Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun (Finlay Donovan, #3)(89)

I pushed myself upright. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t put it together before. Nick had been seeing Stu for weekly counseling sessions since the shooting. They probably talked about the case. About Feliks. About me and Steven.

Steven …

I reached inside my pocket for the crumpled business card he’d pushed on me yesterday. My hands shook as I read the therapist’s name. STUART KIRBY, PHD.

This guy’s a therapist. My attorney gave him my number a few months ago.

A few months ago … around the same time EasyClean would have been vetting Steven as a target.

The facts began to crystallize into something tangible and sinister. The longer I sat with them, the more horribly right they felt. Stu had access to the campus Wi-Fi. He had clients and friends here; he could move through this place as easily as any cop. He didn’t have to go to the bar to glean information from Nick’s peers. He gathered all the information he needed in private sessions, one-on-one.

Wade’s posture shifted as he registered the look on my face. During our class, he’d said he taught civilians who worked for the department. If anyone knew what kind of gun Stu carried, it would be the person who had probably shown him how to use it. “Does Stu carry a Glock?”

Wade nodded once. “He’s got a permit. What about it?”

“It was Stu,” I said. “He was the one who sent that photo of the dummy to Feliks.”

I was dimly aware of a vibration in my pocket. At the same moment, footsteps thumped softly up the fire escape. Wade crushed out his cigarette, growing tense as he watched me. We both turned as Stu rounded the side of the pump house.

He froze when he saw us, his eyes wide enough to catch the moonlight. The tails of his trench coat billowed in the wind, the loose cut of it making his shape difficult to define. In hindsight, I could see it all so clearly now. This was the same silhouette I’d seen get out of the sedan on that dark country road. I had no doubt that the rifling patterns made by Stu’s Glock would match the ones on the bullet in my pocket. And I also had no doubt he was carrying that Glock somewhere under that coat.

“’Sup, Doc?” Wade said, his eyes making a furtive pass over Stu. “It’s a little late for a walk, isn’t it?”

Stu’s eyes darted between us. Then down to the duffel beside me. His throat bobbed with a swallow. “I … I remembered I left something up here today. I just came to find it. What are you two doing up here?” The fingers of his right hand twitched. Wade draped his arm casually around me, tucking me close to his side.

“You know me.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Came up for some air. We didn’t think anyone would be here.” When I glanced up at him, he gave me a lascivious wink.

Why wasn’t he doing something? Confronting Stu? Why wasn’t he whipping out his gun and arresting him? That’s what Nick or Joey or Georgia would have done. But as I caught sight of the ghosts of the tattoos on Wade’s neck, I remembered why. He wasn’t like the other cops. He played the bad guy to survive, and if he was acting the part now, with someone who knew him, it was because he sensed that Stu was a threat.

Stu pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and gestured to the duffel bag. “I think that might belong to me. I’ll just take it and be going.”

Wade stepped in front of him as Stu took a few steps toward it. “Pretty sure you’re mistaken, Doc. That bag belongs to—”

Stu pulled his gun and pointed it at Wade’s face. “Step away from the bag.”

Wade slowly raised his hands as he backed us away from the pump house.

Stu reached down blindly for the duffel, dragging it toward him with one hand, his gun steady in the other. He hesitated over the zip tie Vero had fastened around the zippers, darting panicked glances toward the fire escape.

Wade stood in front of me and laced his fingers behind his head. “You want the bag? Take it and go. I’ve got no beef with you.” His fingers wiggled, catching my attention. His right thumb pointed down, toward the exposed waistband of his jeans. His coat and shirt had ridden up, revealing the butt of his Glock.

“Seriously?” I whispered.

Wade lifted a thumb in response.

Great. I’d had one hour of target practice. What could possibly go wrong?

With slow movements, I reached into his pants. “If you ever mention this to Nick, I will murder you in your sleep,” I whispered.

Something pelted off my cheek. A chunk of ice no bigger than my thumbnail dropped to the concrete beside me. I turned and spotted a figure crouching by the side of the pump house.

Joey shook his head and held a finger to his lips. I let go of the Glock. I had no idea whose gun Joey was holding, but I was guessing he was as grateful as I was that I wouldn’t be the one doing any shooting tonight.

He slunk along the wall, attempting to peer around the edge of it, but the angle was all wrong. There was no way he’d get a clean shot without exposing himself.

“Finlay,” Stu snapped. I peeked over Wade’s shoulder and found Stu watching me. “Wade’s gun … the one he keeps in the back of his pants. Put it on the ground and kick it to me. Do it slowly, or I’ll shoot him.”

“Fucking great,” Wade said under his breath as I removed the gun from its holster and set it on the ground. I kicked it toward Stu with my sneaker, only clearing half the distance. Stu left it on the deck between us as he knelt over the bag, his gun pointed loosely in our direction as he struggled to free the zipper.