“What do you think? Late forties?” Egan asked. “I don’t think she was old—I think she looked older than her years. Poor woman. I’d be willing to bet she lived a hard life before she was murdered. And she was trying to do the right thing by that baby.”
“I believe she was. Sir, there’s still the baby. The logical assumption is—even if for a good reason, such as saving the child’s life—that the child was abducted. And since—”
“Give it up, Craig. Yes, abduction. We can muscle our way in.”
“Sir, you know that I don’t like to let anything in my personal life—”
“Craig, Kieran Finnegan is your personal life. The woman attracts trouble of the most unusual variety. We work with her employers on a regular basis, though this is hardly the same as most instances. I’ve already made the calls to set up a joint task force. I’ve called Mike Dalton. He’s glad he had some vacation time lately—he’ll be in within the next hour. And what the hell did you think I was doing here today?” Egan shook his head. “It’s Saturday. Feel free to say ‘thank you’ anytime.” Egan pushed a folder across his desk toward Craig. “There’s what I’ve got. Joint investigation. Autopsy today—be there by two this afternoon. Obviously, the usual is happening—fingerprints, dental work, and so on. If anything has been discovered about the woman, I don’t know it as of yet. We will know more once there’s an autopsy, but even that...” Egan ended with a shrug. “Ethnicity, maybe. You’d think that in a city of millions of people there would be someone out there who did know something.”
“There must be—but they aren’t coming forward.”
“They don’t want knives in their backs,” Egan said flatly. “Anyway...there’s your case. The FBI and the NYPD are pulling information from every source we have—someone has to be missing a baby. And the woman...well, we might be looking at someone in the country illegally. That would explain the lack of any ID, driver’s license, bank card, anything. Anyway, you’re on it.”
“Thank you,” Craig said, picking up the folder.
“So, in truth, I’m a liar. You don’t have to thank me. Word came down today from on high that they want us on this one. US Marshals will be in with us. Fellow from that department will be Hank LeBlanc. He’ll meet you at autopsy with a guy from Major Case. They’ve given it over to a higher division, so that means they’re worried about it. I think it’s your friend—he got that promotion after the diamond business two years back.”
“McBride? That’s great,” Craig said. “And, hey—thank you, anyway.”
Egan waved a hand in the air. “You’d be working it no matter what.” He looked down at more papers on his desk, as if he’d already moved on. Craig headed to the door.
“Frasier,” Egan said.
“Yeah.”
“Watch out for Kieran. I don’t like it that the dead woman was going for her—not just for someone in the offices of Fuller and Miro. For her specifically.”
“Yes, sir. I do watch out for her.”
“Three brothers—that should help,” Egan said.
“It should,” Craig agreed.
In a way, it did. Any of the Finnegan brothers would happily block a bullet for their sister. Then again, it had been Danny trying to help a friend that had gotten Kieran messed up with the diamond heists—when Craig had met her—and her brother Kevin had been dating the most famous victim of the recent “perfect” killings that had plagued the city. Her brothers were wonderful, but they’d grown up rough-and-tumble after their mother had died, and Craig knew that Kieran often worried about what they might do—even in the name of justice and righteousness.
But it was true that they would jump in front of a speeding bullet, train—or anything else—to save her from harm.
“You were there last night. I heard you stuck with Kieran while the cops dealt with the situation. So you already know most of what’s in the folder. But there you are. Mike should be in soon—you can read up on what they did get and then...”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing like an autopsy on a Saturday afternoon, right? McBride made the call on that one, getting the autopsy a priority on Saturday. Since there’s an unidentified baby involved.” He was quiet for a minute. “Thank God the baby wasn’t killed, too.”
“The baby could be our best lead.”
Egan shook his head. “We don’t know anything about her yet. Thing is...you just never know. Historically, children have indeed died for the sins of the parents. When the Russian revolutionaries held the royal family, they determined that they had to do them all in—including the children. Because children grow up. But the baby is safe. Cared for, and guarded, as well. You’re talking a beautiful little child—already an American princess in the media. Like I said, McBride is calling the shots on this one. Anyway, there you go. Just what you wanted.”
Craig forced a smile. Ah, yeah, sure. Just what he wanted. Not really at all.
He dreaded what was to come. He knew Kieran. There was just no way he was going to keep her out of it.
Which meant it was really only self-preservation to dive into the whole thing just as deeply as he could.
CHAPTER THREE
So much for waking up early and being so antsy she’d rushed through a shower.
It was frustrating as hell, but Kieran kept watching the news. She couldn’t stop herself. It was like the pre-election coverage of the last election. A train wreck. And she’d still felt compelled to watch.
Although, this was different. She had known the woman.
Well, she hadn’t known her, but she had spoken with her right before she had been murdered.
The more she watched—even though she didn’t see anything new reported—the more she began to wonder and try to figure out just what the hell was going on and how the police would try to put it together—try to find a murderer.
