Chapter 10
Vero and I boarded the charter bus to the citizen’s police academy just after sunrise on Monday morning.
I fell into one of the last available seats toward the back, cradling my thermos of coffee, my eyelids already threatening to drift shut.
I’d been up most of the night, staring down my revision for Sylvia, and while I had no problem envisioning the hot cop’s very impressive assets (or what the heroine would like to do with them), whenever I began typing, the bad guys closed in and someone managed to die.
Last night, it had been a huge, tattooed street fighter named Refrigerator Mike whom my heroine had mowed down with her car, and at four in the morning, before crawling into bed, I’d deleted the entire chapter.
Vero nudged me awake as she arched up in her seat, checking out the other passengers around us. “Did you know Mrs. Haggerty was coming?” she whispered.
I sat up, holding my thermos away from me as coffee dribbled from a leak in the top.
“Where?” Vero pointed to a nest of gray hair a few rows in front of us.
Great. The woman who’d been watching my house like it was a Netflix Original would be spending a week getting up close and personal with the detectives who were unknowingly investigating us.
“Who’s her friend?” Vero asked as Mrs. Haggerty chatted up the tall, attractive gentleman seated beside her. He looked familiar, but it took me a minute to place him.
“I think that’s her grandson.” He’d visited her over the holidays, and I vaguely remembered a rushed and clumsy introduction as he was taking out her trash and I was emptying my mailbox.
I clutched my chest as a head popped up in the seat in front of me.
A young woman in tortoiseshell glasses smiled at us over her headrest. She didn’t look much older than Vero, and I wondered how she had afforded the police academy registration.
The week of room and board hadn’t been cheap, and after considering the meager funds in both of our accounts, Vero and I had charged the fees to my credit card.
A young man with a shock of unruly red hair popped up beside her.
He extended his hand over the headrest. “I’m Riley.
This is Maxine,” he said, hitching his thumb toward the girl.
“Call me Max,” she insisted. “We’re so excited for police academy! Aren’t you?”
Vero jabbed an elbow in my ribs before I could answer that.
“What do you all do?” Max asked us.
“Finlay is a famous author—”
“I’m really not,” I corrected Vero. Judging by the likely trajectory of my career, infamous was probably more accurate.
“And I’m her accountant. We’re here doing research for her next romantic suspense novel.”
Max’s eyes went wide over her seat back. “Seriously? Riley and I are in the entertainment business, too. We’re podcasters.”
“True crime,” Riley explained. “We’re recording a behind-the-scenes series about criminal investigations. We’re going to document everything we do this week for our show.”
“We’d love to feature you,” Max suggested. “You know, ask you some questions about why you came and what you hope to get out of your week here. I bet people would be really interested to hear how you get your ideas.”
My smile was so tight, it hurt. “I bet they would.”
“She’d be happy to,” Vero said, throwing me on the altar.
The bus started moving and Riley and Max turned back in their seats.
“We’re not talking to anyone this week,” I whispered. “We have one job, and that’s to find EasyClean .”
“Correction. You have two jobs. One for Feliks and one for Sylvia. You’re going to finish your revision so we can get paid.”
“I can’t do the revision.”
“You can do it, because I’m going to help you.”
“How are you going to help?”
“I’m going to kick you in the ass until you get it done yourself. And you never know,” she said, reclining her seat as the bus bounced over the interstate, “a few days away from the kids, living in a dorm, doing hands-on research with a bunch of hot, fit police officers might inspire you.”
I didn’t need inspiration. I needed a new career. One that didn’t involve police officers, corpses, or the Russian mob.
“So what’s the plan?” Vero asked.
“Same as the bar. We spread out and get close to as many of them as possible. We ask a lot of questions and hope one of them lets something slip.”
“When do I get to snoop?”
“I’ll do the snooping.”
“Why do you get to do the snooping? You’re terrible at snooping.”
“I’m not terrible at snooping.”
“Last time you did the snooping, you needed an emergency extraction involving my cousin and a tow truck, and you still got busted sneaking out of Theresa’s house. I’ll handle the snooping.”
“We’ll discuss it.” I turned toward the window, watching the traffic thin as the suburbs gave way to rolling fields and the smoky outline of the Blue Ridge Mountains on the horizon.
