TROUBLE ALWAYS FINDS HER...

Wrapping up a normal day at the office, criminal psychologist Kieran Finnegan is accosted by a desperate woman who shoves an infant into her arms and then flees, only to be murdered minutes later on a busy Manhattan street.

Who was the woman? Where did the baby come from? Kieran can’t stop thinking about the child and the victim, so her boyfriend, Craig Frasier, does what any good special agent boyfriend would do—he gets the FBI involved. And asks Kieran to keep out of it.

But the Finnegans have a knack for getting into trouble, and Kieran won’t sit idle when a lead surfaces through her family’s pub. Investigating on her own, she uncovers a dangerous group that plays fast and loose with human lives and will stop at nothing to keep their secrets—and they plan to silence Kieran before she can expose their deadly enterprise.

Also by Heather Graham

WICKED DEEDS

DARK RITES

DYING BREATH

A PERFECT OBSESSION

DARKEST JOURNEY

DEADLY FATE

HAUNTED DESTINY

FLAWLESS

THE HIDDEN

THE FORGOTTEN

THE SILENCED

THE DEAD PLAY ON

THE BETRAYED

THE HEXED

THE CURSED

WAKING THE DEAD

THE NIGHT IS FOREVER

THE NIGHT IS ALIVE

THE NIGHT IS WATCHING

LET THE DEAD SLEEP

THE UNINVITED

THE UNSPOKEN

THE UNHOLY

THE UNSEEN

AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS

THE EVIL INSIDE

SACRED EVIL

HEART OF EVIL

PHANTOM EVIL

NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES

THE KEEPERS

GHOST MOON

GHOST NIGHT

GHOST SHADOW

THE KILLING EDGE

NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

UNHALLOWED GROUND

DUST TO DUST

NIGHTWALKER

DEADLY GIFT

DEADLY HARVEST

DEADLY NIGHT

THE DEATH DEALER

THE LAST NOEL

THE SÉANCE

BLOOD RED

THE DEAD ROOM

KISS OF DARKNESS

THE VISION

THE ISLAND

GHOST WALK

KILLING KELLY

THE PRESENCE

DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

PICTURE ME DEAD

HAUNTED

HURRICANE BAY

A SEASON OF MIRACLES

NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

EYES OF FIRE

SLOW BURN

NIGHT HEAT

* * * * *

Look for Heather Graham’s next novel

FADE TO BLACK

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author HEATHER GRAHAM has written more than a hundred novels. She’s a winner of the Romance Writers of America’s Lifetime Achievement Award, an International Thriller Writers’ Silver Bullet Award and, in 2016, the Thriller Master Award from ITW. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America, and is the founder of The Slush Pile Players, an author band and theatrical group. An avid scuba diver, ballroom dancer and mother of five, she enjoys her South Florida home, but also loves to travel.

For more information, check out her website, www.theoriginalheathergraham.com. You can also find Heather on Facebook.

A Dangerous Game

Heather Graham

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Heather Graham Pozzessere 2018

Heather Graham Pozzessere asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9781474077064

Version: 2018-02-26

Praise for New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Graham wields a deftly sexy and convincing pen.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The vivid details throughout the story are conveyed with precision and planning.... Graham has an amazing way of bringing her worlds to life, and the inclusion of historical lore emphasizes the already exceptional writing.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Perfect Obsession

“Intricate, fast-paced, and intense.”

—Library Journal on Flawless

“Graham is a master at world building and her latest is a thrilling, dark, and deadly tale of romantic suspense.”

—Booklist, starred review, on Haunted Destiny

“Graham is the queen of romantic suspense.”

—RT Book Reviews

“An incredible storyteller.”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Graham stands at the top of the romantic suspense category.”

—Publishers Weekly

For my beautiful young cousin Ashley Westermark Stoyanov, and her husband, Alex Stoyanov, with love and best wishes for a lifetime of happiness.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Booklist

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

“Kieran? Kieran Finnegan, right?” the woman asked.

She was wrapped in a black trench coat, wore a black scarf that nearly engulfed her face, and held a dark blanketed bundle against her chest as if it were the greatest treasure in the world.

Kieran wasn’t sure when the woman had come in; the offices of psychologists Fuller and Miro were closed for the day, the doctors were gone, and Kieran had just about left herself. The receptionist, Jake, usually locked the office door on his way out, but apparently tonight he had neglected to do so. Then again, Jake might have already left when Kieran’s last patient had exited a little while ago. Whether Jake had been gone or he had forgotten to lock up, the door had been left open.

And so this woman accosted Kieran in the reception area of the office just as she was on her way out.

“I am Kieran, but I’m so sorry, I’m the therapist, not one of the doctors. Actually, we are closed for the day. You’ll need to come back. Both the doctors are wonderful, and I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you another time.”

And this woman certainly looked like she needed help. Her eyes were huge and as dark as the clothing she was wearing as she stared at Kieran with a look of despair.

“All right, let me see what I can do. You seem distraught,” Kieran said, and winced—wow. Stating the obvious. “I can get you to a hospital. I can call for help—”

“No. No.” The woman suddenly thrust the bundle she’d held so closely into Kieran’s arms. “Here!”

Kieran instinctively accepted it. Reflex? She wasn’t sure why.

It began to cry. And writhe. Of course. The bundle was a baby.

“Ma’am, please—Hey!” Kieran protested.

The woman had turned and was fleeing out the door. “Wait! Hey!” Kieran cried. She reached immediately for the phone, hoping that she’d be in time to reach the building’s security desk.

Ralph Miller answered the phone at the lobby desk. “Hey, pretty girl. What are you still doing at work? I’ve got a few hours to go, and then I am out of here. I hear that the Danny Boys are playing at Finnegan’s tonight. Can’t believe your brother snagged them. I would have thought that you’d have gotten out early—”

“Ralph, listen, please! There’s a woman who was just up here, and 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!”

“Oh! Gotcha! I’m gone.”

She hung up, then quickly dialed 9-1-1.

Emergency services probably couldn’t move quickly enough to help, since no matter how quickly they arrived, the woman was already on the run.

She was running on the busy streets of New York City where rush hour was a swarm of humanity in which to get completely lost. But Kieran still explained the situation, 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 were playing at Finnegan’s. To Craig, it was still a normal night—and a Friday night! A nice, normal Friday night—something that would be 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 all at the same time. 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—nice 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 rush hour sidewalk, 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, and the expression on her face.

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 rush hour 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 onto the sidewalk.

That’s 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 only a couple of years behind 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 of the Finnegan siblings had a form of red hair and blue or green or blue-green eyes. Kieran’s own were blue, and her hair was a deep red.

“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. While waiting for Child Services, Kieran was holding the baby, back up in the office.

Drs. Fuller and Miro worked with the police or other law enforcement. While not with the FBI, they were regular profilers and consultants for the NYC office. The Bureau’s behavioral science teams were down 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 just needed to be able to speak to someone to ask 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 citizen 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 her cable company. Kieran had only been seeing her a few weeks.

But the office didn’t always work through the police department, FBI or other such agencies. They also handled other cases that fell their way through happenstance or other circumstances—as in 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 shouldn’t; 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 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 again soon. That’s what babies did. They were hungry or wet or had gas or...who knew? 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 and had seen some shocking things—she talked to the baby. She made soothing noises, discussed her own uncertainty with a cheerful voice, and made a few faces here and there.

She could swear that the baby smiled.

Did babies smile this young?

She knew that those who knew—experienced parents, grandparents, and so on—claimed babies did not smile until a certain age.

This one, she was certain, smiled. She waved her little fists in the air and 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, and Kieran was grateful.

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 stabbed the 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’s 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 term 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 still...well, in her mind, they were just beautiful.