So far, they hadn’t talked about the knife on the air or in the paper—online or in physical print.
Where had the knife come from? The killer had to have had the knife on them. And if so, wouldn’t that mean there would be prints on the knife? Of course, those prints would need to be in the system. And what if the killer had been wearing gloves?
She itched to call Craig again—but she wouldn’t.
He would call her.
Would Richard Egan get the FBI on the investigation?
Kieran was well aware sometimes the different agencies working on a situation could be territorial—and not just cops and FBI. New York was filled with different organizations of law enforcement, including the cops and the FBI but extending to the US Marshals Service and Homeland Security. Depending on who found what when, there could be some disputes.
She didn’t know anything about the detective who was in charge of the investigation so far on the NYPD side of it all. Drs. Fuller and Miro had a tendency to work amazingly well with all branches—and she knew that Craig and his partner, Mike Dalton, were both the type who worked hard to see that any rivalry was kept to a minimum—that the crime was of upmost importance, no matter who solved it.
She couldn’t help worrying about the case. She was on pins and needles, waiting to find out what was going on. And worse, she wanted to see the baby again. Though the child was being cared for by professionals, and Kieran assured herself everything was fine, she couldn’t tamp down the urge to see the baby herself—just to make sure.
There was no way she could simply sit in her apartment and wait for Craig.
It was ridiculous that she had started watching the news at the get-go.
She’d known what she really needed to be doing. She forced herself up, forced herself to turn off the television.
Outside, she headed to the subway—finally determined on getting to the venue that was always her cure-all for being as antsy as the proverbial cat on the hot tin roof—without further delay.
The front door to Finnegan’s was locked when she arrived. She let herself in with her key.
The pub was getting ready to open for the day. Most of the time, Declan spent a good twelve to fifteen hours a day at the pub; it was easy for him since Mary Kathleen—the love of his life—worked there, as well.
Mary Kathleen had only been in the country about three and a half years. She’d come over to take care of an ailing grandmother, and a family friend had set her up at Finnegan’s. She and Declan were a perfect—and beautiful—couple, in Kieran’s mind, at least. Declan was tall with very dark auburn hair and the blue-gray-green eyes that characterized their family. Mary Kathleen had eyes that were huge and wide and the color of the sea. Her voice was musical and her accent truly charming—though she had found it funny one day when a patron had told her she didn’t need to pretend to be Irish to work in the pub—it was, after all, America.
The alarm had already been turned off when Kieran stepped in. The place was spotless; she was sure that their late-night cleaning crew had been in, one hired just for the weekends when the traffic at the pub was extremely heavy. They had an impressive row of taps; Kieran was proud the place never smelled like stale beer. They maintained it beautifully.
She walked up to the bar, thinking she could put away glasses or do something else useful, but as she was standing there, Declan stepped out from the hallway that led to the offices and the stock room down in the basement. He was wearing a white apron and evidently had been working behind the bar, setting up, and perhaps he’d been in back in the kitchen as well, checking with the chef on the daily specials. On Sundays, Finnegan’s always served a traditional roast with a choice of regular mashed potatoes or colcannon—potatoes and cabbage—and a special fresh vegetable. But on Saturdays, Declan and Chef liked to be adventurous—as in “Irish spicy tacos—trust us, the sauce is pure green!” Kieran wondered what delight he’d have prepared for today.
“I figured I’d see you,” Declan said.
“I couldn’t sit around,” she said.
“And you sent Craig off to see his boss, to try to get involved, didn’t you? And I know Craig. If he values his peace of mind, he’ll see to it that he’s involved.”
She made a face at her brother. She was glad, though, that Declan—and Kevin and Danny—knew Craig well and really liked him. They’d met Richard Egan, Craig’s boss, and Mike Dalton, his partner, too. All them had come into Finnegan’s at various times, whether having to do with a case, or simply to have some good Irish pub food.
The pub itself—and her brothers, upon occasion!—had been too involved in deadly activities taking place in the city. She’d actually met Craig in the middle of a diamond heist—a situation Danny had ridiculously gotten her into while attempting to help a friend—and Kevin had recently been a suspect in a murder when an actress he’d been dating had been found dead in the church-turned-nightclub that backed up to the alley just behind the pub. The good thing was that they were all friends with Egan and the FBI. By tradition, of course, they always hosted police officers from the local precinct and firefighters from the fire hall down the street. After all, being a cop had once been a major Irish occupation—and the city had certainly been filled with the Irish!
“It’s Saturday—I thought I’d help out around here.”
“And you are always a help,” he told her. “But as you can see, the cleaning crew was already in. We don’t open the doors until eleven thirty. Chef is busy...we have a full staff on. In fact, I think we probably have one server too many today. Sounds ridiculous, but if I don’t give them all enough tables, they can’t make it in their tips.”
“Ah, and no worries!” came a cheerful cry. Mary Kathleen came through the tables in the dining room, having just left the kitchen, or so it appeared. She was wearing a light spring jacket and carried a large disposable takeout tray. “Kieran, hello there, me love!” Mary Kathleen paused to kiss Kieran on the cheek. “I’m off to the mission by St. Peter’s.”
