Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(82)

“Why?”

“Feliks never records the deeds in his own name. He uses straw men or dummy corporations, which makes his holdings harder to find. If I know what name he’s using as a front when he buys this lot, I might be able to use that information to track down a few others.”

“And do what?”

“Raid them. See what kind of dirt I can turn up.”

“What does that have to do with Theresa and Harris Mickler?”

“Maybe nothing. But I’d love to find a reason to bring Feliks into the station, stuff him in an interrogation room, and find out.”

Nick’s long legs ate the stairs two at a time, his pace eager as we neared the top.

“And the guys in the lab can figure all this out with a piece of dirt?” I asked, struggling to keep up.

“I wasn’t sure. It seemed like a long shot, but the call I got this morning sounded promising.” Nick pushed open a door and held it open for me. He led us to a lab at the end of the hall and rapped on the window glass. A tech in a white coat waved us inside.

“Hey,” the tech said, meeting us halfway into the room and extending his hand to me. “Finlay Donovan, wow!” His handshake was enthusiastic and more than a little sweaty.

“I’m sorry,” I said with a puzzled glance at Nick, then back at the tech. He was young, cute in a geeky, awkward sort of way. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Even when I could see through them more clearly, I couldn’t place how we knew each other. “And you are?”

“Oh, right!” He shook his head, giving himself a playful slap on the forehead. “Sorry, I’m Peter. We’ve never met. But Georgia’s told me all about you. I’m a huge fan, actually.” He wiped his palm on his lab coat, his ears flushing pink. He snuck a peek at Nick and leaned toward my ear, confiding in a low voice, “I’ve read your books.”

“Oh! So you must be the one.” I laughed as Peter’s face fell. “I’m kidding.” I pitched my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “There are at least two of you.” The corner of Peter’s lip pulled up with an uncertain smile. “Seriously, I’m kidding.”

He released a nervous laugh. “Nick told me you might be coming. I was wondering if you’d sign an autograph?”

“Sure,” I said through a blush. No one outside my family had ever asked me for an autograph before. “Why not?”

Nick gave a reticent shrug, but I could tell he was anxious to get what we’d come for and his patience was wearing thin. Peter pulled a dog-eared paperback and a Sharpie from the pocket of his lab coat. Nick glanced at the bulging pecs of the model on the cover and heaved an impatient sigh as I scribbled a quick signature in it. Peter studied my face as I handed him back his book.

“You don’t look anything like your picture,” he said, thumbing to my bio page. “You know, the one in the back of the book? You’re blond in your photo. And with the dark glasses, it’s sort of hard to see your face.” He held up the photo, scrutinizing my features against my headshot. My scalp itched, and I tucked my hair behind my ear. “If I didn’t know you were coming, I totally wouldn’t have recognized you.” I avoided looking at Nick as he glanced over Peter’s shoulder at my photo, then checked his watch. “You probably wear a disguise so you won’t be recognized in public and get swarmed by your fans, right?”

“Right,” I said with a nervous laugh. Or be recognized when I’m abducting scary rapists from bars, breaking into real estate offices, or taking contracts to kill problem husbands while eating cheesecake in Panera. Through all of this, I had never stopped to consider that my headshot—which appeared in every copy of my books—was now an incriminating piece of evidence against me. Or that Nick could use it to place me at The Lush.

“Georgia said you have a new book coming out. I can’t wait to read it. If you ever have forensic questions, I’m your guy. I’ve always wanted to—”

“Pete,” Nick barked. Pete turned, as if only just remembering Nick was there. “Do you have something for me?”

“Oh, yeah! You’re not going to believe this.” I released a held breath as Peter tucked my book back in his pocket and waved us toward a lab table. A wad of muddy grass sat in a specimen dish beside a microscope. He pushed up his glasses, his dark eyes brimming with excitement. “So, normally,” he explained, “this would be a monumental feat you’ve asked me to pull off, and the best I would be able to do would be to narrow the sample down to a particular growing region—like, maybe a few counties, or even states—but never a specific piece of property. However,” he said with a dramatic pause, “in this case, the grass you found is pretty rare.”

Nick leaned in. “How rare?”

“Like…” Pete’s eyes rolled up as if he were calculating in his head, the way Vero often did, “really rare. It’s a variation of a popular fescue, but this specific variety is new, so it hasn’t been widely used in this part of the mid-Atlantic. The sample you grabbed contained a layer of topsoil, and the combination of industrial-grade fertilizers and pesticides I found suggests it was professionally maintained. So I pulled up a list of seed distributors and used that to track down a list of companies in the mid-Atlantic that recently purchased it. There are three possible matches in Virginia. But only one of them hits all the criteria you gave me—west of the airport, east of Interstate 81.”