“It happened all so fast,” Kieran murmured.

Craig adjusted the blanket around the baby. Kieran thought she cooed and smiled for him, too, but it was hard to tell.

Smile...maybe 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, 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.

“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 death 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.”

“And here I thought you had the night off. Like it was one of those kinds of normal days for you when you were only going to work ten or twelve hours.”

“This one had nothing to do with me.”

“Hmm. If they don’t have some sick scum of the earth for you to be finding, Kieran will come up with something.” He was silent for a minute. “Actually, come to think about it, with what you’ve got on your hands already, you probably shouldn’t have gotten involved with a crazy Irish lass like my sister.”

“Yeah. Probably not,” Craig agreed.

“A bit too late.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“So someone shoved a baby into her arms, and then ran out and got stabbed. That the gist of it?”

“That’s the gist of it.”

“And it’s your case?”

“Not at the moment.”

“I know you,” Declan said, “and so I also know that I don’t really need to be saying this, but...watch out for my sister, huh? Even if she’s quiet and acts tough, you know she’s got to be really shaken tonight.”

“I do. And,” he added softly, “you know I love your sister.”

“I do,” Declan said with a slight smile. “I’ll go back and see the cook.”

“Sounds great.”

“Shepherd’s pie?”

“Always good.”

Declan started to head to the back. “Oh, sorry—you guys want something to drink?”

“I’ll get it,” Craig said, leaning over the bar for a couple of glasses. As he did so, Kieran came to his side.

“Shepherd’s pie. And—”

“Soda water, please,” Kieran said softly.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. Honestly,” she assured him.

They sat at the bar. Declan came back with dinner for the two of them; Finnegan’s was famous for its shepherd’s pie. It was a standard, almost always available.

Declan and Mary Kathleen both came behind the bar as the place began to wind down in earnest. Only a few patrons, just finishing up and paying their checks, remained.

“Anything new?” Mary Kathleen asked Craig.

He arched a brow. “Not since I walked in here.”

“Sorry,” she murmured. She looked at Kieran. “What was this woman like? Did she say anything at all that would give you a clue about who she was, where she came from—or about why she would leave a baby?”

Kieran frowned. “No. She didn’t speak that much. She said my name, and not much more.”

“She knew your name?”

“Well, surely no one would choose a random person in any old office and just toss them a baby!” Kieran said.

“But, she didn’t ask for Dr. Fuller or Miro, right? She asked for you?” Declan asked, frowning. He glanced at Craig.

Inwardly, Craig groaned.

Now everyone was worried about Kieran.

Naturally, he was worried, too.

“Did you let the doctors know what happened?” Declan asked.

“Of course,” Kieran said. “I called them...they had to know. The woman came to their office.”

“The whole city knows by now, I’m sure,” Craig said. “The street was crawling with reporters by the time we headed here. Hopefully, that will be a good thing. Someone out there might know who the woman was—and where to find the baby’s mother.”

“I hope so,” Mary Kathleen whispered.

“Okay, let’s clean up and call it a night,” Kieran said. She stood and started picking plates up from recently vacated tables.

Declan looked at Craig with a shrug.

Craig knew all the Finnegan siblings well—he was pretty sure that he knew what they all might be thinking: better get involved; make it your case. This is haunting Kieran, and therefore, she will definitely be haunting you!

Twenty minutes later, they were at Kieran’s apartment, which he had mostly been calling home as well for at least the last year. They still used his place now and then. Somehow—though he couldn’t remember the last time they’d slept apart—they were still maintaining two apartments. They really needed to get rid of one of them. His apartment was larger—they both actually liked it better. But Kieran’s was in the Village, and often more convenient when they’d been out for a night, and they had gotten into the habit of staying there.

More of his things were even at her place, rather than his own.

Not even the sushi bar/karaoke place on the ground floor of Kieran’s apartment building was still going, and the streets surrounding St. Mark’s Place were quiet, as well.

Kieran seemed really tired as they trudged up the stairs past the silent bar and to her apartment level. Of course, she was tired. She’d worked some grim cases with him—little could have been much worse than some of what they’d already seen, endured and survived—but it had to have been traumatic for her, having a baby thrust into her arms.

And seeing the woman who had entrusted that baby to her staggering down the street with a knife in her back...

He intended to give Kieran whatever space she needed; respecting that might be a need to curl up in bed with her own thoughts, praying for sleep.

He was startled when she turned to him with a grin. “Race you to the shower!” she said, and she was gone.

Racing to the shower.

He’d thought she’d be so exhausted.

Apparently not.

He followed her.

There were, of course, all kinds of ways to deal with strange happenings.

She was already naked, beneath the spray of water. He hesitated at the door, then left his Glock in the bedroom and shed his clothing.

He stepped into the tub. She was instantly in his arms.

Sometimes, people just needed to be held.

And sometimes, they needed more.

Her lips moved over his throat and chest, while her fingers danced down his torso. Her touch...the water...

He was instantly aroused.

They kissed and teased in the water. They lathered one another, intimately.

Then she laughed and moved away, escaping from the shower.

They’d long ago realized that for a man Craig’s size, making love in the shower wasn’t particularly erotic. It could be awkward, and slippery in the wrong way.

But heading out of the shower could be completely wonderful, catching up with another with clean flesh, sliding into a damp embrace with token pats from towels, and then falling down into the bed, the coolness of the sheets against the heat of their flesh.

Foreplay quickly became something urgent, something needed, something more and more passionate with each brush of their lips, with the intimacy with which they caressed and kissed one another, with which their eyes met, and they came together at last.

Craig loved Kieran; she loved him. There was no question about that.

It still amazed him how intense their connection could be.

Just as it amazed him that they could live together, sleep together, wake together each morning, and still find it so new and exquisite every time they made love.

He thought that she would want to talk as they both came down after a sweet and wicked climax; she did not.

She curled against him, sighed and seemed to fall asleep almost instantly.

He dozed himself, but woke when she moved. He guessed she hadn’t been sleeping at all.

She crawled as silently as she could out of bed, wrapped herself in a terry robe and headed out to the living room.

He followed, and found her looking out the window on what remained of the night.

She didn’t hear him at first.

He sighed softly. “Kieran?”

She started and turned to him. “Craig, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s Saturday—and you actually have time off. You can sleep as long as you like.”

“I was planning on sleeping past four in the morning,” he assured her. “Come back to bed.”

“I can’t forget that woman, Craig. I just can’t forget her.”

“I know. Come back to bed.”

“Kidnapping. That’d be an FBI matter,” Kieran told Craig.

“We don’t know that it was a kidnapping. Maybe the woman was the baby’s mother—or grandmother. Maybe she just wanted the child to be safe. Kieran—”

“Kidnapping,” Kieran said. “Craig, you know that poor little girl was taken from somewhere.”

“At the moment, the case belongs to the cops. The Bureau might be brought in, but right now, it’s not my call. We work hard to keep our relationships between agencies all nice and copacetic. I’m not running down there and demanding that we take the case. I’d be put in my place in two damned seconds,” he told her.

“But it must be kidnapping. You can talk to Egan, at least, okay?”

“I will speak with Egan—when it’s possible to speak with my director, I promise I will.”

“Really?”

“I just told you that I would.”

“What if he fights you on it? What if he’s dismissive?”

“I’ll fight back.”

“Really?”

“I’ll push and be obnoxious and call in all kinds of favors, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. I like it.”

He led her back into the bedroom and she slipped into his arms. Resting against his chest, she fell asleep.

He thought about his promise.

He hadn’t seen the woman, had no connection to the case, and in his life, he’d seen too many murders.

But he would keep his promise, and he was damned determined that they’d get to the bottom of what was going on.