“That’s so nice!” Kieran told her. She’d known that—a few times a month, at least—Mary Kathleen volunteered at a mission soup kitchen just down the block off Church Street by old St. Peter’s.
The mission concentrated on immigrants who needed support—on seeing that they were fed, first and foremost, and then offering information on citizenship, green cards, work and whatever else might be necessary for someone newly arrived to the country, searching for the American dream.
“Chef has given me a great big dish of shepherd’s pie!” Mary Kathleen said, nodding affectionately toward Declan. “Thanks to the generous soul of your brother Declan. Well, actually, thanks to the largesse of all the Finnegan family.”
“Oh, no, that’s all Declan. He makes the decisions,” Kieran said. “But I’m awfully glad. I know that we were all—and different family members have been through the decades—immigrants. I’m delighted we’re helping people.”
She looked around the spotless, still-empty pub.
“Want some help at the mission or whatever it is?”
“Soup du Jour!” Mary Kathleen told her. “It’s great—the Catholics and Anglos and Jewish community and members of several of our NYC mosques came together to fund it. All are truly welcome—and we do mean all. It would be great if you came with me! Super. People will love you. Oh, and don’t go thinking they’re all dirty, that the people who come in are sleeping in doorways and the like. Many work hard—it’s just a difficult thing to come into this country sometimes and instantly make a living, especially in an expensive city like New York.”
“Naturally,” Kieran said. “And yet we—as Americans, who really have it pretty good—like to whine!”
Mary Kathleen laughed. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my beautiful adopted homeland. But here’s the thing—people come here because we can whine. Complaining is the God-given right of every American! You just have to remember that throughout history, people have come here for a dream. And right here in good old NYC, there used to be notes on the doors of all kinds of businesses that said No Irish! We have to watch out for prejudice against any new group. People still come for the same American dream.”
“And even when we think we’re a mess, we’re still the best kind of mess?” Kieran said. She smiled. Mary Kathleen was going to be a wonderful sister-in-law.
“‘Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time,’” Kieran quoted. “Churchill, 1947, to the House of Commons—if I remember right!”
“Yes, except I’ve been told that he was quoting a predecessor,” Mary Kathleen said. “Anyway, the point is, people do come here for a dream. And sometimes, it’s damned hard to realize. In fact, it can be a nightmare for some. They fall on hard times.”
“Please, I hope you know me better than thinking I would be dismissive or mean in any way. I wasn’t thinking of judging anyone, really,” Kieran assured her. “I was just thinking...”
Declan suddenly strode directly between the two of them.
“Kieran was thinking she needed to be occupied—or she’d drive us all crazy,” Declan said. “Thank the Good Lord, Mary Kathleen. It’s a true kindness you can give her something to do! Go on, Kieran—dish out some soup. It is a very good thing to do. And when you’re done, if you’re still walking around like a caged cat, Kevin has to learn some lines for a guest shot on a cop show. You can give your twin a hand!”
“Cool. Of course, I’ll run lines with my twin,” Kieran said.
“Ah, yes, poor lass!” Mary Kathleen said. “You do need to be occupied. You canna quit thinking about that poor murdered woman and the wee babe? I don’t blame you. So sad. And they still can’t find out who the woman was—and they have no idea as to where to find the babe’s mother?”
“No, not yet. Not that I’ve heard about,” Kieran said.
?
??They will,” Declan assured her.
“Of course,” Kieran said. She took the large dish from Mary Kathleen. “We’re out of here!” she told Declan.
“Go forth and be bountiful,” Declan said drily.
She made a face at him again.
But he was right, of course. She was very, very glad to have something to do.
* * *
The folder that Richard Egan had given Craig didn’t yield much more than he already knew; the murdered woman had been found with no identification—no purse, nothing. She’d been wearing clothing with labels from the largest chain retail outlet offering budget-priced brands. There were literally dozens of the shops in the five boroughs alone. Her shoes had been the most common brand of sneaker. The hood she’d had wrapped over her head was a scarf that had most probably been bickered over and bought on the street.
She had been about five foot five inches in height, estimated age about forty.
The baby had been healthy and well kept—also wearing clothing bought at the same bargain-priced chain. The blanket covering the baby, however, had been hand knit. The creator had not signed the work in any way. Still, it was one of a kind.
The knife found in the woman’s back was equally common—sold at outlets across the five boroughs, the state and the country. It was a hunting knife with a leather handle and six-inch blade.
The woman had been struck so hard that nearly four of those inches had gone into her back.
There were no fingerprints found on the knife.
The bystanders had been canvassed for information. No one remembered anyone suspicious in the crowd; no one had seen who had thrust the blade into the woman’s back.
It was impossible—absolutely impossible, Craig thought. He tried to reimagine the crime, the woman hurrying away...