebrow. “We’ll see. Can we go upstairs now?”

  He backed out of the doorway and indicated she should precede him.

  They climbed the stairs. Marble treads. No carpet. At the top of those gleaming steps, she waited for him to provide the direction from there. He headed right. She followed. He immediately slowed his stride to ensure she caught up with him.

  Give him another five years on the job, and he’d shed all the futile chivalry. He would learn that no matter how nicely he played, she and others like her would rarely do the same. Winning always got in the way.

  The owner’s retreat was quite large. The bed made. Everything from pillows to picture frames just so.

  “There was no indication anyone slept in the bed on Saturday night?”

  He shook his head. “According to Winthrop, she slept in her office and the victim slept on the sofa downstairs. Forensics is checking the hair found there to confirm.”

  Grady lived in the house. His hair would likely be found whether he’d slept there or not. Unless the housekeeper vacuumed daily. Maybe even then.

  “Did the first unis on the scene ask if Grady was a singer in the shower?” Finding out would save her the trouble of tracking down the two uniformed officers who were first on the scene.

  “There was nothing in the report about his vocal skills.”

  Finley drifted around the large bedroom space. Studied the framed photographs strategically scattered about. Checked the jewelry boxes and the drawers. She found nothing that didn’t appear to belong. Then she moved to the en suite. The markings of a crime scene as well as a pool of dried blood marred the stunning surfaces. Lots of polished tile and glass. Big windows along the upper portions of the walls allowed light to fill the space while maintaining privacy. She walked carefully around the room. Whatever towel the victim had used was gone, as was whatever he’d slept in.

  She scanned the counters. Perfumes, colognes, and other cosmetics. A cabinet towered from the counter to the ceiling between the two mirrors stationed above the matching sinks. She opened the doors and reviewed the contents of the cabinet. Band-Aids. Antacids. Vitamins. Supplements. The usual over-the-counter necessities found in most bathrooms.

  “No scripts?” She turned to her guide.

  “None we found.”

  Not particularly surprising for Grady and maybe not for Winthrop, but she was fifty. No blood pressure issues? No anxiety? Finley would ask their client.

  Maybe she was like Finley and used wine as her cure-all.

  Finley crossed back to where Ventura waited. “Thanks for the tour. I may want to do this again. You okay with that?”

  “Anytime.” He smiled. “You have my number.”

  Yeah. She had his number. The detective was a serious flirt.

  Or maybe he was just curious about the woman who’d melted down in a courtroom and had to be restrained. And who’d survived such a brutal attack while watching her husband die.

  On the way down the stairs, he asked, “Why does it matter if he liked to sing in the shower?”

  Whether it mattered or not was more related to the stealth of the killer, but it was just another of the many, many details that could prove useful in any given case. “The killer attacked him from behind. Why didn’t he hear the approach?”

  He grinned. “I can answer that one,” he said proudly.

  Finley descended the final step and waited for him. “Let’s hear it, then.”

  “The house has a killer sound system throughout. There was music playing. Not really loud, but it was playing. I turned it off after I arrived on the scene.”

  Winthrop hadn’t mentioned the music, but if it played routinely, she might not have thought to bring it up. Finley considered that music had been playing at the Winthrop offices as well.

  At the front door Finley peeled off the protective wear and handed it to the detective. “Thanks again.”

  When she would have turned away, he said, “You’re nicer than I thought you’d be.”

  She shifted back to him. “No, Detective, I’m really not.”

  Then she was out of there. She still had Vivian Ortez to interview, and she now needed to talk to Ellen Winthrop. Being in Winthrop’s house had roused questions Finley needed to ask the widow, a.k.a. the suspected killer.

  8

  3:05 p.m.

  Winthrop Financial Consulting Group

  Commerce Street, Nashville

  Vivian Ortez, a member of the five, waited for Finley in the lobby of the top floor when she arrived.

  “Ms. O’Sullivan, nice to meet you.” She extended her hand. “I apologize for not being available this morning.”

  “Thank you for making time for me now.”

  Ortez flashed a practiced smile. “Of course. Let’s make our way to my office. I hope the reporters still flocked outside didn’t give you any trouble.”

  “Not really. Your security folks have them on a tight leash.” A few questions had been shouted at Finley, but she’d just kept walking. Same old drill.

  Not surprisingly, Ortez’s office was the first in the wide corridor. As head of security, she would want to be situated between the lobby and the heart of the firm. The glass walls darkened as soon as the door was closed behind them.