Graham still said nothing.
Oh, he loved his town and country, but he also was loyal to a fault. There was no way he was saying shit—even to a friend.
That would mean losing his job.
What else was he qualified to do?
Go back to war?
“I see,” he finally said.
Finn wasn’t done.
“So, my educated guess is that Jackson James is the new owner,” he stated. “The Blackhawks. It has to be them. It’s the only logical thing.”
Damn.
He’d figured it out.
While it wasn’t difficult, Graham didn’t want that getting around.
Finn kept talking.
“When we think rich Americans and the Federal Bureau of Investigations, one person comes to mind. I think Elizabeth Blackhawk, and then, I think which of her husbands is rich enough to pull this off.”
Well, shit.
Leave it to a cop to figure it out.
Finn was waiting for an answer, clearly, and he wasn’t giving him one.
Not.
On.
His.
Watch.
“I can’t confirm or deny it,” he said, nonchalantly.
And he wouldn’t.
Finn was honest.
“I’m not going to out them. I’m not saying shit because it’s not my business. My business, unfortunately, is the bones in the crypt, and that’s the only reason I’m here. My boss has declared it my problem, so when the Feds are here, I have to be here.”
Oh, boy.
That might be interesting. Finn was a no-nonsense kind of a cop, and this was a private home. He only hoped he would mind his manners.
As for him not ratting them out…
Graham was grateful he was keeping his mouth shut regarding the owners. If he said he was, he was.
Period.
“I appreciate that,” Graham admitted.
