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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.