FINN
MS. ADAMS? It’s Detective Findlay. Could you please call me back as soon as you get this message?”
Finn rattled off the number, then went to put the cell phone in his pocket, thought better of it and set it on his desk, on the remote chance that Hope Adams called back.
The detective room was empty. At ten on a Sunday morning, it often was. Anyone working was out on the street. Which is where he should be, and where he would be, as soon as he could haul himself to his feet again.
He’d called Hope Adams three times since last night, leaving three messages. He’d started with the simple call me back. Then he’d moved to the mysterious there’s been a change in the case I need to discuss with you. Finally, urgent: I have reason to believe Robyn Peltier is in danger. No response.
At 8 a.m., he’d called True News, getting a sleepy editor who’d been there all night and offered to leave a message on Adams’s cell phone—the same number Finn already had. At eight-thirty, he’d even borrowed another detective’s cell phone, hoping the unfamiliar number might entice her to answer.
“Still nothing?” Damon said as he returned from eavesdropping on conversations pertaining to last night and the case.
Finn shook his head.
“I hope she’s okay.”
Finn tried to look concerned. He had no doubt Hope Adams was okay. Just ignoring him, listening to each message and rolling her eyes. If that detective thinks I’m dumb enough to help him put my friend in jail, he can think again.
He knew Robyn Peltier wasn’t responsible for the deaths and he was quite certain he’d met the young woman who was, but he couldn’t leave that on voice mail or it could come back to haunt him in court.
Last night he’d rounded up a few witnesses who’d said they got a good look at the girl who’d killed Margie Damascus—the victim.
“We’ve got three similar sketches, Finn,” his lieutenant had said. “And none of them could possibly be your girl in the photo.” He’d laid a hand on Finn’s shoulder, his fingers damp enough to leave a stain. “It’s a common phenomenon. You saw the photograph. You were working through its significance as you followed Peltier to the fair. You saw this young woman acting suspiciously, and the three events merged into one—the girl on the phone was the girl in the photo, who was this girl at the fair.” Lieutenant Balough had squeezed his shoulder. “I didn’t get a degree in psychology for nothing. The mind is an amazing thing. Sometimes, though, it takes a few shortcuts.”
To his credit, Balough had put a rush on the ballistic. But the technician had taken one look at the recovered bullet, which had slammed into a stone monument after passing through Margie Damascus, and doubted he could make a viable comparison.
Finn pulled up the photo on his computer and studied it.
“So she’s walking with an older guy.” Damon moved behind Finn’s shoulder. “Looks like he has money.”
Finn glanced back at him.
“That suit.” Damon pointed. “Top drawer.”
Finn wouldn’t know, but he could tell that the suit fit the man better than his own fit him, so he supposed that was a good sign it was expensive.
“Top-drawer suit means a top-drawer executive,” Damon continued. “I bet he’d be a lot easier to identify than the girl.”
Finn agreed.