Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(50)

Nick’s car hadn’t had time to cool in the few short minutes it had been parked in my driveway, but he angled the vents toward me and cranked up the heat, probably because I was shivering. I stole a glance at Theresa’s town house as we rolled by. The windows were all dark except for a single light in the kitchen. Theresa’s BMW was still parked in the driveway. Wherever Theresa and Aimee had gone, they must have taken Aimee’s SUV.

“You okay?” Nick asked.

I dragged my attention from the dim glow in Theresa’s kitchen window. “I’m fine. Did you get a chance to talk to Pete?”

“A bit. He just got the file, so there’s not much to talk about yet. The fire was started by a crude incendiary device, using turpentine as an accelerant. That’s pretty much all he could tell me.”

“Turpentine? You mean, like paint thinner?” Nick nodded. “Great, that could be anyone.”

“Maybe,” he said as he turned off my street. “But the most promising evidence didn’t come through the lab.”

“What do you mean?”

“The security company logged a call just before the fire. Someone tripped the alarm. Apparently, they have a recording, but Steven’s dragging his feet. He hasn’t given the monitoring company authorization to share it.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “It’s possible he knows the person and he’s trying to protect them. If the investigators want the recording, they can always pull a warrant.”

“Did they find anything else?”

“Just a piece of a broken credit card, recovered from the weeds just outside the fire perimeter. It might have been used to try to break in. They also found some high-performance tire treads in the mud behind the trailer. None of Steven’s employees drive sports cars, so it’s possible the impressions were made by the arsonist’s vehicle.”

Perfect. The three most compelling pieces of evidence they’d found were left by me and Vero.

“You sure you’re okay?” Nick’s eyes skated to me before sliding back to the road. “You look a little pale.”

“I’m probably just hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Good,” he said with a furtive smile. “This restaurant we’re going to is supposed to be pretty amazing. I just have one quick stop to make before we head to dinner. Need to talk to a CI. Figured you wouldn’t mind coming along.”

Nick’s attention was focused on the road, and I took a moment to see the things I’d been too stressed to notice when he’d picked me up a few minutes ago. His leather jacket was slung over the center console, his usual Henley and jeans swapped out for a crisply pressed French-blue dress shirt and a tie. His hair looked freshly cut, his face was clean-shaven, and the spicy scent of his cologne was warm and heavy in the car. Everything about his appearance suggested he was dressed for a date, except for the holster around his shoulders and the gun hugging his side.

I raised an eyebrow. “I thought the identities of confidential informants were supposed to be a secret.”

He gave a thoughtful dip of his chin. “They are.”

“I thought you didn’t trust me.” The last time he’d allowed me to tag along on secret police business, it had blown up in his face; he’d accused me of using both him and his case as fodder for my books.

He eased the car to a stop as the traffic light in front of us turned yellow, washing his face in a pale amber glow. He shook his head and sighed. “I said a lot of things that day, most of which I wish I hadn’t. I wasn’t angry with you, Finlay. I was angry at myself. You were right. I made the choice to involve you in the case, and the blame for that falls squarely on me.”

“So you want to do it all over again?” I teased him. “I thought you would have learned from your mistake.”

“I never said I regretted it.” His sideways glance lingered as the color of the light changed. I cleared my throat, nodding at the green traffic signal and the empty lane in front of us, relieved when he finally dragged his attention back to the road.

“Who’s your CI?” I asked, admittedly curious as we turned onto a dark residential street. The homes on both sides were obscured by old trees, their front yards shrouded in dead leaves and cheap lawn ornaments, their driveways riddled with cars in various stages of disrepair.

“Not mine. The kid’s one of Joey’s informants, but Joe’s off visiting his mother this weekend and I didn’t see a reason to bug him.”

I turned to Nick, surprised. “Kid? What did he do?”

“Joey busted him for identity theft about a year ago. He’s a small fish, but he swims in a pretty murky pond—online drugs and weapons dealers, internet sex trafficking, cyber-fraud … Joey got him a deal. Probation and community service. In return, the kid keeps his nose out of trouble and feeds us leads on the big fish as he finds them. He called me a few hours ago. Said he found some nasty stuff online. He thinks it might have ties to Zhirov’s outfit. I didn’t want to wait until Joey gets back to check it out.”

“Feliks Zhirov? But he’s in jail.”

“Never stopped him before. He’s got his hands in everything, and his reach is pretty far. The more evidence I can pile onto the DA’s lap, the less likely Feliks is to walk when he finally goes to trial. We’re chasing every possible lead. I’m not taking any chances with that asshole.”