The woman had known Kieran’s name, and she had brought the baby straight to her, and that could mean...someone out there would be wondering just what Kieran knew about the woman, the baby—and the killer.

And that meant that Kieran might well be in danger now herself.

* * *

It was her fault, and she knew it. Craig was up early.

She’d finally fallen asleep. But knowing she’d kept him up meant that guilt riddled her. When he got up to leave and head into the office, she got up to start the coffee.

She pulled out her laptop. She had a desktop computer at work but had it networked with her laptop—it was a good setup. It had often enough saved her from having to go back into the office over a small detail—a note that one of the doctors might need, or even something that she wanted to reread herself to help her with a case they were working on.

She often interviewed and provided therapy for abused women—and occasionally men. It was certainly not in the same number, but there were men who suffered from abuse. One of her recent cases, Harold Lenin, was certainly that man—he’d been given black eyes by his wife, broken bones and tons of bruises. He’d kept silent through the years, a sad, cowed, little man. He was learning how to live again, recovering from his gunshot wounds.

He wouldn’t receive any more of them. His wife had shot him while they were up on the roof. She hadn’t been familiar with the gun and the kickback had sent her over the roof—and down thirty-five floors.

A lot of the people on the street that day had needed therapy, too.

Oddly and sadly, there were many such cases. They were also working on one case in particular now in which a man had snapped—and killed his wife. An all too common occurrence. As it turned out in depositions from neighbors and his own children, his wife had physically and mentally abused him for years, striking him constantly in the head. Apparently, for a few decades, he—like poor Harold—had just taken it.

His lawyers were still trying to plea bargain his case. Was it self-defense? He had finally slugged her back. He was a big guy; she’d fallen hard across the room, struck the edge of a credenza and dropped dead.

The reports issued by Kieran’s office would be incredibly important in what kind of punitive measures the man would face. He had killed his wife, and the prosecution was arguing it hadn’t been self-defense, not by the legal definitions that usually set someone free in a courtroom. And women and children were far more often victims of this kind of violence.

Her cases were often very sad, and frustrating. Kieran could usually work really hard and with tremendous empathy and still go home at night. But this thing with the baby...

None of the cases in their office at the moment seemed to have anything to do with an infant.

Ah. What about Melanie and Milton Deering?

At the offices of Fuller and Miro, they were also working with a scary pair—a murderer and his bride. The question was just how much the bride knew about the murder—and if she had participated.

Yes, looking at it all, Kieran felt a bit overwhelmed by the number of bad cases on the books right then.

But nothing that might have to do with a baby.

Her newest case was Besa Goga. Her crime had been biting. She’d bitten the cable man. At the rate cable men actually showed up in the city of New York, it might be unusual that more people didn’t strike out in one way or another.

How had the woman known about their office?

“Who were you?” Kieran wondered aloud. “Why me?”

And then she wondered how the baby was doing.

Fine! The baby was going to be fine!

She looked at her computer again and then emailed Drs. Fuller and Miro, asking them if they could think of anything at all that might help figure this out.

Of course, maybe it wasn’t that much of a dilemma. People knew about Fuller and Miro—they were rock stars in their chosen field. Not that being celebrated by your peers meant anything to the general public, but the doctors were known for their talents and the way they helped law enforcement. Word of mouth. In the same way, people knew about Kieran. She had managed to get her name in the paper a few times—she felt lucky the police had helped her avoid the media last night.

The thing was, they weren’t out there in the same way as true stars or personalities—actors, musicians, artists, performers—but neither were they any kind of secret.

So what did that mean? Had that woman just known that getting the baby to someone in that office would guarantee police—and help?

Why not just head to a police station?

Kieran yawned.

It was Saturday. She could go back to sleep.

She headed to her room and crawled into her bed.

Two minutes later, she was up again.

She showered and dressed. She was tempted to call Craig, but she absolutely refused to allow herself to do so. No sense driving him crazy at this point, too.

She had the thought that it was too bad that—at this moment—the apartment was almost spotlessly clean. She might start cleaning spotlessly again. No, she would find something else to do.

But it was Saturday. For many places in the downtown area, it was a slow day.

But, Finnegan’s was a popular pub, the kind of place people were willing to take the subway or cab to reach, even on a weekend.

Perfect.

She would go to work!

She headed into the bedroom for her jacket and purse and then paused. She’d left the television on.

And she was staring at a reporter who was talking about the murder. And the baby. And she suddenly found herself sitting at the foot of the bed.

Watching.

Even though there was nothing the reporter could say that she didn’t already know.

* * *

Craig headed into his own office, determined that he’d call his director, Richard Egan, the minute it hit nine o’clock—even though he doubted that Egan ever slept that late, Saturday or no. But nine seemed a respectable hour.

He didn’t have to wait, however. Marty Kim—Craig’s favorite “kid” in the technical assistance division, stopped by his office, looking in. “Hey!”

“Hey, yourself. Working Saturday?”

“I am. Running some facial recognition programs and the like. I’m not surprised to see you.”

“You’re not?”

“Nope. Egan just said you’d be in.”

“He did, did he?”

Marty grinned. He was tall and thin with a great boyish face. Marty had no desire to be a field agent, but he loved analysis and could coax amazing information from any database.

“He’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

The supervising field director was in his desk chair, swiveled around to study the flat-screen television set up on the wall of his office.

It was tuned to the news. And they were rehashing the story over and over again, as they tended to do. A reporter was standing on the street in front of Kieran’s office building in Midtown, telling her audience that as of yet, the police had no identification on either the woman or the infant.

Egan looked at Craig. “It’s not a major election year. This poor woman’s murder and the abandoned baby have become a media obsession.”

“Yes, sir. That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.”

Egan nodded, then shook his head.

“Kieran is involved. Then again, Craig, she’s not. The baby was handed to her, but that’s where it ends. Child Services has the baby. She’s out of it now.”

“But she’s not. The press doesn’t have this, and I hope that they don’t wind up with it, but when the murdered woman gave Kieran the baby, she asked for Kieran by name. This woman went up to the offices of Fuller and Miro at a time when she knew they were closing down. And she knew Kieran by name, and possibly knew she was usually the last one out.”

Egan turned his attention back to the television. The anchor was showing pictures of the baby, and a sketch that had been done of the dead woman by the NYPD composite artists, showing her as she might have looked in life. Craig figured it was a good idea—getting the picture out there might be their best way and only hope for an identification.

“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...

Someone must have seen something. They were afraid. Or it had been so swift an act that they hadn’t even understood what they had seen. Maybe, when people thought about it...

He set the folder down, frustrated. There was a tap at his open door. He looked up. His partner, Mike Dalton, stood in the doorway.

“So I come back from a glorious vacation to you and Kieran stirring up the neighborhood again,” he said drily. “You missed me, huh?”

“I did miss you, Mike. I always miss you when we’re apart,” Craig said, grinning. “I’m sure you heard about the news-making events.”

“I did. Murder and mummies. Creepy!”

Craig pressed his lips into a tight line and nodded. “I worked the case with an old friend, guy named Micah Fox, and one of my cousins—mostly their case. A man they both admired had been killed in Egypt—a mentor. Weird case for sure, but...hey, yeah. I’m glad you’re back!” Mike was a great partner. Ten years Craig’s senior, he’d been the one to really show Craig the ropes. They both had the same sense of moral duty, of right and wrong, and a way of thinking together that had gotten them through many a situation.

“I read all about your mummies,” Mike told him. He shuddered. “And saw it all over the news. Mummies! Glad you did that one without me. Actually...well, hell, this one sounds pretty bad. A woman stabbed, during rush hour, in the street, and no one saw it, no one can say anything?”

