Finlay Donovan Is Killing It

by Elle Cosimano

  “Wait,” he called after me, jogging to catch up. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so.” I wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. I was hot and blotchy and probably beet-red, my limp brown hair and the sleepless bags under my eyes on full, hopeless display.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, following a few steps behind me.

  I paused, torn between stealing one last look at him and running away. His smile was soft and his face was kind, and he was sweaty enough for me to see the outline of every muscle through his clothes. “Pretty sure I’d remember you.”

  “It’s just … You look kind of familiar.” His voice was close behind me as I reached for the locker room door. Close enough that I could smell the clean sweat coming off his skin, his breath still a little heavy with exertion.

  I should not turn around. I should definitely not turn around. Vero was right. Communicating with Julian was dangerous and foolish. Especially now that Nick had been to The Lush asking questions. Julian was the one person who could positively identify me if he figured out who I really was. And yet, part of me wanted to turn around and confide everything to him.

  I peered around the curtain of my hair, just enough to see his eyes narrow as they struggled to put the pieces of me together.

  “I should go.” I clutched my backpack to my chest as I pushed through the door into the locker room. “I’m probably late for … something.”

  I ducked inside and leaned back against the door. But when I looked around the locker room, Irina was already long gone.

  CHAPTER 27

  “I can’t believe Patricia Mickler is dead.” Vero hunched low in the driver’s seat of the Charger, watching the door to Theresa’s real estate office from the far side of the parking lot where we’d strategically positioned her car. Zach babbled to himself behind us, munching on Goldfish crackers while he watched cartoons on Vero’s phone. “I can’t figure out if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

  “How could that possibly be a good thing?”

  “Because now if they find her, she can’t rat you out.”

  “No, but Irina can.” And if I didn’t kill her husband, I was sure she’d have no problem rolling me under whatever bus she’d used to squash Patricia.

  “Do you think she got her husband to kill Patricia?”

  I shuddered at the memory of the knife in her back door. “Probably.” Irina had managed to put me in an impossible situation, forcing me to deal with Andrei before she gave Andrei a reason to deal with me. But I didn’t have time to think about that now. First, I had to ferret out Theresa’s alibi, so that in the likely event of my untimely demise, my children had someone to live with.

  I squirmed in my seat as I checked the time, regretting the second cup of coffee I’d had at breakfast. Delia was only in preschool until lunch, and nothing exciting had happened since we got here an hour ago.

  “I have to pee,” I said.

  “You can’t pee. We’re on a stakeout.”

  “This is not a stakeout.”

  “Yes, it is. And this is a stakeout vehicle.”

  “My bladder doesn’t care.”

  “If you pee in my new car, I will kill you on principle.” Easy for her to say. She was twenty-two and had never had children. She could probably hold it until menopause.

  “We don’t even know what we’re looking for,” I grumbled.

  “You heard the hot detective. We’re looking for anything suspicious.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense just to ask Theresa where she was that night?”

  Vero gave me a heavy dose of side-eye. “When has Theresa Hall ever been honest with you? You seriously think she’s gonna come out and tell you what she was doing on some random Tuesday night when she didn’t bother telling you she was doing your husband all last year?”

  I sank lower in my seat. My ass had fallen asleep thirty minutes ago. “Theresa’s here and Steven’s at the farm. Why don’t we just go to their house and poke around?”

  “One,” Vero said, holding up a finger, “because that’s breaking and entering, and we don’t get paid for that. And two, because if she was up to something shady while Steven was at work that night, she wouldn’t have left any evidence at home where he could find it. Even Theresa’s not that dumb. Anything incriminating would be on her laptop or her phone, and she’s probably got those—”

  “That’s her,” I said, sinking lower as Theresa’s long legs and high heels became visible through the glass doors to the vestibule. The double doors swung open. A man in an expensive-looking suit strode out behind her. “Holy shit. That’s Feliks Zhirov.”

