Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(14)

He slung a bar rag over his shoulder. “I don’t have such lofty aspirations. I figure the world could use a few good public defenders. How about you? What do you do?”

I nursed my drink, letting the ice clink against my teeth while I thought about what to say. I’d made it a point never to tell strangers what I did for a living. The conversations always turned weird. And memorable. I looked down at Theresa’s dress and picked a lint fuzz off the fabric. “Real estate.”

“Sounds boring.”

I choked out a laugh. “Terribly.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said a little cautiously, “but you don’t seem like the real-estate type either.”

“Really?” He was cocky, but endearing, and maybe it was the second vodka tonic, but his smile was growing on me. “What’s my type then?”

Julian studied me as he polished a glass. “Cold beer and takeout pizza. Barefoot, jeans, and a loose-fitting faded T.”

I felt the blood race to my cheeks, surprised by how on the mark he was, and by the fact that I didn’t mind his candor. Or the way he was looking at me. I drained the last of my vodka tonic as I considered the differences between Theresa and me, wondering if Steven had ever been into takeout pizza, or if his tastes had always run top-shelf and I’d just been too ignorant to see it.

“Too bad you’re not interested in family law. The world could use a few honest divorce lawyers, too.” I laid the twenty on the counter and slid down from my stool. I had to pee, and the restrooms were probably at the back of the bar, near the booths Julian had mentioned. I could check them out on my way. Just for curiosity’s sake.

“Hey,” Julian said, cupping a hand over mine before I turned away. “My shift ends in an hour. If you want to wait around, we could grab something to eat after.”

A honey-colored curl hung low over his eye, and his smile felt perfectly uneven. I won’t lie and say I didn’t grant myself a few seconds to think about it. “Thanks.” I slid the twenty across the bar toward him. I needed to get home to my kids before my sister sent every patrol car in the city out to track me down. And the last thing I needed was for them to find me rolling in pepperoni in the back of my minivan with a cougar-hunting coed. “I’m not really dressed for pizza.”

He sank his teeth into his lower lip, suppressing a grin.

I thanked him and pointed to the back of the bar, letting him know that, as tempting as it was, my plans for the night hadn’t changed. And then I set off to find the ladies’ room. And maybe Harris Mickler.



* * *



The booths behind the bar were private, with black leather seats and high wooden backs and warm, dim lighting, making me look like the world’s biggest creep for trying to see into each one as I hobbled by in a pair of heels I hadn’t worn in years. A blister had formed where the tight strap dug into the joint below my right toe, and the two vodka tonics I’d just sucked down on an empty stomach weren’t making navigation any easier. I felt myself listing slightly as I slunk down the narrow aisle between the booths toward the sign for the restrooms. A phone chimed as I approached the last one.

“Would you excuse me,” a man said. “I have to take this call.” The man slid out without looking up from his phone, nearly knocking me over as he stalked toward the bar. “This is Harris,” he said in a low voice into his phone as he brushed past me.

Harris. I rested a hand on the back of the nearest booth for balance as I turned to catch another glimpse. The couple sitting beside me looked at me curiously, so I bent over my heel and made a show of adjusting my strap while a woman eased out of Harris Mickler’s booth. Her high heels clicked down the hall and disappeared into the ladies’ room. I lingered for a moment, attempting to listen to Harris’s conversation a few feet away, but it was over quickly and he pocketed his phone. Flagging the nearest bartender, he ordered two glasses of champagne and returned to his seat. I rushed for the bathroom, surprised to find my heart racing as I slipped into an empty stall.

What was I doing? This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. So Harris Mickler was stepping out on his wife. So what? Plenty of men had done it before. Including my own husband. As much as I hated him for it, I could never imagine killing him. Not even for fifty thousand dollars. Yet here I was, spying on a man I’d never even met.

I relieved my bladder as quickly as I could, washed my hands, and opened my purse to reapply my lipstick, pausing at the sight of Patricia Mickler’s note crumpled in the bottom of my handbag. I should flush it right now. I should shred it and wash it down the sink.

The lock on the stall behind me snapped open and I quickly shut my purse.

Harris Mickler’s date bent over her smartphone, her long blond hair hanging like a curtain around her face, over the shoulders of her dove-gray suit. I smeared on a fresh coat of lipstick, watching her in the mirror as she dialed and pressed the phone to her ear. A stunning diamond ring glittered on the fourth finger of her left hand, flanked by a diamond-encrusted wedding band.

“Hey, babe,” the woman cooed into her phone as I tucked my lipstick back into my purse.

Maybe she was one of Harris’s colleagues from work, I told myself. Maybe they’d just closed a huge deal and had come to celebrate.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “I have a client meeting. It’s running later than I thought. There are leftovers in the fridge, and Katie’s allergy medicine is on the counter. Do you mind putting the kids to bed for me?”