Craig pushed the folder toward him. “This is what they have. Autopsy coming up in a few hours. I was trying to catch up on all the reading first.”

“Good, we’ll share the reports.”

“Thanks for getting here on Saturday—and so damned early.”

“Hey, nothing like a good autopsy to get you right back into it all, right?”

* * *

Mary Kathleen had been right about the people who arrived at Soup du Jour.

Most were clean and decently clad, and between them, they seemed to speak every language known to man, and yet they all seemed to get on with one another, as well.

The space where the multi-faith organization operated had once been a giant textile factory. The machinery was long gone. Big old windows covered half the wall space—a great early effort in solar power, using daylight to see and work—and they still let in a glow of beautiful, natural light, though, of course, it was now enhanced by electrical power within. The rest of the walls were covered with posters, fliers and more—all to help men and women find apartments, jobs, day care and various other kinds of assistance.

The facility had a massive kitchen and a delivery area that was nearly as large. It had a massive dining hall with wood-plank tables, and on each side of the main room were large hallways that offered restrooms and showers—along with soap and razors and other basic toiletries, donated by various large corporations.

It was really a big enterprise—and it was astonishing the way that it was run.

People of every religion, ethnicity, color, creed, sex—whatever!—seemed to get along and pull together, and do it well.

Those working the food bank seemed to come from all walks of life: there were businessmen and -women, nuns, fathers, rabbis and imams, young and old, every color of humanity.

Kieran had come to give herself something to do. She discovered, instead, that she was in awe of Mary Kathleen and all that the volunteers tried to do at Soup du Jour.

“This is truly just incredible,” she told Mary Kathleen. “You’ve been doing this and I didn’t even know. It’s wonderful.”

“Oh, I do a day a week. That’s the great power of the place—they literally have hundreds of people who can come a day or two a week and we’ll do our best to cover for each other and that kind of thing,” Mary Kathleen said. “I was lucky. I had friends to help me when I arrived here in the city. My family in Ireland knew your family here. I’m actually doing well. But I am an immigrant, and I was able to see how hard life could be for others who didn’t have family and friends in the US—especially those fleeing poverty or war-torn countries. Anyway, I’m glad you like it!”

“Like it? I’m amazed. We get so much bad news—this is great!”

“People actually can get along working together,” Mary Kathleen agreed. She laughed softly. “Okay, so we have police officers among our friends here, too. If anything were to ever get rough or violent in any way, whoever caused trouble would be out on their ears in a flash! But I’ve been at this about a year and a half. So far, nothing bad has ever happened. People are really just trying to help each other.”

Within an hour, Kieran had come to know a ninety-six-year-old nun with a quick wit, salty tongue and empathy that brought people sweeping around her; a striking dancer from a Broadway play—who happened to know Kevin; a Wall Street broker; a stage designer; and a Penobscot Indigenous American girl with the most gentle voice she’d ever heard.

Kieran completely forgot she was there merely to keep herself occupied. She felt honored to be helping out in such a tangible way, and she was fascinated with the people she met working the food bank—and with those who came for food.

They were from the Middle East and the Far East, Russia, the Ukraine, Poland, England, France, Nigeria, Ethiopia, Argentina, Haiti and more. She realized that she was quickly learning a smattering of words—mainly please and thank you—in French, Creole, Spanish and what she was pretty sure was Russian.

People were grateful—so grateful. She was almost embarrassed; she had done so little.

The shepherd’s pie from Finnegan’s had disappeared in the first fifteen minutes, but many chefs and cooks volunteered their time, and there was a constant flow of food.

There were a few unwashed bodies, but Sister Teresa—Kieran’s newfound feisty friend—was quick to point out where showers and clothing could—and not should but must—be found. Sister Teresa fed everyone—they could bathe after they ate, but if they expected to find friends with whom to dine in the future, they had best do so!

Kieran was on her way to the kitchen for a refill on the actual soup pot when she realized that a group of young women was watching her.

Talking about her? They definitely looked at her—and went silent—as she walked by.

They seemed to be of different nationalities—two of the women appeared to be East Indian, three were black, and two were blue-eyed blondes, possibly of Nordic descent. Or Russian. She was friends with some really beautiful light-haired and light-eyed Russian women. Then, of course, the world was a wonderfully mixed-up place, so anyone could be from just about anywhere and have any combination of features: light hair, dark hair, skin, and so on.

She walked by, and then became curious, hurrying back to find them.

At first, she couldn’t see them at all. The group had dispersed.

And then she saw one woman moving through a crowd, but turning back now and then to see what was behind her.

Yes, it was one of the women who had been in the group—and now she was watching rather warily for just where Kieran might be.

Kieran was certain then that they had realized she’d noticed them as they had been watching her.

The woman stood still for a moment; she was tall, ebony and regal in her bearing. She made eye contact with Kieran, and then turned away quickly.

“Hey!”

Kieran raced after her, but the woman slipped into the crowd. As Kieran made her way through people, excusing herself, she simply disappeared.

“What the heck?” she murmured.

“Kieran!”

She turned around quickly, aware that Mary Kathleen was calling to her.

“The soup—did you get the soup?”

“No! I’m so sorry. I—”

“They call it a soup kitchen because we hand out soup. Rich, delicious soup, full of beef and vegetables and good things to help people make it through the day.”

“Yes, yes, I know! I will get it, right away. Honestly. Mary Kathleen, do you know that group of young women who were over there?”

“What group?”

“The group that was standing over there.”

“Where are they now?” Mary Kathleen asked. “And you didn’t get the soup because a group of women was standing over there?”

Mary Kathleen was looking at her with perplexity.

“Sorry, sorry, I told you, I promise—I’ll get the soup. Mary Kathleen, I need to know who they were. They were staring at me.”

Mary Kathleen looked at Kieran, and then looked down. She was silent for a minute before she met Kieran’s eyes again. “Kieran, I’m not meaning to be cruel or rude with these words, but...it’s just not always about you.”

Kieran let out a sigh. “No, no...they were really looking at me, talking about me.”

“But you don’t know where they are now?”

“They scattered.”

“Maybe they just left,” Mary Kathleen said softly. “Maybe they actually managed to have some soup—and then they left. It’s what people do. We have showers here, but no beds. It’s not a hostel. People come, dine, sometimes bathe—and then leave.”

“But...”

Kieran’s voice trailed. Mary Kathleen was staring at her sorrowfully—and worriedly.

“Oh, Kieran!” Mary Kathleen said softly. “Aye, indeed, that woman last night came to you—used your name. But that does not mean that the rest of the world is watching you or whispering about you. You have to know that, right?”

Mary Kathleen was not going to believe her—no matter what she said. And now her almost-sister-in-law was worried about her. And she would tell Declan that she was worried about her. Declan would tell Craig. Craig would try very hard to keep her out of everything.

She let out an inward growl of absolute aggravation.

But she smiled at Mary Kathleen.

“Yeah, you must be right. Crazy, huh?” Kieran assured her.

And maybe she had imagined that she was being watched. Maybe the women had just moved on.

“I’ll get the soup,” she told Mary Kathleen.

She turned to head into the kitchen and almost plowed into a man.

He was about six foot two in height, sturdy in build. His eyes were almost like coal; his facial hair was dark, as well, though his head was shaved clean.

He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. She was certain that he would speak to her in a foreign language.

He did not. When he spoke, his English was perfect. Unaccented.

“I’m so sorry. I believe I nearly knocked you over.”

“No, my fault,” she said quickly. “Excuse me. I have to get more soup.”

“Of course,” he said.

She hadn’t seen him working the food bank—but neither did he seem like someone who would be in the food line.