  The familiar black Town Car pulled to the curb in front of them. Andrei emerged from the driver’s seat to open Feliks’s door. Theresa extended her hand to Feliks, a purely professional gesture, but Feliks used it to draw her close, whispering in her ear before pressing a kiss to her cheek. She blushed, darting an anxious glance behind her to the windows of the building.

  “I’m getting a little more than a professional vibe here,” Vero said.

  Feliks gave Theresa a long, appraising look as he slid into the back seat of his car. As soon as the Town Car pulled away from the curb, Theresa made a beeline for her BMW.

  “What do you think this means?” Vero asked.

  “I don’t know.” The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want Detective Nick Anthony figuring it out before I did. I reached into the back seat for the diaper bag and rummaged inside for the wig-scarf, tying it around my head before snatching Vero’s mirrored sunglasses off her nose. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Where the hell are you going?” Vero hissed as I slid the sunglasses on my face and got out.

  “To find out what Theresa’s doing with Feliks Zhirov.” And where the hell she was the night I was at The Lush. I crossed the parking lot and slipped through the vestibule before I could change my mind. The receptionist looked up as I approached the desk.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  I pushed the glasses down the bridge of my nose just far enough to look down at her over the frames. “I’m Mr. Zhirov’s personal assistant. He just met with Ms. Hall and he forgot something very important in her office. He asked me to fetch it.” I put my glasses back in place.

  The woman reached for the phone. “She just left. Let me call her cell and catch her—”

  “No!” I said too quickly. I took a second to compose myself. “That’s not necessary, and Mr. Zhirov does not have time to wait. I can get it myself.”

  I started toward the glass doors at the end of the hall, throwing my hips with a purpose that dared her to stop me. “Which is her office?” I called over my shoulder as I pulled them open.

  “Last on the left,” the woman sputtered. “Are you sure I can’t—”

  The glass door swished closed behind me. Head down, I walked past rows of cubicles, pausing when I reached the corner office at the back. I turned the knob, praying it wasn’t locked. The door cracked open. Through it, I could make out four desks—a shared office. Three of the desks stood empty. Only one agent was working, her back toward me and a phone pressed to her ear. I slipped inside, careful not to make any noise.

  Theresa’s desk wasn’t hard to find. It was as spotless as her town house, the surface adorned with framed engagement photos. No day planner or desk calendar. Just a computer and some file drawers. I glanced over my shoulder, checking to make sure the woman’s back was still turned as I wiggled the mouse. The screen prompted me for a password.

  Shit. I had no idea what Theresa’s password might be, and I didn’t have time to guess. The only thing I knew for certain about Theresa was that she never kept her dirty laundry out in the open where people could see it. I slid open her desk drawer. Half-opened packs of gum, chewed-up pens, loose paper clips, some change, and crumpled sticky notes … I rummaged under them, finding a thin stack of folders and a yellow legal pad. The pages of the notepad were filled with barely legible notes. I
thumbed through the files, grabbing the one with Zhirov’s name on the tab and putting the others back. I flipped quickly through the contents—real estate listings, maps, and handwritten notes. All the listings inside had been printed two weeks ago—the same day Harris Mickler went missing.

  I pressed the file and notepad to my chest and shut the drawer. If I could find proof Theresa had been showing properties the night Harris went missing, I could tell Nick she was with a client and get him off her back.

  I was just about to turn and leave when a photo on her desk made me pause. I don’t know why it drew my attention. Maybe because it was the only picture that wasn’t of Steven. Or maybe because the girl in the photo seemed vaguely familiar in a distant and hazy sort of way. Her arm was slung around Theresa’s shoulders, both of them young and tan and blond, wearing sorority sweatshirts with Greek letters across the front. The inscription on the frame read BFFS 4EVR.

  This had to have been the Aunt Amy I’d heard so much about—the woman who’d taught my daughter to apply eye makeup and spent Saturdays with my kids, the woman who would probably help raise them if I ended up in prison—and I’d never even met her before.

  “Oh, hey, Theresa. Did you forget something?” I stiffened, so lost in the photo, I hadn’t heard the agent behind me hang up her phone. My wig-scarf itched and I resisted the urge to turn around.

