Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun (Finlay Donovan, #3)(44)

He reached for it, squinting at it under the low lights. “Where’d you find it?”

I looked to Vero. We hadn’t come up with a story. “We … didn’t. A friend of ours did. We were curious if you could tell us anything about the weapon that might have fired it.”

Pete looked skeptical. “Where did your friend find it?”

“She…”

“Found it at a school playground,” Vero improvised. Pete nodded, as if this didn’t surprise him. “I told Finlay it would make an excellent opening for her next book. A suburban mom finds a key piece of evidence while her kids are playing innocently on the playground, and she takes it upon herself to investigate where it came from.”

“Whoa.” His eyes ping-ponged between us. “That would make a great story. She wouldn’t be able to uncover much on her own though. She’d need a professional to examine it. You know, a firearms examiner.”

“Like Wade?” I asked.

“Wade Coffey? The firearms instructor?” Pete looked stung. “No, he just teaches people how to shoot. She’d need a forensics expert, someone who knows how to analyze tool marks.”

“Someone like you?” Vero asked eagerly.

“Yes. I mean, no,” he corrected himself. “Not exactly—”

“Can you tell us anything about the bullet?” I asked as the auditorium began to fill with the hum of voices.

“I’m really not an expert in this sort of thing,” he said, trying to hand the bullet back. Vero slipped a piece of notebook paper from her backpack and scribbled her phone number across it. His eyes flew open wide as she held it out to him. “But I might know someone who could take a look at it,” he said quickly, taking her number.

“Thanks, Pete,” I said, zipping my bag shut. “And let’s keep this between us, okay? I’d rather no one else know about it.”

An awed wonder dawned slowly across his face. “Oh, I get it. You don’t want this to get back to Nick because the hero in this book is going to be the lab guy and not the cop. Because everyone in the department knows the hot cop from the first book was modeled after Nick, and his ego would be bruised if he thought he was upstaged by a hot scientist!”

Vero stifled a snort. I pinched her before it could escape.

Pete’s grin was triumphant. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he said, holding up the bullet. “That’s what heroes do. You know, save the day and … stuff.” He glanced sidelong at Vero. I could guess the stuff he was imagining. He hitched a thumb over his shoulder, stumbling backward into the curtain. “I should put my cards back in order before the lecture starts.” The bullet slid from his fingers as he waved. It hit the wooden floor with a ping and he scrambled to pick it up. He slapped at the curtain, searching for an opening in the fabric.

Vero shook her head as he disappeared through it. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Finn, but I don’t think Pete is qualified to save us.”

“We don’t need him to be a hero. We just need him to tell us about the gun that fired that bullet.” And hopefully keep his mouth shut.





CHAPTER 17


After breakfast the next morning, Vero walked to the front gate to meet up with Roddy for her ride-along, and I followed the map to the shooting range for my handgun class with Wade. A few other students were already waiting in his office, peering through a small window into the empty firing stalls on the other side. Mrs. Haggerty’s grandson stood beside her, offering her his arm for balance as she rose up on her toes to see. Charlie leaned casually against the wall, chatting with a handful of other officers. He greeted me with a nod as I pulled off my mittens and claimed a space against the wall in the crowded room.

A blast of cold air whipped my hair as Wade rushed in. The acrid scent of cigarette smoke trailed from his clothes as he brushed past me toward the desk. His eyes flicked over us as he stripped off his denim jacket and dropped it over the arm of his chair. He wasn’t wearing a shoulder or belt holster like the other detectives wore under their coats, just a ratty T-shirt and two full sleeves of brightly colored ink. He raked back his windblown hair, revealing the ghost of a faded tattoo on his neck that looked like it had been lasered off.

“Listen up,” he said, gesturing to one of the instructors to hold up his sidearm. “That is a Sig Sauer P226. It’s a full-size service pistol and the preferred service weapon of many law enforcement agencies.”

“Is that what we’ll be using today?” one of the students asked. A few of the instructors laughed as the officer holstered his gun.

“You,” Wade said, handing each of us a plastic tote, “will be using these. In your kit, you’ll find a training pistol, protective gear, and one box of .22 caliber ammo. You will be working one-on-one with an instructor.” He handed off a stack of clipboards to Charlie. “Please follow your designated instructor to the range, complete your waivers, and await further instructions before handling your firearms.”

I stayed behind as the rest of the class filed through the door into the shooting range.

Wade sat on the edge of his desk, checking off boxes on what I presumed to be my clipboard. I cleared my throat when the silence became awkward. “Hi, Detective Coffey. I’m—”

“It’s Wade. Or Coffey. Take your pick,” he said without looking up.