Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(101)

Sometimes, I decided, you just had to sit down in front of a blank screen and start typing. My minivan was clean. My alternator was fixed. I had a babysitter and plenty of cash in my pocket.

“I don’t know yet,” I said. But I had a pretty good feeling this chapter would have a happy ending. “Get in. We’ll figure it out.”





CHAPTER 44





It was nearly ten o’clock the next morning when I reluctantly tumbled out of Julian’s apartment. Barefoot and shirtless, he’d backed me to the door, his jeans riding low on his hips and his hands knotted in my hair, whispering good-byes between kisses I felt everywhere. Wearing a stubborn smile, I sat at a red light, singing along to the radio and raking the tangles from my hair, wondering what I would tell Vero. Technically, I only owed her forty percent of the story. But it was nice to know there was someone there waiting, eager to know what happened, when I got home.

Across the busy intersection, the parking lot of the Panera was lightly peppered with cars. I checked the time on my dashboard clock. Patricia Mickler was probably already inside waiting for me. But why? What could she possibly have to offer me except an explanation? Or an apology?

The light turned green. The Mercedes behind me leaned on his horn. Instead of proceeding straight across the intersection, I put my foot on the gas and cut the wheel hard, crossing two lanes of traffic and sliding into Panera’s lot. Idling in front of the restaurant, I stared through the tinted glass windows into the dining room, but I couldn’t make out the faces in the booths inside.

Maybe Vero was right, and I did have a few things I needed to get off my chest. I pulled into a parking spot, slung my purse over my shoulder, and crossed the lot before I changed my mind.

The line at the counter was short, and the heads behind the registers all looked up as I blew in. Frankly, I didn’t care if Mindy the Manager happened to recognize me. The worst she could do was ask me to leave or call the police. Let her try. Head held high, I strutted into the dining room with all the confidence of a woman who’d just spent the night with a pretty fantastic attorney.

I skimmed the faces, searching for Patricia’s, stopping short when Irina Borovkov waved casually from her booth.

She sat alone in the far corner, watching me over her coffee, her crimson-lipped smile curling up at the edges as I gaped at her. She gestured to the empty seat in front of her. I hitched my purse higher on my shoulder, steeling myself as I crossed the room.

“Ms. Donovan,” she greeted me as I slid into her booth, “I’m glad to see you got my note.” A cold shiver trailed up my spine. The way she spoke my name—the subtle way she had of making it clear that she knew exactly who I was and where to find me—reminded me a little too much of Feliks and our conversation in Ramón’s garage.

Irina traced the lip of her mug with a long manicured nail. Her other hand was concealed under the table, and I stiffened as it occurred to me that she might be armed.

“I thought I was meeting Patricia,” I said.

Irina nodded, a thoughtful dip of her head. “Patricia’s given her statements. By now, she and her young companion are on a flight to Brazil, to start their new life someplace warm.”

“You’re happy for her.”

“Of course,” she said, her raven-black hair falling over her eyes. “Otherwise, I never would have arranged for her to leave.”

“And what about you?” I asked. “What will you do now that…?” I shuddered at the memory of Andrei’s bloodied face. At the heavy, hollow sound he’d made when Vero and I dropped him in the ground.

“Now that my husband is gone?” Irina gave an elegant shrug. “Someone needs to stay and make sure Feliks ends up where he belongs. He will not be happy once he figures out how Andrei died. You and I have cost him too much, and Feliks is no fool. It won’t take him long to figure it out.”

It was a sobering thought. “You think there’s a chance he’ll walk?”

She raised a perfectly plucked brow as she sipped her coffee. Her hand was steady as she set down her mug. “I suppose there’s always a chance. But your detective friend is quite determined. And as Patricia suggested, you were very neat.” She appraised me with the same amused expression she’d worn in the Spinning class at the club. “I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised.” She pulled her hand from under the table and dropped an envelope on top, sliding it toward me.

“What’s this?” I asked, seized by a sudden suffocating case of déjà vu.

“This is the balance I owe you. The job was completed, exactly as we discussed.” I resisted the urge to look at it. “Don’t worry. It’s washed—unmarked and untraceable.” It felt wrong to take Andrei’s money. Money Harris Mickler had probably laundered—and Feliks had probably used to pay Irina’s husband.

Something hardened under her easy smile. “If you do not accept my payment, I might worry about your reasons. Perhaps you’ve grown too close with Detective Anthony? Or is it your sister you’re worried about?” She pushed the envelope closer. “Georgina, is it?”

I snatched up the package, checking the dining room to make sure no one was watching as I drew it to me. A skinny boy in a Panera uniform swept crumbs from the rug with his head down, and a gray-haired woman hunched over her soup a few tables away. No one cared as I stuffed the envelope of dirty money into my purse. No one but me.