  “Yes,” I coughed into my hand.

  “Did you find what you needed?”

  For Theresa’s sake, I sure as hell hoped so.

  I held up Feliks Zhirov’s file, using it to obscure my face, praying the answers I needed were inside it as I rushed past her out the door.

  * * *

  Vero and I sat on the floor of my office while the children napped, Feliks’s files and Theresa’s notes spread across the carpet between us. All I needed was an alibi to get Nick off her back, some clue about where Theresa might have been that Tuesday night, and more important, why she didn’t want anyone to know about it. With a notorious client like Feliks Zhirov, maybe she was only trying to maintain a low profile. But that didn’t fit the Theresa I knew. Theresa was all about social cachet and prestige. If there was a chance to flaunt a high-profile client like Feliks by sticking her head out of the roof of his slick black limousine and shouting it to the moon, she wouldn’t miss a chance to do it. Whatever her relationship with Feliks Zhirov, I definitely didn’t want the Fairfax County PD to know about it—at least not yet. Sniffing down that lead would bring them far too close to Andrei. Which would inevitably bring them close to Vero and me.

  “I bet they’re sleeping together and she doesn’t want Steven to know,” Vero suggested.

  “Maybe. Or maybe she wasn’t with Feliks that Tuesday at all. Maybe she was with someone else.”

  “Then why not just come out and tell the police what she was doing? No, she’s definitely banging the Russian. You saw the way he looked at her. That kiss had I’m picturing you naked written all over it.”

  I sifted through the contents of Feliks’s file: a signed agency agreement appointing Theresa to represent him in the purchase or lease of property, a bullet-point list of search criteria, a handful of addresses that had already been scratched out … Judging by the stack of listings and lot diagrams, he was shopping for land. The maps featured large rural parcels. The property lines had been highlighted in yellow with notes scribbled in the margins: too close to main roads, too many trees, too few trees, poor drainage, too many easements, too much slope … He’d rejected them all.

  “I’m guessing they weren’t touring rolling country hills at nine o’clock on a Tuesday night.” I dropped the maps and rubbed my eyes. Maybe Vero was right.

  “I’m telling you, they were probably screwing in the back of his fancy car.”

  I wasn’t sure what was worse. That her deduction was plausible or what that meant for Steven. It’s not like I felt sorry for him. He was clearly entertaining himself with Bree at the sod farm. The more I learned about the hidden messes in their relationship, the more I was convinced Steven and Theresa deserved each other. And the less jealous I felt about what they had.

  My thoughts ran to the photo of Theresa and her friend Amy. I wondered if that photo had been like the others she’d framed in her foyer at home—showcasing what she wanted everyone to see … if she and Amy were really best friends at all.

  Vero bent over the yellow notepad, sifting for clues. She’d taken care of my kids like they were her own. She’d stood up to Steven and paid my bills. She’d read my manuscript because she liked it. She’d helped me bury a body, for Chrissake, and I didn’t have a single photo of us together. Maybe because I didn’t need to. Because we’d already proven whatever we needed to prove to each other.

  “I kind of feel sorry for them,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Steven and Theresa.”

  Vero expelled a dry laugh. “You shouldn’t waste the energy. I have no idea what he sees in that woman anyway. I mean, aside from the obvious.”

  I glanced down at my baggy T-shirt, at the aged yellow baby formula stains and the small tear in the hem. If I stripped it all down and stood in front of a mirror, I’d still be looking at a mom. The purple sleep-deprived shadows under my eyes told no lies. Neither did the holes in my practical cotton underwear or the thin silver stretch marks each of my children had left behind.

  The first two times Julian asked me out, I’d been dressed like Theresa. I wondered if he would have been so interested at the gym yesterday if he’d known who I really was.

  “What’s wrong?” Vero asked, pinching the toe of my sock.

  “Why is it that guys fall for women like Theresa?” Why did men look at her the way Feliks had—like he was picturing her naked?

