“Detective Kendall,” 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 Finnegan—nothing? 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?”
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, becoming a little warmer. “You must be really shaken. I understand that, and I’m sorry. For now, I don’t have anything else. But, of course, 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, “And, of course, I’ve spoken with both Dr. Fuller and Dr. Miro. I’ve told them all that I could, and they will be trying to think of any reason—other than who they are and what they do—that the woman might have come here.”
“I’ve spoken with Drs. Fuller and Miro, too,” Detective Kendall told her grimly. “And I’m sure we’ll speak again.”
“I’m sure,” Kieran murmured.
“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 thrust a baby into your arms and then run downstairs and be 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 on home, 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 crowd control; the body of the murdered woman 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.
They were in midtown, with 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 curiously to watch the police and try 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 even the rooftops, the skyline. Old skyscrapers with ornate molding 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, as well. 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 McBride before, not even a year ago, and he had been an amazing ally.
Doctors Fuller and Miro worked with city detectives regularly, and—nine 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 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. But, 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. You work with psychiatrists who spend most of their time on criminal cases. It’s a 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?” He didn’t believe her, she could tell; 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!”
Copyright © 2018 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
Follow Kieran Finnegan and
Special Agent Craig Frasier
as they investigate.
Who was the woman?
Where did the baby come from?
Can Kieran stay out of trouble when a lead
surfaces through the family pub?
A DANGEROUS GAME
by Heather Graham.
Available March 13, 2018,
from MIRA Books.
Keep reading for an excerpt from APPALACHIAN PREY by Debbie Herbert.
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Appalachian Prey
by Debbie Herbert
Chapter One
Moonshine again...seriously?
Hidden caches had turned up everywhere in her father’s cabin. No surprise there. Lilah snatched two plastic jugs from the back utility room and marched to the kitchen, intent on pouring the illegal hooch down the drain. Corn liquor had destroyed her parents’ marriage and her dad’s liver. Would have killed him, too, if he hadn’t been murdered a week ago.
Unexpected tears blurred her vision as she unscrewed the lid on one of the jugs and poured the liquid poison into the chipped enamel sink. Not that she and Dad had been all that close in recent years, but still, the man had been her father. Lilah tipped the jug. Glug, glug, glug...a hundred dollars’ worth gone. Could have bought a used college textbook with that money.
She blinked and gazed out the open window. The cabin was nestled in the foothills, with rolling mountains standing sentinel in all directions like a green fortress. A deceptive beauty, as though the price for living in such a visual feast meant being taxed with rampant poverty and violence. Dad’s death was the latest evidence of that.
Whoever said you can’t go home again was dead wrong. After a mere week, Lilah felt like she’d never left Lavender Mountain. Memories washed over her, most of them unpleasant—her parents’ screaming matches, brutally cold nights where they’d all huddled in front of the fireplace. But it hadn’t been all bad. Some days, wandering the woods with her older siblings, Jimmy and Darla, had been magical.
A faint scrape of boots on leaves and pine straw jarred her senses. Someone approached.
Lilah stilled, picturing in her mind’s eye the open front door and windows. Had the murderer returned? She fought the instinct to flee to the back bedroom and lock herself in. Probably just one of Dad’s old customers who hadn’t gotten the word yet.
Quickly, she raced across the rugged pine floorboards to the den. Through the battered screen door emerged the silhouette of a tall bearded man dressed in denim overalls. What mountain had he just climbed down from? Lilah sprinted to the door and latched the rusty lock into place. A joke of a defense. She reached for the weapon always propped by the door frame, and her right hand curled around the barrel of the twelve-gauge shotgun, its metal smooth, familiar and comfortable.
And loaded.
“What you want?” she called out in her fiercest voice.
The man didn’t appear the least bit intimidated as he shuffled forward, his foot on the first porch step. “I got bizness with Chauncey Tedder.”
“Guess you could say my dad’s out of business,” she said, sliding the shotgun next to her hip.
He climbed the second step. One more and he would be within six feet of where she stood. He swayed and squinted, peering into the room. Lilah was painfully aware he could see straight into the little kitchenette.
“Looks to me like you got some ’shine in there,” he boomed. “Go git me a jug afore I get really riled.”
She didn’t aim to find out what the stranger was like “really riled.” This place was well out of range for anyone to hear if she screamed, and Dad was shot not far from the cabin. Lilah unhitched the lock and kicked open the screen door. She drew the shotgun up to shoulder level, finger twitching at the trigger. “I repeat—this place is closed for business. I’d appreciate you spreading the word.”
“Whoa, little missy.” He threw up his hands and backed away. “Don’t mean ya no harm.”
He tripped on the step and took a tumble. Oomph.