But she’d seen other people there today who had come to see about hiring help for restaurants or other venues. There was some job placement support through the organization, who vetted possible employers so that no one was hired illegally or put in a position where they might find themselves deported.

Maybe this guy had a swanky restaurant somewhere and was looking for servers, cooks, busboys or -girls, and dishwashers.

There were all kinds of agencies to check up on what people were really doing, and they were ready, willing and able to connect people. But at the soup kitchen they only stepped in if their help was requested, since if they asked questions about the hungry men and women who visited, they might be scared off—and then not feel comfortable enough to come back.

Kieran headed into the kitchen, smiling at the mustached chef from a SoHo Italian restaurant, who offered her another big pot of the soup.

They chatted for a minute, then she turned to bring the soup out to be served.

The dark-haired man was watching her. He didn’t look away. He smiled, and it wasn’t an entirely nice smile. Then he headed out of the facility.

Kieran felt a shiver race through her.

Who the hell was that man? And who were the women? Had they really been whispering about her, watching her?

Should she trust her gut that something was not quite right? Or did she just need to get over herself?

CHAPTER FOUR

The Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, or OCME, for New York City handled thousands of cases a year. Between Manhattan and the other four boroughs of the city, the population was massive, sitting at about eight and a half million, and in a population that size, quite a lot of people died.

Bodies weren’t brought in just because of murder; anyone who’d died alone was brought to the OCME, as were those who passed from accidental death or suicide. There were thirty-plus full-time medical examiners working for the OCME, along with another sixty-plus assistants and a multitude of support staff, such as forensic pathology, photography, criminology, lab work, tech, clerical and more.

With that kind of personnel, Craig hadn’t been expecting that the ME working the case would be someone he knew well. To his surprise, Dr. Anthony Andrews walked into the reception area to meet with them.

He, Mike and Detective Larry McBride had recently worked together during the “perfect” killings that had gripped the city. Young, energetic, detailed—Dr. Andrews was damned good at his job. Though Craig didn’t think there was much that the ME could say that would help catch the killer, he was still glad that this particular doctor was on the job.

“No one saw anything?” Andrews asked after greeting them. “She was stabbed in broad daylight—and no one saw anything?”

“The best I can figure it,” Craig said, “she was hurrying down the street. She was heading in an easterly direction. She had just shoved the baby into Kieran’s arms and fled the office. Kieran was running after her. She was, at tops, a block behind. Remember, it was rush hour—and that can mean a gridlock of people.”

“Someone snuck up behind the victim,” Mike said.

“Someone who must have followed her to the offices of Fuller and Miro,” Craig said. “The killer moved fast. Partner, you mind?” he asked Mike, taking him by the arm to move him around in front so that Craig could mimic the stabbing as he pictured it had to have happened.

He came up quick, hand strong on his imaginary knife.

“Then,” Mike said, arching, as if he had a knife in his back, “she swirled around. Possibly trying to face her killer.”

“But,” Craig said, “the killer delivered the knife without missing a stride and just kept walking.”

“Kieran said there were no screams—not until she reached the woman and screamed herself. She’d already called the cops and me...there was an officer in uniform there in a matter of minutes and a detective on the scene within ten. I arrived just about the same time as the detective.”

“That would be Lance Kendall—he should arrive momentarily. In the meantime, we’ll proceed as scheduled. One would think that the dead would wait patiently—which they do. However, their loved ones tend to be very emotional and impatient, so we do try to keep up. If you’ll follow me?” Dr. Andrews requested.

Craig was far too familiar with the OCME. The Manhattan offices were close to the FBI building which, in a way, made it too easy to be present for an autopsy, even when it certainly wasn’t always necessary.

Mike must have been thinking along the same lines.

“You know the French Revolution?” he asked Craig softly.

Craig glanced over at him. “Well, I know something about it. I’m not sure I’d want to teach a course on it.”

Mike nodded sagely. “They say that those who had to die, well, they were nobles, and thus they had to behave nobly—and so they went nobly to the guillotine. Madame du Barry screamed and cried and had a fit, and then the people saw how ugly it was. It was only after that they—the people as a mass—began to protest the sanctioned murders.”

“Good thought,” Craig murmured. “We’ve seen enough death. We could have left the autopsy to Lance Kendall.”

“No, I know you. We had to be here no matter what. It just always takes me longer than I’d like to get rid of the feel of this place.”

That was something Craig understood. They worked hard at the morgue—very, very hard. Every floor, every table, every instrument in the place was cleaned and cleaned again; antibacterial agents ruled.

And still the scent of death was strong.

They were offered paper suits and masks; two minutes later, they were in the room where there were actually two autopsies in process.

Their victim waited for them, tragically naked but clean, ready for the knife.

Anthony Andrews adjusted the mic he wore and cleared his throat. He identified their Jane Doe by date and circumstance and stated the date, his own work as the ME, Jerry Sanders as his assistant, and Mike and Craig as witnesses.

And he set to work.

Y incisions were, to the layman—and to Craig this many years into his work—little less than horrendous. The sound of the ribs breaking seemed extremely brutal.

But Craig was also passionate in his belief that the dead did speak. Autopsy was incredibly important. He believed in God or a higher power, and that when the soul was long gone, the body could no longer be hurt. But, it was still hard to watch sometimes.

The process today was the usual. Andrews and his assistant worked over the body. The organs were studied and weighed; samples of blood and stomach contents were taken.

Lance Kendall arrived sometime soon after the first hour. He stood as Mike and Craig did—still and listening. Craig hadn’t met Kendall before he’d arrived at the scene of the murder on Friday, though he did know many of the men with the Major Case Squad of the NYPD. At the crime scene, Kendall had been thorough and detailed—polite to Craig, and making no comments about not needing the FBI for a murder on the street. He was, Craig imagined, ambitious, but didn’t seem the kind to put ambition before results. Of course, Craig had no idea how the man felt about it all now that the case had been handed to a task force and the FBI was taking the lead.

“This is something you need to see,” Dr. Andrews said.

He was inspecting the corpse’s mouth.

They all moved over, one by one, and the ME pointed out the woman’s dental work.

Craig had no idea of what he was looking at—only silver fillings here and there.

He knew that Andrews would explain.

“I believe that this woman is approximately forty—though she does look fifty. She has not, however, recently borne a child, so the baby is not hers. What I was showing you, that isn’t American dental work, and it isn’t new. It was probably done more than ten years ago, and I’d say that it was done somewhere in Eastern Europe—a country that was once part of the Soviet Union or under the Communist bloc, most likely. Russia maybe, the Ukraine...but, then again, maybe Albania or somewhere in the former Yugoslavia. In other words, I do believe she’s of Eastern European descent, but she’s not malnourished. She’s healthy—just worn. I don’t believe she’s taken care of herself well—she’s probably faced tremendous stress to look ten years older than I believe her age to be. She’s worked hard—manually, I believe. Take a look at her hands. Possibly, she worked as a maid. We’re trying for an ID, naturally, through fingerprints. We’ll search through dental records, but I doubt we’ll find local records for her.”

“We are testing to see if she was related to the baby,” Craig said. It wasn’t really a question; it was an obvious action to be taken.

“Of course,” Andrews said. He looked at Lance Kendall. “As your FBI team members noted, the one stab wound in the back that killed her most probably occurred swiftly—she didn’t know what hit her. She staggered toward Miss Finnegan in the street because you instinctively turn when you’re attacked from behind. The attack was planned and fluid—that type of knife isn’t just in everyone’s daily purse or briefcase.”

“So our Jane Doe was followed to the offices of Fuller and Miro. And she went to those offices to hand the baby to Kieran Finnegan. Why?” Kendall asked.