  “Believe me. They wouldn’t if they could see past the successful blond bombshell to the disaster underneath.” That was exactly what I was afraid of. With a dispirited sigh, I tossed Feliks’s file on the floor. Vero scooped it up and handed me the yellow notepad. “Here, switch with me. Maybe we missed something.”

  I skimmed the yellow sheets. The pages were full of chicken-scratch notes: lot numbers, addresses, hair appointments, grocery lists … I paused at a change in handwriting. Steven’s bulky block letters were immediately familiar.

  T—

  MEETING A CLIENT AT THE FARM. ZACH’S WITH ME. FINN HAD AN EMERGENCY. NEED YOU TO RUN OVER TO HER PLACE AND CLOSE UP THE GARAGE. POWER’S OUT. OPENER’S STUCK. TAKE AIMEE WITH YOU. YOU’LL NEED SOMEONE TO GRAB THE DOOR WHEN IT DROPS.

  THANKS. I OWE YOU ONE.

  He’d written this the morning I’d met with Sylvia. The morning I’d lost power at the house and the garage door wouldn’t close.

  … she and Amy went over to your place on their way to lunch and closed the garage.

  Not Amy. Aimee.

  “His pictures…” I whispered.

  Vero looked up from the notes she was studying. “Whose pictures?”

  I leapt to my feet and dropped into my desk chair.

  “What is it?” Vero asked, watching me like I’d lost my mind as I powered on my computer.

  “Aimee was the name on one of the files in Harris’s phone. I’m sure of it.”

  I opened a browser and found Harris Mickler’s networking group. Clicking on the membership page, I scrolled through its roster, past Theresa’s thumbnail, pausing at a screen name—Aimee R. The thumbnail was a blank placeholder. I clicked on it, but her profile was empty. Aside from her screen name, her details had been wiped clean.

  The links to her other social media pages all led to dead ends, her accounts all deleted or closed. Aimee R was a ghost.

  This had to be her. The spelling of Aimee’s name was unusual, and she fit the profile of Harris’s victims. And it would make sense that she and Theresa would have been in the same social networking group. They did everything together.

  “This is her. I’m sure of it,” I said. “The date of her last post to the networking group was a little over a
year ago. That would have been around the same time Nick said a woman had called the police to register an anonymous complaint.” A scene was slowly unfolding in my head. “Two people killed Harris. What if Nick’s hunch about Theresa is right? What if Theresa and Aimee were waiting for Harris outside The Lush?”

  “You think they were stalking him?”

  “They would have known he was going to be there. They might have seen me walk him out to my van.” In the dark, they might have assumed I was the one who was staggering. Under Harris’s weight, we were both unsteady on our feet. “Maybe they got the wrong idea and thought I was his next victim. Theresa could have recognized my van and followed us here. Maybe she hadn’t intended to kill him. Maybe she only intended to stop him. But then I ran inside the house and left them a perfect opportunity.” I showed Vero the note from Steven. Her dark eyes narrowed as she read it. “They already knew how to close the door without using the motor. They’d done it together before.”

  Vero’s face paled. “No wonder Theresa didn’t want to tell Nick where she was that night. You really think Theresa and Aimee could have murdered Harris Mickler?”

  “I don’t know. But Nick said all he needed to bring her in was a motive.” Theresa had a big one. And I had given her the means and opportunity to act on it.

  But if I told Nick his suspicions were right … If I told him about Aimee and gave him just enough information to find her and make the connection himself, regardless of whether or not Aimee and Theresa were guilty, that trail of bread crumbs would lead Nick straight back to my garage. Suddenly, the possibility that Nick might find out about Feliks didn’t seem quite as terrible.

  I grabbed Nick’s business card from my purse.

  “What are you doing?” Vero’s voice was tinged with panic. “You can’t tell Nick about this!”

  “I’m not,” I said as I typed. “I’m giving Theresa an alibi.”

  Vero leaned over my shoulder, reading the carefully worded text I’d just sent to Nick: I think Theresa is having an affair.