He’d given me no clue as to his guilt or innocence but I saw no risk in telling him the truth, particularly since it would ease my release.
“The man you know as Sam Farrell was the perpetrator of a mass shooting at the screening of a movie in Los Angeles three days ago,” I replied.
“The Ecokiller?” he asked in disbelief. “I saw something about it on the news.”
“There was no Ecokiller, or rather it was a sensational cover story designed to throw the media and police off his trail and mask the truth,” I said. “My colleague and I were the intended targets of the shooting.”
Finch’s mouth opened and closed a few times, and his eyes widened in disbelief, but whatever he was thinking remained unspoken. If he was part of the conspiracy, he was an incredibly talented actor.
“So, I tracked him here and almost caught him,” I went on. “And now you will understand why I was chasing him. I want to find out why he tried to kill us and who sent him.”
Lawrence Finch collected himself. “I can understand, Mr. Morgan, and I want you to know that I’m very sorry you weren’t able to catch him.”
He hesitated.
“I’m not sure how to respond to something like this, other than to say I will help you and the police in any way I possibly can.”
Chapter 34
“Jack,” Andi said, the relief in her voice palpable.
She pushed past Finch and then hesitated. I thought she was debating whether to give me a hug. In the end, she handed me my suit jacket, which she must have recovered from the tack room.
“Andi Harris, this is Lawrence Finch,” I said, brushing off the worst of the dust. “The shooter is a man called Sam Farrell. He’s former Garda and works for Mr. Finch.”
“Used to,” Finch said as he offered Andi his hand. “I think this is grounds for termination. Of employment, of course,” he added.
“Garda?” Andi responded quizzically as she took Finch’s hand. “A cop turned killer?”
“I’ve encountered them before,” I said.
“Mr. Finch, I know you from the papers,” Andi remarked.
“The stories aren’t always true. Believe only half of them,” he responded.
“Which half?” she asked.
“Whichever half makes me look the best,” he replied with a grin, which quickly faded. “I’m shocked by Mr. Morgan’s revelation and was just saying I want to help however I can.”
“You could hire Private to find your man,” Andi said without skipping a beat.
I paused midway through slipping my arm into the sleeve of my jacket.
“This is a personal—” I began, but he cut me off.
“Of course,” he said. “If it would help to have more resources at your disposal...”
“It would,” Andi replied.
I couldn’t argue without making her look foolish, and she had a point. Running this as a billable investigation would enable me to direct Private’s resources without any guilt whatsoever.
“Then it’s settled,” said Finch. “Come by my place tomorrow. You can do a client induction or whatever it is you do, and I can arrange for you to see Sam’s quarters.”
“He lived with you?” I asked.
“On the estate,” Finch replied. “All our staff have quarters on the property.”
Andi’s eyes widened as she caught my gaze. I could tell she was impressed by such wealth.
“Until tomorrow,” Finch said. “I’ll make sure there’s no nonsense with the Garda after this incident.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “I’ll have to report everything I know to them and to LAPD. This man is wanted there. I hope it won’t cause you any embarrassment when I let them know where he worked.”
“Why would it? The Garda hired him before I did. He was a police officer for fifteen years. This is their embarrassment not mine,” Finch replied. “See you tomorrow.”
He gave Andi and me a polite nod and left.
“That was bold,” I said when I was certain he was out of earshot.
“Ah, he can afford it,” she replied. “I think he’s Ireland’s fourth-richest man. Or maybe the third. And I bet his companies have ongoing requirements for specialist investigators.”
“Always be closing.” I smiled. “It gets us inside his circle at the very least.”
“You think he’s involved?” Andi seemed surprised.
“The shooter works for him,” I replied.
“And the Garda before that. Like he said,” Andi countered. “Even the best of us can make mistakes.”
“True,” I conceded. “And that’s why I want to check out Finch thoroughly. See if this was a mistake or collusion.”
“Paranoia is never wrong when you’ve been at the hot end of a gun,” she said.
“Exactly. Justine is in hospital because we weren’t paranoid enough,” I replied. “Let’s get out of here, before they change their minds about handing me over to the cops.”
She smiled, nodded, and I followed her out.
Chapter 35
The clear sky of a crisp evening was dotted with stars and there was a slight chill in the air, so Andi laid a fire in the living-room fireplace of the house in Fitzwilliam Square. We sat there working at a large table beside the pizza boxes that had contained our dinner.
I was reviewing the publicly available information on Lawrence Finch. He was powerful, well connected, and his multi-billion-euro property empire gave him deep pockets. Horse racing seemed to be more than a hobby to him. It provided him with an entry into high society, which bolstered the power and influence he’d obtained through his businesses. There were photo-library images of him photographed with European and Middle Eastern royalty, and movers and shakers from all walks of life and from all over the world. He was precisely the sort of person Propaganda Tre would recruit. I zipped everything I’d found on him into a digital folder and called Mo-bot. It was early afternoon in Los Angeles.
“Jack,” she said when she answered the video call. She was in the tech room at Private’s Los Angeles headquarters, and I could see a couple of her staff behind her. “How are you?”
“Still alive,” I replied. “I’m here with Andi Harris from the London office.”
Andi, who had been reviewing filings from Lawrence Finch’s companies, rose and walked around the table to crane into shot.
“Hi,” she said. “I’ve taken some of your online seminars on tech trends, but we’ve never met.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mo-bot responded. “What can I do for you?”
“We found the shooter,” I said. “He’s a former cop called Sam Farrell. Worked a special unit in the Garda here in Ireland.”
Mo-bot sat up a little straighter and made a note of the man’s name.
“Sam Farrell,” she remarked. “Former cop. Wow.”
“Now works security for a guy called Lawrence Finch. He’s an Irish property developer and racehorse enthusiast,” I said. “He’s offering to help, but he fits the profile for Propaganda Tre, so I’d like you to dig into him. See if you can find any links to Monaco or Rome and how far we can trust him, because my working assumption is not at all.”
“Will do,” Mo-bot replied. “Have you spoken to Justine recently?”
“Not since last night,” I replied.
“You should give her a call,” Mo-bot said. “I think you might be pleasantly surprised.”
I was puzzled by these cryptic words but didn’t need any excuse to phone Justine.
“Will do,” I assured her.
“I’ll keep you posted on Farrell and Finch,” Mo-bot said, before she disconnected.