Finlay Donovan Is Killing It

by Elle Cosimano

  I lowered my voice so the children wouldn’t hear. “Andrei Borovkov is a cold-blooded professional murderer! Have you googled him? He was arrested last year for burning a man alive! Six months ago, he was charged with dismembering some guy in a parking lot and shooting all the witnesses, execution-style. And let’s not forget the three men found with their throats slashed in a warehouse in July!”

  “He wasn’t convicted of any of them,” she said defensively. “Maybe he’s not as dangerous as he sounds.”

  “He got off because someone mishandled evidence, Vero! Because Feliks Zhirov has cops in his pocket! How the hell am I supposed to kill an enforcer for the mob?”

  “I asked Irina the same thing. She said you’ll come up with something. You just need the right motivation.” Vero’s complexion turned a little green, her dry lips speckled with Oreo crumbs.

  “And what’s that?” I snapped. “More money?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She stared numbly at the empty package of Oreos, and a cold dread settled in the pit of my stomach. “What kind of motivation?”

  “We take care of her husband in the next two weeks, or…” Vero’s throat bobbed with her hard swallow.

  “Or what?”

  Her eyes shimmered with fear as they lifted to mine. “Or Irina will tell her husband we stole the money. And then she’ll send him to find us.”

  CHAPTER 26

  There was only one thing to do about Irina Borovkov, and that was to talk with her face-to-face like adults. No more middlemen. No more disguises. No more envelopes full of cash. I would simply explain that Patricia had been mistaken when she’d hired me, that I was not who she thought I was. Then I would explain that I hadn’t killed Harris Mickler—that someone else had broken into my garage and done the actual killing part—and therefore, I was not qualified (or willing) to assassinate her problem husband.

  And then?

  Then I would do the most adult thing of all. I would throw the backpack full of cash at her and run before she had a chance to stop me. Possession was nine-tenths of the law. I wasn’t sure whose law, or if the mafia even cared about the law. But math was math, no matter who was holding the calculator. If I didn’t have Irina Borovkov’s money, she’d have no leverage against me for robbing her and she wouldn’t send her scary husband to slit my throat.

  The parking lot of the Tysons Fitness Club was packed with cars, all shiny and imported, with monthly payments that probably amounted to more than the mortgage on my house. I parked Ramón’s loaner between an Audi and a Porsche, careful not to ding anyone’s door as I eased myself out. The rusted sedan stuck out like a sore thumb. Apparently, I did, too. My knuckles were white around the strap of Delia’s Disney Princess backpack as I walked to the front desk. This had to be the right club. The name and logo matched the one on the sweatshirt in Patricia’s locker at the shelter, but this place didn’t feel like it fit Patricia Mickler at all. The inside of the fitness club was swanky as hell, with a juice bar in the lobby, a courtyard with a fountain, and long, bright corridors lit by tinted glass ceilings. I couldn’t picture Patricia walking down those halls wearing a plastic smile and a tennis skirt, but based on Vero’s description of Andrei’s wife, I could definitely picture Irina Borovkov here.

  The woman waiting in line behind me made a sound like a snort. I glanced over my shoulder and caught her staring at my backpack. Then at my hair and my sneakers. I hoisted Delia’s pack higher on my shoulder, ignoring the titters and stares of the women who passed the desk. If they knew how much money was in that Disney Princess bag, or what I’d done to get it, they wouldn’t be smirking so hard.

  “May I help you?” The perky young receptionist wore a lot of makeup and a logo-emblazoned polo. A fingerprint reader glowed red on the counter.

  “I hope so,” I said, eying the scanner warily. “I’m interested in taking a Pilates class. Your instructor was recommended to me by a friend—Irina Borovkov? I called earlier and the receptionist mentioned there was a class starting at ten. I’d like to try it out and see if I like it before joining.” I’d watched a Pilates video that morning, and Vero was right. You really could learn anything on YouTube. I could totally pull this off. “Do you know if Irina is here?”

