“Ralph, listen, please! There’s a woman who was just up here. She ran out. Can you stop her from leaving the building?”
The baby wailed in earnest.
“What?”
“There’s a woman in black—”
“In black, yeah. She just left.”
“Stop her, catch her! Now.”
“I can’t hear you, Kieran. I hear a baby crying. A baby! Whose baby is it?”
“Ralph! Get out in the street and get that woman!”
“What?”
“Go catch that woman!”
“Gotcha! I’m gone.”
She hung up, then quickly dialed 9-1-1.
Emergency services probably couldn’t move quickly enough to help, since the woman was already on the run.
She was running on the busy streets of New York City, where rush hour meant a swarm of humanity in which one could get completely lost. But Kieran still explained her situation and where she was. The operator was efficient; cops would quickly be out. Child services would arrive.
But no matter. The woman would get away.
Kieran tried to hold and rock and soothe the baby while dialing Craig Frasier.
If you were living with an FBI agent, it made sense to call him under such circumstances, especially since he—like Ralph—would want to know why she was working so late when the Danny Boys would be playing at Finnegan’s. To Craig, like Ralph, it was still a somewhat normal night—and a Friday night! A nice, normal Friday night—something that was very nice to enjoy, given their chosen professions.
“Hey, Kieran,” Craig said. “Are you already at the pub?”
She apparently wasn’t good at rocking and soothing and trying to talk on the phone. The baby was still crying. Loudly.
“No, I—”
“Whose kid is that? I can’t hear a word you’re saying!”
“I’m still at work! Can you come over here now, please?”
“Uh—yeah, sure.”
Kieran hung up the phone. She didn’t know what Ralph was doing; she didn’t know where the police were. She glanced down at the baby as she hurried from the office, ready to hit the streets herself. How old was the tiny creature? It was so small!
Yet it had strong lungs!
Was the woman in black the mother?
She had looked older. Perhaps fifty. Too old for an infant.
Ralph wasn’t at the desk; Kieran heard sirens, but, as yet, no police had arrived.
Bursting out onto the New York City street in rush hour, she looked right and left. There, far down the block, she thought she saw the woman.
“Hey!” Kieran shouted.
Despite the pulsing throng of humanity between them, the woman heard her. She turned.
There was something different about her now.
The way she moved. The way she looked; the expression on her face.
And she didn’t try to run. She just stared at Kieran, and then seemed to stagger toward her.
Kieran clutched the screaming infant close to her breast and thrust her way through the people; luckily, she was a New Yorker, and she knew how to push through a crowd when necessary.
The woman was still staggering forward. Kieran was closing the gap.
“Listen, I’ll help you, I’ll help the baby! It’s all right...”
It wasn’t in any way all right.
The woman lurched forward, as if she would fall into Kieran’s arms if Kieran had just been close enough.
She wasn’t.
The woman fell face-first down on the sidewalk.
That was when Kieran saw the knife protruding from the woman’s back and the rivulets of blood suddenly forming all around her and joining together to create a crimson pool.
* * *
Babies tended to be adorable—and this baby was especially so. In fact, Kieran wasn’t sure she’d ever seen an ugly baby, but she had been assured by friends that they did exist.
This little girl, though, had a headful of auburn ringlets and huge blue eyes. Kieran had heard that all babies had blue eyes, but she didn’t know if that was true or not. Sadly, she just didn’t know a lot about babies; she was one in a family of four children herself, yes, but she and her twin brother, Kevin, were a couple years younger than their older brother and one year older than their younger brother.
Actually, this beautiful baby looked as if she could fit right in with their family. Each one of the Finnegan siblings had red hair and blue or green or blue-green eyes.
“They say it’s the Irish,” she said softly to the little one in her arms. “But I don’t think that you’re Irish!”
Talking to the baby made sense at the moment; FBI Special Agent Craig Frasier, the love of her life and often partner in crime—solving crime, not committing it—had arrived shortly after the police. The medical examiner had come for the body of the murdered woman and—while waiting for child services—Kieran was holding the baby, back up in the offices of Fuller and Miro.
Drs. Fuller and Miro worked with the police and other law enforcement. While not with the FBI, they were profilers and consultants for the New York office. The Bureau’s behavioral-science teams were in DC, and while they could be called in, the city police and FBI often used local help in trying to get a step ahead of a criminal, or in working with criminals and witnesses when psychological assessments were needed or sometimes when a child or a distressed person simply needed to be able to speak to someone who asked the right questions and put them at ease. Kieran did a number of those assessments before reporting to the doctors, and she worked with victims of domestic abuse and both parents and children when they wound up within the child welfare system—such as a teenager who had been assaulted by her own father, or a senior who was recovering from gunshot wounds inflicted by his wife. Or Kieran’s last patient today, Besa Goga. Besa was a sad case, abused for years when she’d first immigrated to the country, and now quick to strike out. Besa Goga was in court-ordered therapy because she’d bitten a man from the cable company. Kieran had only been seeing her a few weeks.
