A Dangerous Game

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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