  “Reenie? Sure, she just got here. But she’s taking a Spin class today. It starts in ten minutes. Would you like me to page her for you?” She reached for her desk phone.

  I rushed to stop her before she could pick it up. “No, no, it’s fine!” The element of surprise was probably the more sensible approach here. After all, what would I ask the woman to say? Attention, Mrs. Borovkov. The contract killer you hired is in the lobby to see you. I plastered on a smile. “I’ll just catch up to her in class, thanks.”

  “Will you be needing shoes?”

  I glanced down at my sneakers. Shook my head.

  “Great, I just need you to fill out these health and safety waivers for me. When you’re done, I’ll need a quick scan of your finger. Then the women’s locker room is down the hall to your right, and the trainers on the floor can show you where to find the class.”

  “Thank you.” I took the clipboard, scribbling a fake name and address in the blanks as she greeted the next person in line. While her back was turned, I ditched the clipboard on the counter and hurried to the locker rooms before she could ask for my fingerprint.

  I kept my head down, only glancing up to peek into the workout rooms, eyes peeled for the sleek, dark hair and surgically sculpted face that matched Vero’s description of Irina.

  A crowd of women gathered in a long hallway flanked by brightly lit racquetball courts. One by one, they filtered into a training room. I caught a flash of raven hair among them and hurried to catch up. Irina’s money bounced against my back as I wedged myself into the line for the Spinning room.

  I merged into the flow of traffic, careful not to step on anyone’s feet. They were all wearing the same black shoes, like bowling slippers with Velcro and cleats. My white sneakers stood out starkly in contrast, as out of place as Delia’s backpack.

  I followed the herd into a dark, square room where rows of stationary bikes were illuminated by purple lightbulbs that dangled from the trendy exposed ductwork in the ceiling. The women around me each claimed a bike. They climbed on, adjusting their seats and snapping their water bottles into holders, talking animatedly as they stretched in their stirrups.

  The instructor perched on a bike in the center of the room, testing the volume of the microphone that dangled from the headset around her ears. I caught the flash of Irina’s onyx hair as she leaned to buckle her shoes into the pedals. Her ponytail glowed violet under the black lights as the room dimmed, and I rushed to the open bike beside her as the music started.

  “Is this one taken?” A techno beat blared through the speakers on the wall behind me. I raised my voice over the music and asked again.

  Irina glanced up at me. She shook her head and smiled placidly, her brows rising when she caught sight of my bright white shoes. She didn’t look at my face again, showing no sign of recognition. This was good. A dark room, lots of people, loud music. She wouldn’t get a good look at me, and we probably wouldn’t be overheard.

  I planted my feet in the stirrups, my neon-white shoes beginning to move in lazy circles as I pedaled. Watching Irina out of the corner of my eye, I mimicked her movements. This wasn’t so hard, I thought to myself as the instructor called out a series of commands to the group.

  The class rose in unison, pushing up in their stirrups like a wave, then down again as the lights switched with the beat of the music from purple to green to blue. I tried to find a rhythm, rising and falling with them, but I was always a half beat off. The faces of the riders around me were focused, concentrating. It was now or never.

  “Irina?” I said her name as loud as I dared, just loud enough to be heard above the music.

  Her head turned by a fraction, the only indication she’d heard me.

  “You met my friend,
” I said between breaths as I pedaled. “You gave her some money and asked me to do a job for you. But I think there’s been a mistake. I’d like to talk to you.”

  Her eyes drifted to my arms, my legs, then my shoes as they struggled to stay connected to the pedals. She’d hardly broken a sweat. “There’s no mistake,” she said. Her voice was as dark and severe as her eyes, the clipped words heavily accented. “The money’s yours,” she said, jutting her sharp chin at me, her pin-straight bangs falling in jagged layers around her face. “You get the rest when the job’s done. There’s nothing to talk about.”

  The instructor called out to the group, “You ready to pick up the pace, ladies?” Cheers erupted as the tempo quickened. I tried to keep up, rising out of sync with the wave, my butt smacking onto the seat as my pedals lurched out from under me. The stirrup bit painfully into my heel before I managed to catch the pedal again. I was pretty sure I wasn’t getting paid enough to be here.