Chagrined, Lilah bit her lip and lowered the shotgun. “You okay there?”
He rose, brushing dirt off his overalls. “I reckon. You sure are a touchy thing. Best be gettin’ on my way.” With one last sorrowful glance at the jugs on the kitchen counter, he ambled away, gingerly limping on his right foot.
What the hell.
She returned inside, retrieved the full jug she hadn’t yet dumped out, and stepped out onto the porch. “Hey,” she yelled. “Come on back, you can have a jug.”
He shot her a wary look, clearly suspicious of her change of heart. But in the end, the pull of the moonshine outweighed his reservation, and he returned.
Lilah set the jug down at the bottom of the stairs and scampered back to the door.
“Same price as always?” the man asked, carefully pulling out a wad of dollar bills from his side pocket.
“It’s on the house. Just don’t come back, ya hear? This is the last of it.” Unless she found more while cleaning out the cabin. No telling how many bottles were tucked away in nooks and crannies.
A grin split his weathered face as he tucked the money away. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
He picked up the jug and gave a quick nod before walking across the yard. A sheriff’s cruiser rounded the bend in the road and turned into her dirt driveway. The man momentarily froze at the sight, and then took off running to the nearby tree line—more like hobbling with his injured foot—but almost quick enough to get out of sight. Couldn’t have hurt too bad, she mused.
The cruiser came to an abrupt halt, and a man started to climb out.
Lilah’s heart skittered, even faster than when the stranger had suddenly appeared at her door minutes ago. Could it be...
Oh, yes, it most definitely was.
Harlan Sampson. The man who’d quickly won her heart three months ago and then had dumped her twice as fast after a week of fun and games. Her left hand involuntarily fluttered over her stomach, and Lilah hastily jerked it away.
“Well, looky here,” Harlan drawled, eyeing the man carting his haul off into the woods. He faced her and pushed the dark sunshades up on his head, revealing the startling beryl-blue eyes that had enthralled her on her last ill-fated visit, which—damn it—still sent her heart pounding into overdrive. He walked toward her. “Looks like I finally caught a Tedder point-blank in the act of distributing illegal whiskey.”
“Wrong. I wasn’t selling. I was giving. Ain’t no money exchanged hands here.” Inwardly, Lilah winced at the slip into the local vernacular. It had been twelve years since she’d called Lavender Mountain home, but in times of high emotion—and now definitely counted—she lapsed back into the lingo.
“So you say.”
She pinched her lips together. “What brings you here?”
“Came to pay my respects, see how you’re getting on.”
Weeks ago, she would have flung herself on Harlan at those words. But not now. “I’m jim-dandy,” she replied, lifting her chin a fraction. “I saw you at Dad’s funeral. No need to come over.”
“I believe I owe you an apology.”
“Forget it.” There was no way she’d admit how much his silence had hurt.
His eyes smoldered, and he slowly c
limbed the porch steps, close enough now to make her breath hitch. “I can’t forget it. And I can’t forget you.”
* * *
EVEN GLARING AT HIM, shotgun by her side, Lilah Faye Tedder was a hell of a sight. Harlan drank it in—the long blond hair that tumbled past her shoulders, the elfin delicate face with the determined chin, the slight womanly curves of her body. He had tried to wipe away the memory of her, but with one glance, the old familiar pull returned. He nodded at the firearm. “Mind putting that thing away? Hard to talk to an angry woman holding a shotgun.”
A smile ghosted across her face before the hardened set returned to her chin. “You said what you came to say. Apology accepted.”
“C’mon, Lilah. Let’s talk.”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
With that, Lilah spun on her heel and entered the cabin. Not much of an invitation, but he’d hardly expected her to welcome him with open arms. The place smelled as clean and as fresh as the pine breeze that blew through the open windows, but with a touch of lemon cleaner. It already had the stale antiseptic look of a bare shell of a dwelling. No knickknacks or frivolities, just an old sofa and a couple of chairs.
“I see you’ve been hard at work.” He’d been here before. Chauncey’s old place had been filled with junk when he was alive.
“It’s all set for the realtor to list as soon the reading of the will is over. After that, I’ll head on home.”
Probably for the best, at least for his career. According to Sheriff J.D. Bentley, associating with any Tedder wouldn’t reflect well on him or the office. His boss planned on retiring soon and understood that he had ambitions to run and take over the top law enforcement job in the county. And as such, J.D. had driven home the point that he had no chance of winning the sheriff’s election if he was a known associate of the outlaw family.
Personally, Harlan couldn’t care less about the piddly amounts of money some moonshiners made. No, what disturbed him were the rumors that Lilah’s family had turned to the new Appalachian cash crop of growing marijuana.