“She died of a heart attack, that much is perfectly clear,” Dr. Andrews said.
“So natural causes. She died because she was old and her body gave out?” Mike asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Andrews told them. “I said she definitely died of a heart attack.”
“There’s a but in there,” Craig said to Mike.
“Exactly—and here it is,” Andrews said. “I don’t know what brought about such a massive heart attack. She might have been terrified, she might have been threatened... I just can’t say. She might have even been given a tiny dose of some kind of drug to bring on a heart attack. At her age, it wouldn’t take much. Do they know if anyone was anywhere near her or not? Yes, she was old. Yes, the body faces wear and tear and yes, it can give out. Yet she wasn’t overweight, she hadn’t been doing anything more extreme or stressful than she did every day... I don’t know if I’m helping you out or making matters worse.”
“She was dearly loved,” Craig said, looking at the body on the gurney. There would always be something empty and tragic about seeing the dead at autopsy. What had been physical remained, and yet there was really nothing of humanity left in a corpse. A corpse was simply sad; it was a memory of a loss.
“I will get her fixed up just as quickly as possible. She’s to be taken care of by the folks at Murphy and Sons—they remain members of the church and take care of all the nuns and clergy. I believe the funeral is planned for Saturday. They have asked me to release the body by Friday, if at all possible, and I have agreed. That amount of time allows for my tests and for the official announcement of her death and for her extended family and friends to get here. She was loved. Her funeral, I understand, will be quite an event. A life well lived,” he said softly.
Craig thought that even Andrews—who spent his life working with the dead—had feelings about the degradation suffered after death, as well. But Andrews was a passionate man. He was fighting for humanity—this was his way of doing it, and as an ME, he seemed to do a damned good job of speaking for the dead.
A hell of a way to start the morning, though. He and Kieran hadn’t left the office until the wee hours of the morning.
She hadn’t even wanted to go then.
But the Marshals office was involved now, and they were good at protecting people. There was a solid understanding between the agencies and the cops at the moment. Human life—civilian life—needed to be protected. Especially when it came to innocents like Riley and Tanya. They were also witnesses; they were needed. Hopefully, they could help.
“She will be granted all honors. She’s going to be interred in the crypt at the church. That is high regard, indeed,” Dr. Andrews said.
It was Tuesday. Four days until the funeral. And at that event, they would need to have eyes everywhere. If Sister Teresa had indeed been murdered, her killer might attend. If the trafficking network had such broad reach, they might want to see for themselves who came to say goodbye to the woman.
But there were days between now and then. And since everything to do with the gang who had been working well beneath the notice of the city for years now had suddenly been brought to the surface, anything could happen in a number of days.
They needed to move—and quickly. It was frustrating when finding a direction in which to go was like finding a needle in a stack of needles.
“And now...to the next,” Andrews said.
He moved down a gurney and pulled back the sheet. Like Sister Teresa, this corpse had already received an autopsy. The rapid pace the ME’s office was working at was almost unheard of, but with so many law enforcement agencies involved and the city on edge—involve a baby or a dog and the masses always went wild—Andrews had worked through the night.
“Any ID on the man yet?” the doctor asked.
“All we have is Paco,” Craig said.
“Well, Paco’s prints are in the system,” Andrews said. “Our system. Problem is, we have his prints in connection with a number of unsolved crimes. Files have been prepared and emailed to you. We don’t have a full name for Paco. Oh, and he never went to the dentist. Horrible teeth. Don’t see how he stood it... As you can see, and as you know, death was from a bullet directly into the brain. You had pretty amazing aim there, Special Agent Frasier.”
Craig stood silent. He hated killing—but he hated seeing a victim die more. He tried to imagine just what the King was capable of that would make henchmen choose death over arrest.
“I’m glad they cleared you right away—and that all the media got was ‘potential victims of stabbing attack saved by a member of law enforcement,’” Andrews said.
“Yep. They could have held him up, kept him on the sidelines, taken his weapon,” Mike said, adding pleasantly with wide eyes. “And I might have had some new jackass kid to work with!”
“I’m relieved, too,” Craig said. “Thankfully, our people—all our people, law enforcement of every kind who arrived at the scene—were really good. I understand the media and I’m all for freedom of the press, except when too much information can get someone killed,” Craig said.
Mike made something that was almost a snorting sound. “Some of those reporters just don’t care—they’ll say or write anything to sell papers or get page views or whatever. If we hadn’t gotten those women out of there fast and their pictures had appeared in the papers...it might have been impossible to keep them safe.”
“Anyway, your Paco was about six feet even, two hundred pounds. Dark eyes, dark hair, possible ethnicity Middle Eastern or Hispanic, maybe Eastern European. Other than his teeth, he seemed to be in good health, and I’m estimating his age at somewhere between forty and forty-five. I’m having the stomach contents analyzed, but I’m thinking—I’m pretty good with colors and smells—he consumed some borscht not too too long before death. You’ll have more when I have more.”
“If they were calling the man Paco,” Mike said, “it’s possible he is from a Spanish or Central or South American background. But his stomach contents suggest borscht.”