  “But see … that’s the problem,” I panted. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not qualified to do the type of work you hired me for.”

  “That’s not what Patricia said. She said you were competent. Neat.”

  “She was wrong.”

  “I don’t think so. Patricia knows my husband’s line of work. She would not have recommended you if she wasn’t confident you were suited to the job.”

  “But it wasn’t me!” I let go of the handlebar with one hand, pressing it to my chest. The gesture cost me my balance and I slipped again. I wedged my foot back into the stirrup. “I wasn’t the one who…” I looked around, lowering my voice as much as I could over the persistent thump of the bass. “I wasn’t the one who finished that job.” Sweat dripped down my neck, and my thighs were beginning to burn. “Can we go somewhere private where I can explain? I have something of yours. I’d like to give it back.” As I pedaled, I cut my eyes to the Disney backpack on the floor between us.

  “There’s nothing to explain,” she said, dipping low, then back up again, in perfect time with the other riders. “Patricia’s husband is handled, yes?”

  “No,” I said between searing breaths. “I mean, yes. But…” I looked around anxiously, but the women around us were entirely focused on the instructor, pushing up and dropping low, pedaling like crazy people. The music was so loud, I could barely think.

  “Increase tension!” the trainer called out.

  Irina adjusted a knob between her knees and crouched over her handlebars, her butt perched high over her seat.

  I pumped my legs, determined to keep up. My pedals were flying like living, hungry beasts. I moved faster, afraid if I stopped they’d chew the backs of my feet off.

  “You are my only option,” she said, her forehead beginning to glisten. “My husband knows everyone else in your line of work. You,” she said, smirking as sweat drenched my collar. “You he does not know. It will be easy. He won’t be expecting it from someone with your…” My shoes slipped precariously on the pedals and I nearly came flying off the bike. Her grin widened. “Your modest skills.”

  Great. Just great. In her mind, not only was I qualified, but I was perfect for the job.

  “More tension!”

  No, damnit. No more tension!

  “Aren’t you afraid someone might find out?”

  “Who? Feliks?” she asked, taking me off guard. She waved dismissively, never once breaking rhythm. “Feliks does not involve himself in domestic affairs. If Andrei is careless enough to allow himself to be subdued by a pretty face, I’m sure Feliks would agree that Andrei deserved whatever happened to him. Andrei has been reckless. He’s become a liability. Andrei is only lucky Feliks hasn’t done it himself.”

  “Push it out, people!” the instructor bellowed. “Really push it!” Was the woman kidding? I hadn’t pushed this hard since I was in labor with Zach.

  The group grunted with a collective burst of speed, like something out of a nightmare. I couldn’t feel my legs, and yet every inch of me was in pain. Irina leaned into her bike with a savage grin as the room took on the colors and tone of a disco. Lights flashed, sirens blared, the bass thumped. My heart was slamming out of my chest.

  “I respect you for telling me no,” she said over the music. “I understand your position.”

  “You do?”

  “And I respect you for insisting on more.”

  “I wasn’t … I didn’t…”

  “That’s right! Give me a little more, ladies!” the instructor roared.

  “No,” I wheezed, “I don’t want any more.”

  Irina smiled, endorphins loosening the stern lines of her face. She actually looked like she was enjoying this. The woman was a masochist. “It is a hard thing to be a woman in a man’s world,” she said over the music. “We are conditioned to believe we are not worthy. But this is why I believe in you. You will do this job for me. And I will pay you what Feliks would pay any man to do the same work. Women must stick together. It is the same reason Patricia gave me your number. Because this is something she understood.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit worried about her?” I panted.

  “Why should I be worried?”

  “The police are searching for her. What if they find her?”

  “What makes you think there’s anything left of her to find?”

  My legs stopped moving, my shoes carried by the momentum of the spinning pedals as her words spun around in my head. “What do you mean?”