But the office didn’t always work with the police department, FBI or other such agencies. They also handled other cases that fell their way through happenstance or other circumstances—like the recovering alcoholic who was also a politician and doing very well with Dr. Fuller.
Kieran had called her bosses to let them know what had happened. Both had said they’d come in immediately.
She had assured them that they must not; the police were dealing with the murder, and child services was coming for the baby.
Dr. Fuller—who had looks as dreamy as any TV physician—was at an event with his equally beautiful wife and their six-year-old.
Dr. Miro was giving a keynote speech at a conference in southern New Jersey.
Kieran had convinced them both that she was fine, that it was just strange and scary. The poor murdered woman hadn’t been scary; she had touched Kieran’s heart. She had needed help so badly.
But she had called Kieran by name!
And that made Kieran wonder.
She sat out in the waiting area of the offices—right where the woman had come up to her, right where the baby had been thrust into her arms. She thought that the baby was bound to cry soon. That was what babies did. They were hungry or wet or had gas or... She just really didn’t have much experience. And she had no clue as to the child’s age! But with little else to do—and probably in a bit of shock herself, despite the fact that she’d now thrown herself into the crime-fighting ring for a few years—she talked to the baby. She made soothing noises, discussed her own uncertainty with a cheerful voice and made a few faces.
She could swear that the baby smiled.
Did babies smile at that age?
She knew that some people—experienced parents, grandparents and so on—claimed bab
ies did not smile until a certain age.
This one, she was certain, smiled. She waved her little fists in the air; she grinned toothlessly.
She even cooed.
“Hey!” Craig had come back up to the offices after checking out the scene on the street.
He nodded to the policeman at the door. Since Kieran had no idea what was going on, and since a woman who had been looking for her had just been stabbed to death, having a policeman standing guard was very reassuring.
She looked up at Craig, hopeful. Though, of course, she doubted that he or the police or anyone—other than the killer—knew who had just stabbed the poor woman, or why.
“You okay?” he asked her.
“I’m fine. I was handed the baby. I don’t think anyone was after me for any reason at all, but...oh, Lord! Craig, you don’t think it is my fault, do you? I mean, if I hadn’t chased after her—”
“Kieran,” he said, hunkering down by her. “No.” His voice was firm and—as usual—filled with confidence and authority. Craig had been a special agent with the FBI for a good decade. He always seemed to exude a comfortable assurance and strength—things she had to admit she loved about him. Well, along with rock-hard abs, a solid six-three frame and the fact that the phrase “tall, dark and handsome” might have been conceived just for him. He had hazel eyes that were like marble, seemed to see far too much and...well, in her mind, they were just beautiful.
“It was all so fast...” Kieran murmured.
Craig adjusted the blanket around the baby. Kieran thought she cooed and smiled for him, too, but, of course, it was hard to tell.
Smile, gas. Who knew?
“Kieran, that woman was trying to save this child. She brought her to you. You aren’t to blame in any way. I have a feeling that she was very heroic—and that she gave her life for the child. She might have stolen the baby from some kind of terrible situation. I don’t know. None of us can even begin to figure out what might have gone down yet. But I believe the minute she took the baby away from whoever had it before, her hours were numbered.” He was quiet for a moment and looked up at her. “This isn’t going to be an FBI case, you know. Whoever your visitor was, she was murdered on the streets of New York. It’s an NYPD matter.”
“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, of course, 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 think. 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-heist 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, and the officer who had been standing guard opened it to a stocky woman with a round face and gentle, angelic smile. She was in a 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.
She realized that she didn’t want to hand over the baby. She didn’t have a “thing” for babies—her driving 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 not now. Maybe in a year. They hadn’t even discussed it yet.
She didn’t fawn 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.
But 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 not that it didn’t appear the woman from child services was 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. And don’t worry, we take great care of little ones at my office. I won’t just dump her in a crib and let her cry. She’ll be okay. 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 thronging 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 that she’ll be fine.”
“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.
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 by 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 and 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 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 cards. “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!”
“All right, 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 around parameters, handling the rush-hour crowd around the body and urging her to get the baby back up to her offices—out of the street.
He was a tall, well-built African American man. About six feet even, short brown hair, light brown eyes and features put together correctly. He was around forty-five, she thought. He wasn’t warm and cuddly, but neither was he rude.