“Yes, which actually makes sense,” Craig said. “We’ve figured that this ring is exploiting people of all nationalities.”
“I think you’re right—this doesn’t focus on any particular group of immigrants. It targets them all,” Andrews agreed.
Craig listened for a few moments longer while Andrews waxed on in medical terms Craig wished he understood; Mike excused himself to report the ME’s findings to their counterparts with the NYPD and US Marshals Service. A message from Egan alerted them to the fact that Riley McDonnough and Tanya Petrofskya had been taken to a safe house.
Then they were able to leave the morgue.
Craig found himself thinking about the two women.
Riley had nearly died.
But she hadn’t.
The two young women had told them so much about the operation. They appeared so fresh, sweet, young and lovely. And honest.
It was a crazy idea, but what if they weren’t? What if they had used the soup kitchen near Finnegan’s for some kind of meeting ground? Despite the fact that the police had managed to keep most of what had happened out of the news, maybe the info was out that Kieran Finnegan had been given the baby, that she had a friend—almost a sister-in-law—who helped out at the soup kitchen.
“What are you thinking?”
“That I’m nuts.”
“Why?”
“I’m suspicious of Riley and Tanya. That’s nuts, right?”
“An Irish immigrant who speaks Russian? Maybe not. And yet...”
“Yeah?”
“You just stopped that bastard from slicing her neck.”
“Maybe he thought everyone would be better off if she were dead.”
“True—but it’s a total shot in the dark. Still, we can get them checked out.”
“Yep. We’ll call Marty and get him looking up whatever records he can find, though most illegal immigrants don’t leave much of a paper trail. We can try with the Irish authorities.”
“Everyone living leaves some kind of a trail,” Mike said. “Beyond that, we watch Riley. And Tanya. We make sure they have no way of contacting the outside world. I’m sure that’s happening already. Suspicious or not, you can’t protect someone who is corresponding with other people—no matter who they are.”
“Good point. I’ll voice these concerns to Egan.”
“And keep a good eye on Kieran,” Mike added.
“That goes without saying.”
Craig had left Kieran at the FBI offices, so she would now be at the safe house. It was, Craig thought, one of the best in the city—situated in the heart of Manhattan and right next to a police station. There was a back entrance through a Chinese laundry; the laundry was actually owned by the Bureau. Riley and Tanya seemed to feel secure and as if they had made the right move—perhaps the only move that would have kept them alive. Craig knew—as did Egan—that they were more comfortable with Kieran around, not to mention that Kieran’s job was to talk and counsel and coax a person’s true thoughts and feelings to the fore.
At least, that’s what he saw her job as being...
He’d heard Declan tease Kieran, telling her that although he hadn’t been through the same training she’d received, some nights when he was behind the bar, his job wasn’t much different from hers. Certainly, her hours behind the bar at Finnegan’s had prepared her when it came to sitting back and listening to tall tales.
She was very good at her job, he knew. Because she honestly liked and cared about people.
Which, for some reason, made it all the scarier when he was worried about her. Maybe she wasn’t as naturally suspicious as he was.
When they arrived at the safe house, they discovered that Egan had come with Riley and Tanya and several members of the police force. McBride, Kendall and David Beard’s new partner, Detective Randy Holmes, were there, along with Jacob Wolff and a few other men and women from the NYC offices of the FBI.
David Beard, Holmes explained quietly, was out on the street. They were trying to cover as much ground and gather as much information as possible.
“And we’re having Wolff interpret for Tanya. He’s on the case, deeply involved, and safe enough with his undercover persona here.”
“I can vouch for Wolff,” Craig agreed.
Everyone there, no matter what their office or agency, appeared to be somber and determined, even those not investigating, but who had drawn guard duty for a shift.
Egan sat quietly at a table on the far side of the room.
The officers were hovering in the kitchen. From there—over a little open counter—they could observe the living room of the apartment. Kieran was there in a wingback chair. Riley was across from her, reclining on the sofa. Her eyes were closed. She was listening to whatever questions Kieran was asking, frowning now and then, and replying.
Jacob Wolff nodded to Craig and Mike, his expression serious, almost grim.
“She’s very good with people, your Miss Finnegan,” he said.
Craig nodded, not at all sure how Kieran would like being called “his” Miss Finnegan. Then again, she would probably just shrug.
“She is very good,” he said, aware of the note of pride in his voice.
“Egan thought she should try speaking with both of them separately, and then together,” Jacob said. “They might say things alone that they might not say in front of the other, and then again, after, they might build upon what each is saying.”
“He probably made a good call,” Mike murmured.
“This whole thing is...bad. Really bad,” Wolff said. He was watching the conversation between the two women as he spoke. “This young lady, Riley... Miss Finnegan has coaxed her into remembering the last place she was kept. She says that she could smell fish, and yes, she was certain—she was from a fishing village in Ireland, after all. And then she said that she could hear a whistle. A regular whistle, sounding at about midnight, and then six in the morning, noon, six and then midnight again.”
“And you know the whistle?” Craig asked him.