  Irina’s eyes were cold and cutting as she looked at me sideways, her chin held high, above any judgment or remorse. “Patricia Mickler no longer exists. I made certain of it.”

  I couldn’t catch my breath to speak. I looked around me, wondering if anyone else had heard what Irina Borovkov had just confessed. But all the eyes in the room were straight ahead, on the instructor. All but Irina’s. Her faintly amused and crooked smile was angled sideways, toward me. A bead of sweat trailed down her temple. Somehow, she looked cool in spite of it, as if her heart rate was completely unaffected by any of this.

  “It is better for everyone this way,” she said. “Better for you, too. Patricia has always been skittish, easily intimidated. If the police pushed too hard, she might have said something foolish. And that would have been very bad for both of us.”

  My mouth hung open, my legs numb as I struggled to keep up. Patricia Mickler was dead. Irina had had her killed just to keep her from talking. To conceal a crime I hadn’t even committed yet. I thought they were friends. What happened to women sticking together?

  The music hit a fevered pitch, the thundering bass stealing every breath and every sound. My lungs burned. My mouth was so dry I was unable to form words. I told myself I would follow Irina to the locker room after class. That I would give her the backpack full of money and tell her I never wanted to see her again. Whatever had happened between her and Patricia had nothing to do with me. I cried out in relief when the music stopped and the women in front of us dismounted their bikes. Irina turned to me as she patted her face with her towel.

  “You will be in touch when it is done.” She swung a leg over her stationary bike, threw her towel over her shoulder, and headed for the door before I could catch my breath to speak.

  “No, wait!” I called after her. I brought my foot over the side of the bike, tripping over Delia’s backpack. My legs buckled out from under me, and I collapsed in a sweaty, clumsy heap on the floor. The cyclist in front of me turned, extending her hand to help me to my feet. I lost sight of Irina as she slipped into the hall. My knees were weak as I rushed to the exit, the backpack heavy against my cold, drenched shirt. By the time I shuffled out of the room, Irina was gone.

  I trudged to the water fountain, eyes closed as I gulped mouthfuls of coppery cool water past the lump in my throat. Cupping some in my hand, I splashed my sweat-drenched face, wishing I would wake up and find this entire conversation had been a bad dream. The woman who’d hired me to kill Harris Mickler was dead—the one person who could both implicate and
exonerate me—and I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. The only thing I was certain of was that Irina Borovkov was every bit as dangerous as her husband, and I still had her money. I wasn’t sure what would happen to me if I didn’t finish the job. Or, for that matter, what she would do to me after I did.

  Every bone in my body groaned as I straightened and turned around, face-first into the person waiting behind me for the fountain.

  The man gripped a racquet in one hand and held the hem of his shirt over his face with the other as he mopped sweat from his brow. A tight, tanned abdomen glistened beneath it. My throat closed around any coherent thought as his shirt fell back in place and Julian Baker raked back his curls. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, his honey-blond hair tinged dark with sweat.

  I lowered my head, letting the hair that had come loose from my ponytail fall over my face. GMU was only a few miles away. And like an idiot, I hadn’t even considered the possibility that I might run into him here. Or what might happen if I did.

  I shifted sideways away from the fountain as he moved to let me by. We accidentally stepped on each other’s feet.

  “Sorry,” I muttered as he steadied me.

  “No, don’t apologize, it was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” His hand was gentle on my upper arm. I averted my gaze as he tipped his head, trying to make eye contact. Turning tail and running would be suspicious … and rude. But if he figured out who I was—if he could place me here, in the same class with Irina Borovkov—then his next conversation with Detective Anthony could be (as Irina would say) very, very bad for both of us. Maybe he hadn’t noticed which room I’d come out of. If I walked away right now, maybe he wouldn’t recognize me.

  “Spinning, huh? Killer class,” he said between ragged breaths, gesturing loosely toward the room I’d just come out of with the tip of his racquet.

  “You’re not kidding.” I turned away, my face angled down and sideways as I rushed toward the locker rooms.