“Did you talk to Ralph downstairs?” she asked anxiously. “He should have been on the desk—and you’re supposed to sign in to enter this building.” So it was with most large office buildings in the city. It had been ever since 9/11.
“Yes, I spoke with him. The police spoke with him. He was a mess. He thinks it’s all his fault. UPS was here with a large shipment for the computer tech firm on the eighteenth floor. He thinks she slipped by him when he ran over to help the courier with the elevator,” Craig said.
“I can imagine he’s upset. Did he ever get out of here? He was planning on seeing the Danny Boys play tonight, too.”
“I don’t think he went to see the band,” Craig said. “The cops let him go about an hour or so ago now.”
“Ah,” Kieran murmured.
What an end to the week. Ralph Miller was a Monday to Friday, regular hours kind of guy. He looked forward to his Friday nights; he loved music, especially Irish rock bands. He must have been really upset to realize a murder had taken place somewhere just down the street from his front door.
The murder of a woman who had slipped by him.
A woman who had left a baby in Kieran’s arms.
A baby. Alone, in her arms.
“Craig, I just... I wish I understood. And I’m not sure about the officer handling the case—”
“Kieran, no matter how long we all work in this, murder is hard to understand. That officer needed everything you could give him.”
“I know that. I’ve spoken with him. He wants me to figure out why the woman singled me out. He’s more worried about that than the baby!” Kieran said indignantly.
“He’s a detective, Kieran. Asking you questions is what he’s supposed to do—you know that. Can you think of anything?” Craig asked her.
Kieran shook her head. “She probably knew about this office. And it’s easy enough to find out all our names.”
“Maybe, and then...”
“And then what?”
Craig smiled at her. During the diamond heists case—when they had first met—she had saved a girl from falling onto the subway tracks when a train was coming. When a reporter had caught up with Kieran, she had impatiently said, “Anyone would lend a helping hand.”
For quite some time after, she’d been a city heroine.
So she had a feeling she knew what he was going to say.
“Maybe they saw you on TV.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Some people have long memories.”
There was a tap at the door; the officer who had been standing guard held it open for a stocky woman with a round face and gentle, angelic smile. She was in uniform, and Kieran quickly realized that she was from Child Services.
“Hi, I’m Sandy Cleveland,” the woman told her. “Child—”
“Services, yes, of course!” Kieran said.
Kieran realized that she didn’t want to hand over the baby. She didn’t have a “thing” for babies—her primary goal in life had never been to get married and have children. She did want them—somewhere along the line. But not now. She knew that, eventually, yes, she wanted to marry Craig. She was truly, deeply, kind of even madly in love with him.
But no wedding in the near future. Maybe in a year. They hadn’t even really discussed it yet.
She didn’t go insane over babies at family picnics, and she was happy for her friends who were pregnant or parents, and she got along fine with kids—little ones and big ones.
But she wasn’t in any way obsessed.
Here, now, in the office, holding the precious little bundle—who had so recently been tenderly held by a woman who was now dead with a knife in her back—Kieran was suddenly loath to give her up. And it wasn’t that the woman from Child Services didn’t appear to be just about perfect for her job. No one could fake a face that held that much empathy.
“It’s okay,” Sandy Cleveland said very softly. “I swear she’ll be okay with me. We take great care of little ones at my office. I won’t just dump her in a crib and let her cry. It’s my job—I’m very good at it,” she added, as if completely aware of every bit of mixed emotion that was racing through Kieran’s heart and mind. She smiled and added, “Miss Finnegan, the street below is teeming with police officers—and reporters. The chief of police is already involved in this situation. This little one will not just have the watchdogs of Child Services looking over her, but a guardian from the police force, as well. She’s going to be fine. I personally promise you.”
“I’m sure—I’m sure you’re good,” Kieran said. She smiled at Sandy Cleveland.
“That means you have to give her the baby,” Craig said, but she thought he understood, too, somehow.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Kieran murmured.
She managed to make herself move, and she handed over the baby.
It was so damned hard to do!
“Miss Cleveland, can you tell me about how old she is?” Kieran asked.
“I think about six weeks based on her motor function. And, please, just call me Sandy,” the woman told her. “Her eyes are following you—and when you speak, that’s a real smile. It’s usually between about six weeks and three months when they really smile, and I think this is a lovely, smart girl. Don’t worry! I’ll get a smile from her, too, I promise.”
The baby did seem to be settling down in Sandy Cleveland’s arms.
Craig set an arm around Kieran’s shoulders.
“Sandy, I’m with the FBI. Craig Frasier. You won’t mind if we check in on this little one?”
“Of course not!” Sandy assured them. She shook her head sadly. “I hear that the woman who handed her to you was murdered. There’s no ID on her. I’m just hoping we can find out who this little one is. She’s in good shape, though. Someone has been caring for her. Yes! You’re so sweet!” She said the last words to the baby, wrinkling her nose and making a face—and drawing a sound that wasn’t quite laughter, but darned close to it. “Hopefully, she has a mom or other relatives somewhere. And if not...” She hesitated, studying Kieran and Craig. “Well, if not—a precious little infant like this? People will be jockeying to adopt her. Anyway, let me get her out of here and away from...from what happened.” She held the baby adeptly while using her left hand to dig into her pocket and produce her business card. “Call me anytime,” she told them. “I may not answer, but I will get back to you if you leave me a message.”
