Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(13)
She muted the TV in the background and swore quietly. “Isn’t there a babysitter in the neighborhood who can watch them?”
Right. Like Aunt Amy? “My babysitter just hired an attorney to file for custody of my children, and he laid off my nanny! So no, Georgia, I don’t have anyone else to watch them.”
She heaved a sigh that could blow the doors off a meth lab. “Fine. But just for a few hours. If you’re not back by ten, I’m putting out an APB and organizing a manhunt.”
With a rushed thanks, I disconnected before she could change her mind. I popped a tray of chicken nuggets in the oven, bathed and fed the kids, and put a fresh diaper on Zach before rushing upstairs to get ready for the night. As I blew the dust from an old beaded black handbag and stuffed my wig-scarf and makeup inside, I wondered what Harris Mickler was like behind closed doors. What kinds of secrets did he and Patricia hide in their closet, and were Harris’s faults really worth fifty thousand to get rid of?
CHAPTER 7
I’d been to my share of bars. College bars, dive bars, upscale bars with Steven when he was wining and dining clients, cop bars with Georgia, gay bars (also with Georgia), and seedy strip bars in the not-so-nice parts of town in the name of research for a book you’ve probably never heard of. But no matter how many bars I’d stepped foot in before, it was always unsettling to walk into one alone. I hated that feeling of every eye in the place turning to check out who just came in.
Or worse, when none of them bothered to turn at all.
The Lush was packed with suits and ties and little black dresses, and no one seemed to notice or care when one more squeezed in. I checked to make sure my wig-scarf was securely in place, drawing my oversized sunglasses down the bridge of my nose to let my eyes adjust to the dim light inside. The brass-and-cherry island bar was dressed in colorful bottles and backlit etched glass, studded with unreasonably attractive young bartenders who probably spent their days circulating headshots and skimming the internet for casting calls in DC. I wove through the place, nudging my way around high tables and tight knots of conversation, finally managing to grab the last empty stool at the far end of the bar. I reached to sling the strap of my diaper bag over the back of my chair before remembering I’d left it at Georgia’s with the kids. Instead, I set my handbag down on the counter in front of me, feeling uncomfortably light without all my usual baggage, as if I’d forgotten something important at home. Aside from my ID, all I had with me was a tube of burgundy lipstick, Steven’s twenty, my phone, and the crumpled slip of paper from Harris Mickler’s wife.
I searched the faces of the men at the tables. Then the women. They all reminded me vaguely of Steven and Theresa, but I was pretty sure I didn’t know any of them. I peeled my glasses off and tucked them in my handbag. I thought about ordering a beer, but this place didn’t exactly give off Budweiser vibes. Instead, I ordered a vodka tonic, casually scanning the bar for Harris Mickler as I sipped it. Medium height, medium build, pepper-brown hair a little salty at the temples. His eyes, small for his face, thinned to two deep creases when he smiled. I didn’t see anyone who resembled him anywhere, so when the bartender passed, I raised a finger, catching his attention. He leaned across the bar, his hands flat against it, tipping his ear to hear me better over the hum and chatter.
“Where do the corporate types usually hang out?” I asked him.
He glanced at the bare ring finger of my left hand. With a knowing smile, he jutted his chin toward a loud group of men and women laughing around a handful of raised tables. “Real-estate types usually huddle over there.” Then he tipped his head to the group beside them. “Banking and mortgage types don’t stray far.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward a lively group at the other end of the bar. “Entrepreneurs, pyramid schemes, home-based businesses,” he said with an annoyed quirk of his brow that suggested he’d picked this side of the bar for a reason. “The top-shelf corporate suits usually reserve the booths in the back.” He plucked a glass from under the counter, letting his eyes slide over me. “You don’t look like the top-shelf type.”
I stabbed my lime with my stirrer and sucked down the last of my drink. “And you don’t look old enough to serve me.”
“Ouch!” he said through a laugh. He bit his lip and eyed me with renewed interest. “I only meant you don’t seem clichéd and uptight.”
I swirled the ice in my glass. “Mmmm … clichéd. Is that an SAT word?”
Our fingers brushed as he took my empty glass. “LSAT, actually.” He paused, gauging my reaction before swapping the glass for a new one. I hadn’t even noticed he’d been making me another. “What’s your name?”
I sucked on a lime wedge while I considered how to answer that. What the hell. Why not? “Theresa,” I said, holding out a hand.
“I’m Julian.” His handshake was good. Not a testosterone-driven assertion of dominance. Not a weak suggestion that he underestimated mine.
“What are you planning to study, Julian?”
“I’m in law school,” he corrected me. If I’d hurt his feelings, he didn’t let on. “Third year of criminal law at GMU.”
I raised a cynical brow. “Aren’t state prosecutors also clichéd and uptight?”