“We don’t know,” Craig said. Andrews cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I’ve given you what I can. I’ll make sure you all receive a hard copy of the report. If we discover anything else on our end, of course, you’ll be notified.”

“What about ethnicity through DNA?” Craig asked.

“Well, we might be able to pinpoint an area of most likely ancestry,” Andrews said.

“That will be helpful,” Craig said.

“Of course,” Andrews said. “I’ll keep everyone informed on any information that I get. As soon as I have it, naturally.” He stared at them all.

It was their cue to leave. The three of them thanked him and headed toward the building entrance. As they did so, a man was hurrying in. He was very tall and lean, with tawny eyes and sandy hair. He was in a polo shirt and jeans and a jacket. Beneath the jacket, Craig was aware, the man was carrying a weapon.

“LeBlanc?” he asked. “Hank LeBlanc?”

The US Marshal nodded and intros went around. “So we have the whole gang. I imagine we’ll get a counterpart from Homeland Security before this is all over,” LeBlanc said.

“Good,” Kendall responded, his voice vehement. They all looked at him, and he shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get somewhere, working together. As long as we all keep it real—keep the contact going.”

“Sure, yeah. Of course,” LeBlanc said. “I, uh, I’m trying to see if I recognize our dead woman right now, if she might have been one of ours. Informant or witness. We lose them now and then. Except...”

“Except what?” Craig asked.

“She’s not one of ours, I’m pretty sure. I’m here because they want every t crossed on this thing. If she had been ours, we would have known something. Everyone in every local agency knows about this—we all know enough to know we don’t know a damned thing but that someone thinks they’re getting away with murder.”

“Not this time,” Kendall said flatly.

“Nope, not this time,” Mike agreed. “Hell, the best of the best, right? We’re all on it.”

Nods went around.

“We’ll keep it tight,” Mike said. “I’ll be the liaison between agencies—make sure we’re always all up to speed on what’s going on.”

LeBlanc thanked him and headed on in as they continued out to the street.

“So the woman—our dead woman—knew your girlfriend by name,” Kendall said to Craig as they reached the street.

“We established that the other night,” Craig said.

“There has to be a reason,” Kendall said.

“Yes, we actually figured that, too,” Mike said quickly, his tone easy, as if he was afraid that Kendall and Craig might get heated over the facts. “But, as you know, Kieran had never seen the woman before. Of course, we all realize that the woman knew about Kieran somehow—or, perhaps, she knew about Fuller and Miro and knew that Kieran handled a great deal of their therapy and exploratory work. She might have a reputation for having tremendous empathy—as someone who would take care of a baby.”

“And Kieran still can’t think of anything or anyone who might feel that way about her?” Kendall asked Craig.

“No. And it’s driving her crazy.”

“Might have to do with that thing in the subway from a couple of years ago now. Miss Finnegan was all over the news then,” Kendall said.

Craig wasn’t sure why Kendall reminding him of Kieran’s situation in the subway a few years back disturbed him so much. Actually, she had been meant as a target—but a young girl had wound up being pushed and nearly died a horrible death as a train was speeding into the station.

Kieran had caught her. And when assailed by the press, she just murmured, “Anyone would lend a helping hand.”

It became a temporary motto for the city.

Actually, it was a pity it hadn’t seemed to have stuck around longer.

“That is possible,” Mike said.

Craig knew why he was disturbed.

Damn it. The man was right. Maybe whoever this woman was, she remembered the subway incident, too. And she had heard of Kieran and...

If someone could save a baby, maybe it was her?

“I’m not sure it matters how this woman found Kieran. The thing is, she did,” he said gruffly. “But, that it was Kieran she found may not mean a thing. What’s important is that she was brutally cut down on the street after handing the baby over.”

Kendall nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a good thing your girlfriend is smart as a whip as well, warning the building security clerk, calling 9-1-1 and you. Because if you think about it—there were cops already on the way when the woman was stabbed. The killer might have seen them milling on the street. If there hadn’t been cops around and he saw Kieran with the baby, he might have taken the time to retrieve his weapon and attempt to kill Miss Finnegan, as well. After all, at that point, she had the baby.”

Again, Kendall was probably right.

Again, it irritated Craig.

“Yeah. Thank God she’s smart,” he said evenly.

Mike offered Lance Kendall his hand. “Detective, we’ll keep tight on this. The city is in an uproar.” He hesitated and shrugged. “A woman murdered on the street in the middle of a crowd, and a baby involved. We’ll be on it day and night.”

“Ditto. So, we learn anything, we keep one another posted,” Kendall said.

“Yes,” Mike agreed.

Kendall looked at Craig and offered him his hand.

“Detective,” Craig said. He accepted the handshake.

They parted ways. As they started walking, Mike punched Craig in the shoulder.

“Hey!”

“You know, men—and women—in different agencies can be jerks.”

“Yeah, they can.”

“Don’t you be the jerk, huh?”

Craig lowered his head with a half smile on his face.

Mike was right.

He was being a jerk. But a jerk doubly convinced that they had to find a killer—and fast.

He looked at Mike. “How’s your Russian?” he asked.

“Worse than my Spanish,” Mike told him.

“You don’t speak Spanish at all,” Craig reminded him.

“I rest my case. Actually? I’m kind of lying. I do speak some Russian. Had a Russian great-great-grandma who watched after me when I was a kid. Why?”

“I was thinking we might head out to Brighton Beach,” Craig said. They had a friend working at a restaurant out by Brighton Beach pier. Jacob Wolff had been born in America; his mother had been Russian and his dad had been born in Israel. He worked undercover for a division of the FBI linked with Homeland Security—his job was to blend in with the locals so that he could hear all the chatter. Russian mob operations had become a more and more serious factor to the city in the past few years. So far, he’d been able to warn the authorities in time to stop two car bombs and the assassination of a local councilman—all without giving away his cover.

He listened. And when people were comfortable in a place, they tended to speak a little too openly—dismissing a waiter as a nobody.

“What? You don’t think his friends will look at us and think, Well, hell, they’re FBI right off the bat?”

“Not if we go undercover, too.”

Mike groaned. Craig had done a lot of undercover work, changing his look drastically for each assignment. Mike was an up-front, flat-out, find-the-truth kind of a guy.

Dress up wasn’t his thing.

“So swim shorts and Crocs, huh? Enough to look like we’re wannabe beach boys, huh?”

“No one is ever going to call me a boy,” Mike said. He had Craig by a decade and was—as Craig liked to tease him—an old geezer in his midforties.

“Wannabe beach whatevers? Come on, we won’t really be working. I’ll buy you a fizzy drink with an umbrella,” Craig said.

“Don’t you dare.”

Craig grinned. “We’ll head to my apartment.”

“Thought you were mainly living at Kieran’s apartment.”

“Yep, that’s why we’re heading to my place.”

“Think you ought to call her? Let her know that the case is a priority for us and that we’re part of the joint task force?” Mike suggested.

“I’ll let her know,” Craig told him. “I just...”

“What?”

“I just need to try to figure out something to tell her that actually suggests we’re making headway on solving the case.”

* * *

“You know you did it. You can’t keep lying. You stalked her—you stalked her and then you killed her,” Kieran used her fiercest voice, trying to sound like a cop.

Her twin looked at her and arched a brow. He lowered his head, trying to hide a smile. “No,” he said simply.

“We can understand how it happened, how you must have felt—”

“No,” Kevin said again.

“She rejected you. You felt like an ass.”

“No,” Kevin said again.

“You were humiliated. In front of so many people.”

“No, damn you!”

Kevin looked up at her with fire in his eyes. “You idiots. Don’t you understand? I loved her. Whether she did or didn’t love me, I loved her. I would have never hurt her. I didn’t kill her, and when you get your heads out of your asses you’ll discover the truth. I’m innocent, and I’m done talking. I want my lawyer—now.”