Then she was gone. The cop who had been watching over Kieran went outside.
She and Craig were alone.
Kieran still felt shell-shocked.
“Kieran, hey!” Craig hunkered down by her again as she sank down into one of the comfortably upholstered chairs in the waiting room. He looked at her worriedly. “The cops are good—you know that.”
“Craig, you have to be in on this. That detective—”
“Lance. Lance Kendall. Kieran, really, he’s all right. He’s doing all the right things.”
“Yeah! All the right things—grilling me!”
“Okay, I will speak with Egan about it tomorrow, how’s that?”
She nodded. “Thank you. Get one of your joint task forces going—at least maybe you can participate?”
“Sure.” He hesitated. “I guess...um, well.”
There was a tap at the door. They both looked up. Craig stood.
A man walked in. It wasn’t the first officer who had arrived at the scene—it was the detective who had arrived while others were setting up crime scene tape, handling the rush hour crowd around the body, and urging her to get the baby back up to her offices and out of the street.
Detective Kendall was a well-built African American man. About six feet even, short brown hair, light brown eyes, and features put together pleasantly. He was around forty-five, she thought. He wasn’t warm and cuddly, but neither was he rude.
r />
“Detective,” Craig said. “Have you wrapped up at the scene for the evening?”
“Yes—a few techs are still down there, but there’s nothing more I can accomplish here. Unless you can help, Miss Frasier? You can’t think of anything?”
“I have no idea why this lady chose me,” Kieran said. “None.”
“And you’ve never seen the woman before?” Kendall asked.
“Never.”
“Nor the baby?”
What? Did he think that the infant paid social calls on people, hung out at the pub, or requested help from psychiatrists or a psychologist?
“No,” she managed evenly. “I’ve never seen the infant before. I’ve never seen the woman before.”
“All right, then.” He suddenly softened a little. “You must be really shaken. I understand that, and I’m sorry. For now... I don’t have anything else. But I’m sure you know we may need to question you again.”
“I’m not leaving town,” she said drily.
He wasn’t amused.
Kieran continued. “I’ve spoken with Dr. Fuller and Dr. Miro. I’ve told them all that I could, and they will be trying to ascertain if they can think of any reason—other than who they are and what they do—that the woman might have come here.”
“I’ve spoken with the doctors, too,” Detective Kendall told her grimly. “And I’m sure we’ll speak again.”
“I’m sure,” Kieran muttered.
“Good night, Special Agent Frasier—Miss Finnegan,” the detective said. “You’re both, uh, free to go.”
He left them. Craig pulled Kieran around and into his arms, looking down into her eyes. “We are free. There’s nothing else to do tonight. You want to go home?”
“I know that we both really wanted to see the band play tonight,” she told him. “I’m sorry.”
“Kieran, it’s not your fault. I’m sure you didn’t plan for a woman to abandon a baby in your arms and then run downstairs and find herself stabbed to death.”
“It’s driving me crazy, Craig! We don’t know who she was. We don’t have a name for her. We don’t know about the baby. I think she was too old to be the mom, but I’m not really sure. And if not...she was trying to save the baby, not hurt it. But who would hurt a baby?”
“I don’t know. Let’s get going, shall we?”
“We can still go to the pub. Maybe catch the last of the Danny Boys?” she said.
“You know you don’t want to go anywhere.”
Kieran hesitated. “Not true. I do want to go somewhere. I’m starving—and I’m not sure what we’ve got to eat at the apartment.”
“Yep. We’ve been staying at yours—if there is food at mine, I’m certain we don’t want to eat it.”
“Then we’ll go to the pub,” she said quietly.
Kieran hadn’t realized just how late it had grown until she and Craig walked out of the building. New York City policemen were still busy on the street, many of them just managing the crowd. The body was gone, but crime scene workers were still putting the pieces together of what might and might not be a clue on the busy street.
It was Midtown, and giant conglomerates mixed with smaller boutiques and shops. Most of the shops were closed and the hour too late for business, but people still walked quickly along the sidewalks, slowing down to watch the police and curious to see what had happened.
Kieran looked up while Craig spoke with a young policewoman for a moment. Her brother had once warned her that she looked up too often—that she looked like a tourist. But she loved the rooftops, the skyline. Old skyscrapers with ornate moldings at the roof sat alongside new giants that towered above them in glass, chrome and steel. And then again, right in the midst of the twentieth-and twenty-first-century buildings, there would be a charming throwback to the 1800s.
From a nearby Chinese restaurant, a tempting aroma laced the air.
Even over murder.
The cops generally knew Craig; he was polite to all of them. They nodded an acknowledgment to Kieran. She’d worked with the police often enough herself.
