Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(95)

CHAPTER 43


It was nearly four in the morning by the time Vero and I made it to the hospital. Georgia had called my phone no less than a dozen times since she’d heard about the shoot-out at Carl’s, and when I finally answered, she let loose with a string of swears that would have scandalized our mother. After I explained for the umpteenth time that Vero and I were both fine, she’d told me that Nick had been admitted—apparently his injuries weren’t as minor as he’d let on. Vero, hearing the worry in my voice, had passed right by South Riding and drove straight to the hospital.

“I’m sorry,” said the attendant at the information desk when we asked to see Nick, “but visiting hours aren’t for another six hours. You’ll have to come back then.”

Vero thanked the woman, stealing a glance at the computer screen as she slid her hands from the counter. She pulled me aside, smirking as she revealed the visitor pass she’d palmed from the desk. “Nick’s in room 402,” she whispered, tucking it in my hand. “Go on. I’ve got this.”

Vero backed away from me and started fanning herself, whining about how hot she was. She clutched her chest with a dramatic moan, then collapsed in front of the reception desk. There was a flurry of activity, and someone called out for a nurse. I clipped the visitor pass to my shirt, ducking into the elevator as the doors closed.

The fourth floor was quiet and dimly lit, the only sound the occasional beeps of a monitor and the soft chatter of conversation from the nurse’s station. I peeked inside Nick’s door. The sconces behind his bed were lit, but his eyes were closed, the monitors in the corner beeping a steady, slow rhythm in time with his heart.

I took a few steps into the room and froze.

Joey sat in a chair beside the bed. He turned toward me as the sliver of light from the hall stretched across the floor. His smile was weary as he stood, offering me his chair.

I stepped cautiously to the far side of the bed, forcing myself to smile, reminding myself that I could still be wrong about Nick’s partner. I had no proof. Anyone could have been driving that car.

“How is he?” I asked.

“He’s fine. Just resting. He took a pretty deep graze to his arm and caught one in his thigh. He’ll be desk jockeying for a while, but after some physical therapy, he should be good as new.”

Nick’s face was peaceful, framed by a shadow of dark stubble against the stark white sheets.

Joey leaned back against the wall with his hands in his pockets. “He was worried sick about you. He said you ran off just as the ambulance showed up. He panicked when they loaded him into the bus and no one could find your van.”

“I let Steven borrow it. Vero drove me to the Westovers’ house. She parked down the street.”

“Yeah? Where’d you run off to?” Joey had that familiar cop-bright shine in his eyes, an intensity that seemed to burn through all the smoke and mirrors. In my sister, it was annoying. In Nick, it was endearing. In Joey, it made my skin prickle.

“I was worried about Steven. I hadn’t heard from him in a few hours. Nick said no one knew where he was.”

In the low light, I thought I saw a little color rush to Joey’s cheeks. “Steven’s place had been quiet all morning. Guess at some point, I must have drifted off and your ex gave me the slip. If it’s any consolation, Nick read me the riot act over it.”

“It’s okay. I talked to Steven a little while ago.”

“Yeah?” His focus sharpened. “How is he?”

“Fine.”

“Where was he?”

“Apparently, he had some engine trouble with the van. He was stranded on the side of the road for a while, but he managed to find a safe ride home.” I watched Joey’s face for a reaction. I sensed he was watching mine just as carefully.

“That’s good. Maybe now that Steven’s would-be killer is behind bars, we can all rest a little easier.”

The room seemed to narrow until it was only the two of us. “What do you mean?”

“Got a call from a friend down at the station about an hour ago. Apparently, Ted Fuller and his wife were taken into custody right after the shooting. Melissa Fuller confessed to starting the fire at Steven’s farm.”

“And you think she was the one who posted the ad on the forum?”

“She hasn’t confessed to anything other than harassing him and starting the fire, but it paints a pretty damning picture.” He shrugged, sliding a toothpick into his mouth. “With the website gone and no concrete proof connecting her to the gas leak or Steven’s slashed tires, the DA will have a tough time bringing additional charges, but she’ll do time for arson. That’ll keep her busy for a while.”

“What about Steven? How can we be sure he’s safe?”

Joey shrugged, rolling his toothpick between his teeth. “Melissa Fuller’s arrest should make the local news tomorrow. With any luck, someone will leak the fact that she’s also suspected of murder for hire. Journalists love that kind of stuff. They’re sure to run with the story. The killer will see it and put two and two together. If his meal ticket is about to be carted off to prison, he’ll realize the deal is off.”

“You seem awfully confident.” If Joey was EasyClean, that would be a very convenient resolution. He could leak the story himself, piling more suspicion on Melissa, destroy whatever evidence Cam found, convince Nick and everyone else that the killers were long gone, and let EasyClean disappear into the sunset.