“He’s not here yet. We still have time—”

“Get the hell out! I’ve asked for my lawyer and from here on out, we will wait for him to arrive.”

Kieran set the script down and looked at her brother with a smile. “Wow. Did you do it?”

“Nope. I am innocent,” he told her, and grimaced. “My character is innocent, at any rate. You see, he’s a rock star, and it really does look like he did it at first. The cops believe it was him—until they find a kid who was too terrified to come forward. She was actually killed by her stepfather. Because she totally rejected him!”

“You’re really good,” she told him, leaning an elbow on the desk. They were in the office at Finnegan’s. She was sitting in Declan’s chair. She’d returned from the soup kitchen with Mary Kathleen at about three, and Kevin had been there ready to run lines with her.

She’d popped into the back office to eat some fish and chips, and Kevin had joined her. They’d been running his lines for the filming that would take place on Monday and Tuesday.

“You’re pretty good at that emoting thing yourself,” Kevin told her.

“No, I’m not. You were laughing at me.”

“Just because you’re not a big black cop who used to be a linebacker,” Kevin said.

“Ah, but I love Arnie Westmore!” Kieran said. And she did. The actor who starred as the lead detective on the show Kevin would be filming was both strikingly handsome and definitely talented. He really had been a linebacker, too, with the Jets. She was thrilled that Kevin had scored a role on the show.

There was a tap on the door. Kieran jumped up, hopeful that it was Craig.

She had managed not to call him yet—mainly because she had kept busy all day.

It wasn’t Craig. It was Danny. He poked his head in and asked, “Am I interrupting the great flow of dramatic practice?”

“No, you’re not interrupting. Kevin knows his lines perfectly,” Kieran said, sitting back down. “I do believe he thinks that I’m horrible, and that I overact terribly, emoting here and there and everywhere.”

“Come on—she was trying to sound as tough as a linebacker,” Kevin said.

“Don’t kid yourself—Irish women are supposed to be tougher than linebackers, especially the Irish American kind,” Kieran assured him.

“Remember when we were kids?” Kevin asked Danny. “We weren’t supposed to hurt our only sister. And then one day Dad said, ‘Hey! If she pinches you again, deck her!’”

“Yeah, I remember,” Danny said. “But she was older than me—and she grew fast. And I was chicken. I never did deck her.”

“None of us did.”

“She was too scary,” Danny said.

Kieran made a face at them both. “And she’s really tired of this story!” Kieran told them firmly. “I was not a terror as a sister!”

“Well, it’s a good thing that you’re tough,” Kevin said. “Seeing you’re determined to get into or cause trouble at every turn.”

“I am not—”

“Sorry, sorry!” Kevin said. “Okay, trouble finds you. Your boyfriend is an FBI agent and you work with criminal psychologists. But, hey, yeah, trouble finds you.”

“This time, it actually did,” Danny told Kevin.

“But she’s going to let it go, right?” another voice asked.

None of them had noticed Declan when he arrived at the office door, arms crossed over his chest, expression stern as he looked at them all.

“I don’t know what you mean!” Kieran protested. “Craig might well be on the case.”

“Craig, yes, the guy who wears a Glock and knows how to use it,” Declan said. “Kieran, honestly, think about it—”

“Honestly! I am thinking. I’m not doing anything. I handed out food at a soup kitchen with your fiancée, and I’ve been a sounding board for my twin. I was happy to wait tables, but you were covered for the day. I am being an angel.”

“Fallen,” Danny muttered.

“I heard that!” she snapped at him.

The phone on the desk rang; it was Mary Kathleen out on the floor—Saturday evening business was picking up. It wasn’t crazy, but she could use one of them to help out.

Any one of them.

“I’m going,” Kieran said, rising. “It’s a hard life to bear the burdens of this family, but I am willing to give my all.”

She heard all three of her brothers laughing as she walked out. Shaking her head, Kieran went ahead behind the bar.

Mary Kathleen was hurrying about. She glanced quickly at Kieran. “Terrific, I’m heading out on the floor. You can manage here?”

“God help me, I hope so,” Kieran said. She was about to say that she’d grown up in the pub. It wouldn’t have sounded quite right. Neither of her parents had been drinkers. Tea had been mom’s go-to, and at best, her dad had a pint on a Sunday with his roast.

A pub could be so many things. In the old days, the men had usually enjoyed their whiskey and pints in the main room—women and children had often been banished to another area. But Finnegan’s had always been a place where food and camaraderie were the most important aspects of the business. There were hours during certain days when everyone there really did know everyone else.

However you looked at it, she knew how to handle a bar.

She knew a lot of their clientele that day, and it was nice to chat. They all asked her how she was doing, how did she like her “real work.” And, of course, she asked back about them and their families as she served up their fare: Larry Adair, whiskey neat and fish and chips. John Martin, a pint of whatever was on special and shepherd’s pie. Brian McMann, a soda with lots of lime and corned beef and cabbage. Jillian Boyle, white wine and Guinness stew.

She was moving about quickly and yet easily when the door to the pub opened just as the sun made a powerful streak down Broadway.

For a moment, it was almost like a religious experience. There, in the midst of the tremendous light, was a tall, dark figure with a sweeping cloak around it—as if a presence from above or beyond had arrived with a powerful force.

Kieran blinked, the figure stepped forward, and she saw that it was not a presence from above or beyond—and yet, it was still one containing a powerful force.

Sister Teresa was just outside the pub. She looked at Kieran for a long moment, grinned and turned away.

Astonished, Kieran stared after her. She frowned, wondering why the woman had come—and why she had turned away.

Danny was coming out of the office and heading toward the bar—probably looking for a friend with whom to chat a bit. Danny, realizing that he made one of the most garrulous and charming guides in New York City—if not simply the best, as he assured her he was striving to be—loved to find old-timers at the bar and talk a bit and then listen to all that they had to say.

She couldn’t let him get chummy and find a bar chair.

Swinging around the end of the bar—and nearly hopping over the little gate—she hurried to catch him. “I need you—some food coming out, drinks good for now, Brian probably ready for his coffee soon, doesn’t need cream!”

She didn’t give her baby brother a chance to protest.

She shoved him back, handing him the bar rag as she did so, and raced for the door. Bursting out onto the sidewalk, she was ready to run.

She didn’t need to. Sister Teresa—in her complete “penguin” outfit, as they had always called the nuns’ traditional habits—was waiting for her, studying the list of fresh smoothies on the menu of the fruit stand just a few feet away.

“What took you?” she asked Kieran.

Kieran’s brows shot up in surprise. “I’m sorry! I...you... I didn’t expect to see you. I’m so sorry. I guess you would have been uncomfortable coming in? The pub is quite nice—we have religious groups meet here now and then. Even a few rabbis!”

“Oh, honey, I have no problem going into a pub. Sometimes, when people see us, they get uncomfortable. I didn’t want to distress any of your customers, child, that’s all. Then again, it’s best to talk in private sometimes, too,” Sister Teresa told her. “And not be terribly conspicuous.”

“Yes, certainly,” Kieran said, curious—and anxious. She had felt that there was something going on at the soup kitchen. Sister Teresa’s presence here now seemed to solidify what she’d believed.

“And yes, sometimes it’s good to speak in private,” Kieran agreed. But, just how inconspicuous they could be—herself and a fully draped nun in front of the pub door—she wasn’t certain.

Sister Teresa waved a hand in the air as if reading her mind. “Never mind—I just don’t want people walking out on your lovely place of business. So, anyway, here’s the thing—are you going to be coming back to the soup kitchen?”

“Oh, yes. I was very impressed,” Kieran told her.

