Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun (Finlay Donovan, #3)(29)
“I’m teaching a class this afternoon. I just want to look nice, that’s all.” She darted furtive looks around the cafeteria. “How about my breath?” She turned abruptly and blew in my face.
I reeled back. “What is wrong with you?”
“Here, do me,” Vero said, leaning across the table. Georgia blew between her cupped hands as Vero sniffed. “Not bad. What about your pits?” Vero grabbed Georgia’s arm and held it high, leaning in. “You’re good.”
“You just missed Sam,” I said casually. Blood rushed to my sister’s cheeks, confirming my suspicions. “She’s nice.”
“And hot,” Vero chimed in.
“When are you asking her over for dinner?”
My sister jumped up from her seat. “Wow, would you look at the time? I’ve got to run,” she said, stealing half my PB&J as she climbed out of the bench. She slipped out of the mess hall before I could demand she return my sandwich.
“I have no idea what Georgia’s so afraid of,” I said. “Sam seems really great.”
Vero shook her head at me. “Maybe it’s genetic.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I could say the exact same thing about you and Nick. I just hope for your sister’s sake, Sam isn’t a killer.”
My stomach soured at the thought. I hated the idea of snooping on my sister’s crush. “How do we rule her out?”
“I don’t know. We’ll come up with something.” Vero took a bite of the remaining half of my sandwich. “I should have gone for the PB&J, too. This is actually pretty good,” she said, cramming the last of it in her mouth. She dusted crumbs from her hands. “Let’s go. I might puke if they make me do push-ups after lunch, and I don’t want to be late.”
We followed the campus map to the mat room and filed in with the rest of the herd. Blue gym mats covered most of the floor and creepy training dummies had been positioned around the room. I suppressed a shudder at the disembodied torsos mounted on metal stands. They reminded me disturbingly of Carl Westover. Or, more specifically, the previously frozen piece of him that was still buried on my ex-husband’s farm.
Vero and I nudged our way closer to the front of the room. I wedged between two sets of tall shoulders, freezing when I locked eyes with the instructor. Joey stood in front of the class, holding a pair of handcuffs.
“My name is Detective Joseph Balafonte.” His voice ricocheted off the walls of the training room, no need for a bullhorn. His cuffs clicked softly, open then closed, as his gaze slid from mine to rove over the rest of the group. It wasn’t until his back was to me that I noticed the second instructor in the room, a petite middle-aged woman of Asian descent, her dark hair streaked with gray. She smiled warmly at the class. Her feet were spread shoulder width apart, her hands clasped behind her back. It was a posture many of the officers here assumed when they were addressing us, but on this woman, in her soft heather-gray academy-issued sweatsuit, the pose felt more disarming.
“This afternoon, you will learn various arrest techniques,” Joey said. “You’ll have a chance to practice administering handcuffs with both compliant and noncompliant suspects.” He gestured to the other instructor. “This is Lieutenant Hamamoto. She will be teaching you defensive techniques.” The cuffs resumed their soft clicking as Joey changed direction, taking slow, measured strides toward the other side of the room. “Self-defense is one of the first and most critical skills we teach new recruits. I’ve lost count of the number of times I have come face-to-face with someone who wanted to hurt me or end my life.” His penetrating gaze landed squarely on me. “And believe me, when the business end of a gun is pointed at your face, you’re not thinking about being a hero. Your only thought is making it out of there alive.” The room fell so deathly quiet, I could hear the soft rush of air through the soles of his sneakers as he paced. “Survival is what we teach here at the academy. Regardless of age or height or strength or gender, you are all capable of mastering the skills we will teach you through repetition and practice.” Joey let the silence hang as he gestured to Lieutenant Hamamoto.
The lieutenant strode forward, her self-assured and measured voice commanding an attention that felt disproportionate to her stature. The class watched as she demonstrated how the handcuffs worked, using Joey as a subject. He turned his back, allowing her to snap the cuffs on, then off. Just when it seemed their demonstration was finished, Joey whirled, reaching for the lieutenant’s throat. In a series of movements too fast to comprehend, she had Joey disabled and prone, his face pressed against the mat and his wrists secured behind him.
The class broke into applause. Lieutenant Hamamoto dipped into a short curtsy before unlocking Joey’s cuffs and helping him to his feet. They repeated the exercise several more times, using different strikes from different positions, narrating each step in slow motion as they performed it. When they were finished, Joey retrieved a plastic bin full of handcuffs from the far end of the room.
“I need a student volunteer,” he said to the class. A few hands shot up in the audience. “Come on up here with me, Mrs. Haggerty,” he said, gesturing for her to join him. She approached the mat with determined steps. When she reached his side, he rested a hand on her hunched shoulder. “It’s good to see you again.”