“Is Detective McBride going to be on the case?” Kieran asked hopefully. They’d worked with Larry McBride before, not even a year ago, and he had been an amazing ally.
Drs. Fuller and Miro worked with city detectives regularly, and nine times out of ten, they were great. Every once in a while, as in any job, there was a total jerk in the mix. Mainly they were professionals, and good at their work, and Kieran knew it. Some were more personable than others. Homicide detectives could be very cut-and-dried. McBride had told her once that Homicide, while horrible, was also easier than dealing with other crimes. The victims couldn’t complain about the way he was working. Of course, the victims had relatives. That was hard.
She had come to really like McBride.
In this case, a baby was involved. A woman had died trying to save that baby, Kieran was certain. So she felt they needed the best.
Craig looked at her quizzically. “You know that there are thousands of detectives in the city, a decent percentage of that in Homicide—and even a decent percentage in Major Case.”
“Actually, when you break it all down...”
“I don’t know who will be working the case—probably more than one detective. For right now, it is Lance Kendall. And he’s all right, Kieran. He’s good. He was doing all the right things,” he added quietly. He looked as if he was going to say something more. He didn’t.
He took her hand in his. She held on, letting the warmth of his touch comfort her as they walked down the street.
“Hey, remember, I’m an agent, and you work with psychiatrists who spend most of their time on criminal files. It’s the life we’ve chosen, and we’ve talked about it. This will be just another case—whatever level of involvement we have with it. You can’t let it take over, or neither one of us will be sane.”
She nodded. He was right. There were other cases where they found themselves on the fringe, and, frankly, every day of Craig’s life had to do with criminal activity in the city of New York. They’d already worked on cases of cruel and brutal murders. This was another. And there was always something that seemed to make it better—at least for the survivors—when a killer was brought to justice.
She couldn’t obsess. She knew it.
But this one felt personal!
“Yep.” She spoke blithely and smiled.
“You’re cool?” She could tell he didn’t believe her; it seemed he didn’t know whether to push it or not.
But he was right about one thing. There was nothing for them to do right now except try to get their minds around what had happened—and let it go enough to get on with life.
Even figure out how to step back in order to step forward again.
“Yep. I’m fine. Let’s get food,” Kieran said.
“Sounds good. Thankfully, we always know where to go!”
CHAPTER TWO
Finnegan’s on Broadway had been a tavern, inn or den of Irish hospitality since before the Civil War. It was just after the war that the Finnegan family had taken over. Some of the family members were Americans; some were cousins who arrived from Ireland at various times in the pub’s history. Whoever wound up in charge knew that they were always purveyors of camaraderie. It was a true center of community, where you brought friends, and if you had none, you found some. To many in the neighborhood it had become a personal place, and they felt as comfortable and welcome there as in their own living room. The taps were extensive and kept spotlessly clean; the kitchen created a flow of Irish, American, and Irish American food that could be rivaled by few pubs—even in a city like New York.
While all of the four Finnegan siblings—Declan, Kieran, Kevin and Daniel—had inherited the pub, it was run by Declan. Kieran had her work, and Kevin was an actor. Danny—after a few false starts due to the dea
th of their mother—had become an exceptional tour guide. Then again, though they all loved their dad, each sibling had acted out in a way when they had lost their mom. Not one member of the family had the least problem waiting tables or tending bar when help was needed, and Kieran still did a lot of the bookkeeping while her brothers kept up with stock and repairs.
Craig and Kieran were greeted by serving staff as soon as they walked in. At the bar—which had a clear view of the front door—Declan saw them enter, and he nodded and raised a hand and looked curiously at Craig.
Kieran had called Declan a few hours ago, to fill him in, but they hadn’t really believed at the time they would miss the entire evening. But they had, of course. The band was no longer playing.
It was quiet; the last of the crowd seemed to be paying their tabs, ready to head out.
“Kieran, dear, are you all right?”
Mary Kathleen—Declan’s fiancée, who was from Dublin but had been in the States for a few years—rushed up to Kieran.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” Kieran said.
“I’m going to say hi to Declan,” Craig murmured, sliding past the two women. He reached the bar and leaned against it. Declan wiped his hands on a bar rag, shaking his head as he looked at Craig.
“You’re a wee bit late. You missed the Danny Boys,” Declan said. “They were great.”
“Yeah, we missed them. Thanks.”
“Ouch. Sorry,” Declan said. “That was really rude of me.” His jaw was set at an awkward angle. “Kieran is all right? I’m glad she called—knowing we’d freak out if we saw something that close to her place of business and we didn’t hear from her. It’s been on the news, you know. This time, the media hasn’t been using her name—they don’t have it, apparently.”
“Yes. The police kept pretty good control of the crime scene in the street and got Kieran out of the limelight before the reporters honed in. They know a woman was murdered. They know she gave a child to someone else, and Child Services will be caring for the baby, who will also be under police protection,” Craig said. “I guess they want a warning out there that no one should come for the child—unless, of course, they’re the rightful parents or guardians. Hopefully, they’d be searching for their baby through the police.”