“We are impressive,” Sister Teresa said flatly. “But, may I suggest that you return sooner than next Saturday? You are employed Monday through Friday—Mary Kathleen filled me in on you, so I know—but we are open tomorrow, as well.”

“And I would come back because...?” Kieran asked.

“You have a way with a soup ladle?” Sister Teresa retorted sarcastically. “My dear Miss Finnegan! One of our young ladies—a very shy one at that!—asked if I knew you. If you would be back. I assured her that you would be. It is not at all nice to make a liar out of a nun. I am assuming she wishes to speak with you. And—since Mary Kathleen did fill me in on quite a bit—I believe this young woman might be looking to you for assistance, and help in what may be a criminal matter having to do with a beautiful baby girl.”

Kieran stared at her and blinked. “Sister Teresa, if you can tell me—”

“I can’t tell you anything. I am only suggesting that you come to the facility at about ten tomorrow. We open after the early masses—services and such for some of our partners of other persuasions—and we work until three or four. I’m also going to suggest that you be incredibly discreet—as I said, this young lady is very shy.”

“Of course,” Kieran said.

Discreet! Like standing with a nun on Broadway!

“Don’t dillydally,” Sister Teresa said, and for a moment, she felt as if she was dealing with Mary Poppins—had Mary Poppins decided to join a convent. “Get yourself in there early. It’s not like anyone has given me a timetable or anything.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what, young woman?”

“Of course, yes, I’ll be there, Sister Teresa!” Kieran promised.

“Excellent.”

The nun nodded sagely, turned and fluttered her way down Broadway.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Hey, what do you think? Maybe we should have gotten some surfboards, eh?” Mike asked Craig.

There were a few boards leaning against the wall in the Cranky Crab. The place was something of a tiki hut, large and sprawling, up on wooden pilings, and actually on the beach. It was large, with a seating capacity of about four hundred.

“Maybe we should have,” Craig said.

“I was being a wiseass.”

“So was I.”

The clientele of the restaurant was intriguing and included young women with cover-ups over scanty bikinis that didn’t really cover up much accompanying muscle-bound young males, all the way up to older folks, some of the men with traditional Hasidic locks and facial hair and some of the women in wigs or scarves and long black dresses that concealed them almost entirely. And there was every mode of apparel in between, as well. And still, the place advertised very importantly that it was completely kosher.

Mike was glad that the two of them hadn’t gotten carried away. They were in board shorts and T-shirts, just a couple of guys out to catch one of the first days of nice warm spring sun. It was that time of year when the weather could come and go quickly...winter not so far past that it didn’t whisper now and then about a return to cold and ice. They ordered light beers and a house specialty—borscht—and kept their conversation to sports. How about those Jets? And what was going on with the Yankees and the Mets? Of course, then, well, hell, they could talk about the Giants...

Mike went passionately into hockey as their food arrived. It was about then that Craig saw Jacob bussing a table and knew Jacob had seen them, as well. He headed over to their table, clearly ready to join the passionate hockey discussion. If they were noted by others in the restaurant, they were quickly dismissed.

Before Jacob walked away—after vociferously agreeing with every word Mike had to say about hockey, but quietly imparting plans—they knew to meet in an hour in a safe house about two blocks away.

They rose to leave; Craig thanked their pleasant waitress.

“Spasiba,” Mike said. “Do svidaniya.”

He actually sounded damned good. Almost as if he had an edge on the accent.

She smiled and returned his words.

“Thank you and goodbye,” Craig said. “A little Russian, huh?”

“It never pays to give away everything you know—haven’t I taught you that, kid?” Mike teased.

“A good lesson to remember,” Craig assured him.

They wandered the streets for a bit, and as they did so, Craig thought about the city and realized that he was a New Yorker through and through—passionate about his home. Prejudice had probably existed since Homo sapiens had first met another tribe of Homo sapiens. And it had seldom been easy for the different nationalities that had poured into New York, nor was it easy now. So many different nationalities and ethnicities came, and they often came in great waves. At the moment, one of the largest influxes comprised various Asian countries, but that didn’t mean that many others weren’t coming at tremendous rates, including those from Eastern Europe and many war-ravaged areas of the Middle East.

“Land of dreams and nightmares,” Craig murmured under his breath.

“Pardon?” Mike said.

“I keep thinking—I love this city. I love our country. We’re a work in progress, always, and we’re where you come to escape poverty, war, persecution, and so on. But I have friends working down in the Florida area who in their work have witnessed the tragedy of refugees drowning in the Florida Straits trying to get to the States on rafts made out of anything they can find. Other friends in Texas tell me about Mexicans and other Central Americans and South Americans who are taken for everything they’ve got by scammers charging impossible fees to get them into the country—and then deserting them.

“And then there are those who manage other rackets—as in selling beautiful brides to American men. Some of the guys are just desperate dudes. Some of them are sick as shit and happy to take in a foreign bride with no papers so that if something bad happens to her, well, she never existed.”

“Yeah,” Craig agreed. “There’s that.”

“Life—and dreams—for sale.”

“Okay, is it possible that we’re dealing with something that has to do with immigration, and God knows, maybe human trafficking or illegal adoption? No one has come forward,” Craig pointed out. “What happened has been in the news, on every screen in the city. A woman is dead—and a beautiful baby girl has just been abandoned.”

“So people are afraid to speak out. I think that we’re on the right track,” Mike agreed.

“Okay. So going with that, here’s a theory. Someone is trafficking young women. God knows—probably more than one ‘someone’ in a city the size of New York. Maybe they discovered the baby market on the side. Even good people—desperate for a child—might be willing to go the illegal adoption route.”

“But, no one has come for the baby,” Craig said.

“Well, not yet, anyway,” Mike agreed. “They can’t—if they try to claim the baby, there are a million questions. You think the mother is dead?”

“Possibly. I think that the woman who handed the baby to Kieran was trying to save it—and maybe because she believed she could somehow save the mother, as well? I don’t know. Maybe it was her way to stop everything that was going on. Hopefully our friend Jacob knows something that can help,” Craig said.

Mike shrugged. “I guess we have to start somewhere. But there are a lot of factors to consider, you know.”

“As you just said, we have to start somewhere,” Craig said. “And Jacob is damned good at his job—he’s taken down members of the Russian mob repeatedly without ever being caught. He has his eye on anything coming from Eastern Europe. And—through other contacts—he seems to have a handle on Asian crime and Central and South America, as well. He’s definitely our best help for some kind of help on this.”

Craig’s phone was ringing. He pulled it from his pocket and winced. Kieran. He hadn’t talked to her yet. “Hey,” he said into the phone.

Mike waved a hand at him dismissively and walked a few steps ahead.

“Sorry—I couldn’t wait anymore. I have to know—you’re at least on it, right?”

“We’re in,” Craig said. “I just...well, at this moment, we’ve still got nothing. No, not nothing. The autopsy did give us information. The dental records suggested that the woman grew up in Eastern Europe, probably the former Soviet Union.”

“See! That’s something already.”

“Yes, it gives us a direction, but we need to move along carefully with open minds. Theories are great. But we can’t put on blinders to other ideas—we need a great deal more.”

“That’s fine. You’re in. That’s the most major step.”

“Yes, so...what are you doing? Not going crazy? Not obsessing?”

“Not at all. I promise. I helped Mary Kathleen out at her soup kitchen, ran some lines with Kevin, and then worked the bar for a while. I’m heading home, though. I’ll see you there, okay?”

He didn’t answer her right away; she sounded far too easy with what was going on.

“Craig? See you at home—that okay with you? Oh, if you and Mike are working...did you want me to hang out at the pub and wait for you?” she asked.

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