The regional Public Safety Training Facility had been constructed on the grounds of a former detention center in rural Prince William County, a few miles west of the regional forensics lab Nick and I had visited last fall.
I thumbed the tiny bullet in my pocket, the one we’d managed to retrieve from the Aston Martin after my run-in with EasyClean .
Georgia had mentioned some of the forensic techs might be teaching classes this week.
With any luck, maybe one of them could look at the bullet and tell us more about it.
The two charter buses slowed as we reached the campus, pausing at a security booth before proceeding through a gate.
The grounds were ringed in forests and razor wire.
Low brick buildings dotted the landscape, a running track and a handful of training fields visible just beyond them through the fence.
A five-story tower loomed like a sentry in the distance.
Through my window, I could just make out the fire department logo on its cinder block walls.
Vero and I followed the other ninety-six students off the charter buses into a nearly empty parking lot.
A handful of older-model police cars occupied spaces designated for training vehicles, their paint scratched and their fenders dimpled with dents.
A few ambulances were scattered among them, bearing the training center’s logo.
Beyond the parking lot, a skid-marked driving track was dotted in orange cones.
Vero and I huddled close to each other for warmth as we waited in line with the other academy students.
We rolled our luggage beside us, our computer bags riding on top so they wouldn’t absorb the puddles on the blacktop.
The line moved slowly toward a folding table covered in welcome packets and lanyards with our names printed on them.
A man in a gray sweatsuit emblazoned with the word INSTRUCTOR greeted us before we reached the table.
“Names?” he prompted, consulting his clipboard.
“Veronica Ruiz,” Vero said. He marked a check by her name.
“Finlay Donovan.” I tried not to stare at the thick raised scar that stretched from the right side of his mouth and disappeared under his FCPD beanie.
The man glanced up from his papers. A small smile tugged at the unblemished side of his mouth. “So you’re the Finlay I’ve been hearing so much about. I believe you might owe me some money.”
“But I already paid,” I said, stretching up on my toes to find my name on his clipboard.
He tucked it behind him with a raspy laugh, his smile strained by the confines of his scar.
“The day I turned in my badge, I bet Nick Anthony a hundred bucks that he’d never find a partner he liked better than me.
The week he met you, he showed up on my front porch to collect, and he hasn’t stopped talking about you since.
Name’s Charlie.” He extended a hand to me.
A relieved sigh rushed out of me. “You’re Nick’s former partner,” I said, shaking his hand.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, too.” Nick and Charlie had worked together for years, until Charlie was diagnosed with oral cancer.
His treatment had forced him into early retirement, which was how Nick had ended up becoming partners with Joey.
“Nice work with the Molotov cocktails, by the way,” Charlie said, checking my name off his clipboard. “Just do me a favor and try not to set anything on fire during your stay here, ladies.”
Vero’s laugh was dubious.
“We’ll try not to,” I assured him. His warm brown eyes crinkled with his smile, and I could see why Charlie’s absence had been so hard for Nick.
Charlie pointed to the next check-in station. “Take your luggage to the uniformed officer and set your bags on the table to be searched so we can get you to class.”
“Searched?” I asked.
“Students aren’t permitted to bring personal firearms or weapons of any kind, and no alcohol or illegal drugs are allowed inside the facility.
That’s why we opted for the buses,” he said, gesturing to the empty charter bus behind us.
“Otherwise, the gate becomes a revolving door after classes let out every afternoon. It’s easier on the staff if we only have to search everyone once.
” He pointed to a second set of tables. “After your bags are checked, pick up your welcome packets and name tags. Inside, you’ll find your room keys, your schedule, a map of the campus, and your health and safety waivers.
Sign your waivers, take your bags to your dorm, change into comfortable workout attire, and report promptly to the drill field.
Leave your cell phones in your room.” He checked his watch.
“Your first session starts in twenty-two minutes. You might want to hustle, ladies. It’s a push-up for every minute you’re late. ”
Vero and I turned to find we were last in line. We grabbed our Rollaboards and dragged them across the pavement. Once we were through inspections, we followed the last of the stragglers to the dormitory, hefting our luggage up the two flights of stairs to the third floor.