Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(58)

CHAPTER 26





There was only one thing to do about Irina Borovkov, and that was to talk with her face-to-face like adults. No more middlemen. No more disguises. No more envelopes full of cash. I would simply explain that Patricia had been mistaken when she’d hired me, that I was not who she thought I was. Then I would explain that I hadn’t killed Harris Mickler—that someone else had broken into my garage and done the actual killing part—and therefore, I was not qualified (or willing) to assassinate her problem husband.

And then?

Then I would do the most adult thing of all. I would throw the backpack full of cash at her and run before she had a chance to stop me. Possession was nine-tenths of the law. I wasn’t sure whose law, or if the mafia even cared about the law. But math was math, no matter who was holding the calculator. If I didn’t have Irina Borovkov’s money, she’d have no leverage against me for robbing her and she wouldn’t send her scary husband to slit my throat.

The parking lot of the Tysons Fitness Club was packed with cars, all shiny and imported, with monthly payments that probably amounted to more than the mortgage on my house. I parked Ramón’s loaner between an Audi and a Porsche, careful not to ding anyone’s door as I eased myself out. The rusted sedan stuck out like a sore thumb. Apparently, I did, too. My knuckles were white around the strap of Delia’s Disney Princess backpack as I walked to the front desk. This had to be the right club. The name and logo matched the one on the sweatshirt in Patricia’s locker at the shelter, but this place didn’t feel like it fit Patricia Mickler at all. The inside of the fitness club was swanky as hell, with a juice bar in the lobby, a courtyard with a fountain, and long, bright corridors lit by tinted glass ceilings. I couldn’t picture Patricia walking down those halls wearing a plastic smile and a tennis skirt, but based on Vero’s description of Andrei’s wife, I could definitely picture Irina Borovkov here.

The woman waiting in line behind me made a sound like a snort. I glanced over my shoulder and caught her staring at my backpack. Then at my hair and my sneakers. I hoisted Delia’s pack higher on my shoulder, ignoring the titters and stares of the women who passed the desk. If they knew how much money was in that Disney Princess bag, or what I’d done to get it, they wouldn’t be smirking so hard.

“May I help you?” The perky young receptionist wore a lot of makeup and a logo-emblazoned polo. A fingerprint reader glowed red on the counter.

“I hope so,” I said, eying the scanner warily. “I’m interested in taking a Pilates class. Your instructor was recommended to me by a friend—Irina Borovkov? I called earlier and the receptionist mentioned there was a class starting at ten. I’d like to try it out and see if I like it before joining.” I’d watched a Pilates video that morning, and Vero was right. You really could learn anything on YouTube. I could totally pull this off. “Do you know if Irina is here?”

“Reenie? Sure, she just got here. But she’s taking a Spin class today. It starts in ten minutes. Would you like me to page her for you?” She reached for her desk phone.

I rushed to stop her before she could pick it up. “No, no, it’s fine!” The element of surprise was probably the more sensible approach here. After all, what would I ask the woman to say? Attention, Mrs. Borovkov. The contract killer you hired is in the lobby to see you. I plastered on a smile. “I’ll just catch up to her in class, thanks.”

“Will you be needing shoes?”

I glanced down at my sneakers. Shook my head.

“Great, I just need you to fill out these health and safety waivers for me. When you’re done, I’ll need a quick scan of your finger. Then the women’s locker room is down the hall to your right, and the trainers on the floor can show you where to find the class.”

“Thank you.” I took the clipboard, scribbling a fake name and address in the blanks as she greeted the next person in line. While her back was turned, I ditched the clipboard on the counter and hurried to the locker rooms before she could ask for my fingerprint.

I kept my head down, only glancing up to peek into the workout rooms, eyes peeled for the sleek, dark hair and surgically sculpted face that matched Vero’s description of Irina.

A crowd of women gathered in a long hallway flanked by brightly lit racquetball courts. One by one, they filtered into a training room. I caught a flash of raven hair among them and hurried to catch up. Irina’s money bounced against my back as I wedged myself into the line for the Spinning room.

I merged into the flow of traffic, careful not to step on anyone’s feet. They were all wearing the same black shoes, like bowling slippers with Velcro and cleats. My white sneakers stood out starkly in contrast, as out of place as Delia’s backpack.

I followed the herd into a dark, square room where rows of stationary bikes were illuminated by purple lightbulbs that dangled from the trendy exposed ductwork in the ceiling. The women around me each claimed a bike. They climbed on, adjusting their seats and snapping their water bottles into holders, talking animatedly as they stretched in their stirrups.

The instructor perched on a bike in the center of the room, testing the volume of the microphone that dangled from the headset around her ears. I caught the flash of Irina’s onyx hair as she leaned to buckle her shoes into the pedals. Her ponytail glowed violet under the black lights as the room dimmed, and I rushed to the open bike beside her as the music started.