“I do. It sounds every day at the Victory Shipyards, right on the river.”
“I know the area,” Craig said. “There’s a fish market just down from it, so if she smells fish, and she hears the whistle...somewhere between the two?”
Wolff nodded. “I’m envisioning the area,” he said.
“You don’t need to envision—we can do better than that,” Craig assured him. He dialed Marty at the office.
Within minutes, Marty had provided, via email, a detailed map of the area along with lists of building owners and renters and users. Craig was still studying the map when Riley suddenly spoke up.
“Pizza!” she said.
“Pizza?” Kieran asked.
“Italian food,” Wolff murmured.
“Oh, aye, indeed. Pizza! I do love Italian food! And I could smell pizza cooking some days, I’m quite certain,” Riley said enthusiastically.
Craig looked at his map. He found a pizza restaurant.
“Give me a minute,” he said, pulling out his phone. He called Marty back, told him that Riley remembered the scent of pizza, and that he was pretty sure he’d found—on his map, at least—such a restaurant. It was also by a warehouse.
“Let me get on it. I’ll call you right back.”
“Thanks. I’m going to head over to that area right now,” he said to Marty, and hung up. He turned to Wolff. “We may have something,” Craig told him. “I should have more information shortly, but for now, I want to take a look around where I think the pizza smell originated. Mike and me, at least.”
“And me,” Holmes said. Kendall and McBride both nodded; they were coming, too.
“And me. Let’s do it,” Wolff said.
Craig shook his head. “You can’t. You can’t jeopardize your cover right now,” he said quietly.
Wolff winced. “Yeah. You’re right. Let me know?”
“The second we have anything,” Mike assured him.
Craig turned, aware that Kieran had paused midsentence. She’d seen him arrive, and now, of course, she knew that he was rushing out.
Her eyes met his for a moment. He nodded to her, trying to smile, trying to let her know that she had given them a lead.
She tried to smile in return. She gave him a thumbs-up sign.
He hurried out. If they were lucky...
They just hadn’t been lucky yet on this damned thing.
Riley McDonnough had given them the location.
What exactly did that mean?
Or, did it mean anything at all, other than the fact that she and Tanya had escaped, on the run, terrified, and desperate to help?
He was halfway to his destination when his phone rang; it was Marty again.
“What did you get?” he asked quickly.
“You know how we’ve been doing extensive searches since we’re pretty sure that the King is operating under stolen identities?” Marty asked. “We might have found another dead man doing live business. And he owns a building there—right across from that pizza parlor place by the river.”
“Almost there,” Craig said.
* * *
“I’m Hank LeBlanc. And I work with Madison Smyth. We’ll be your friendly US Marshals today.”
The man who came over to introduce himself was tall and lean; he also had a personable, almost good-old-boy way about him. The woman at his side was a very pretty brunette with gray eyes and a sophisticated updo for a hairstyle. He was casual; she was all business.
“Hello,” she said, shaking Kieran’s hand. “We just wanted to come in now and say hello. We’re going to be the main protection detail once we get this moving.”
“Witness protection,” Riley whispered.
“Yes, we’ll be talking to you. There are rules if you want to be in the program,” Madison said.
“It’s not so bad, honestly,” Hank LeBlanc said.
“But it is serious,” Madison said.
Hank, who had hunkered down to talk to Riley, grimaced. “Madison’s a New Yorker. Me, I’m from New Orleans. She’s okay. I’m busy teaching her how to make eye contact.”
Madison let out a long-suffering sigh. “We’re just here to keep abreast of the situation, and to help out if needed. When the police have discerned everything you might know, we come into the picture. But we wanted to meet you.”
“She really is nice. Hard to tell, I know. She just has that schoolmarm thing going,” LeBlanc said.
Kieran smiled; she glanced up at Madison and saw that the woman had stoically and with amusement decided that she would tolerate her partner. She just stood quietly, patiently listening.
Then she winked at Kieran, and Kieran smiled, thinking it was a natural little bit that the two of them had going between themselves to try their best to make their charges feel comfortable and safe in their company.
“Tanya is in the bedroom, watching television. She’s learning English that way. She’s due to come out and chat with me for a few minutes,” Kieran said.
Did it matter? she wondered. Craig, Mike and the other cops—except for the undercover guy—had headed out. They knew something; they had a lead on a location. Somewhere by the river, where there was a pizza restaurant and some kind of a bell.
“I’ll get Tanya,” Egan said easily, rising and heading for the bedroom.
Jacob Wolff, the good-looking young undercover cop, came around from the kitchen, and in a few minutes he was engaged in conversation with the marshals and Riley. Riley seemed somewhat awed by Jacob, who was very kind to her in turn. Then Tanya came out, her hands wrapped around Egan’s arm. She still scared very easily, and was frightened of just about everyone. But she, too, seemed more at ease when she saw Jacob Wolff. Understandable, perhaps, since he spoke her language fluently and with the right accent.
“So, Riley, your turn to watch some television and Tanya’s turn to speak with Kieran,” Egan said.
Kieran looked at Egan. “But...Craig and Mike...”
“We don’t know what they’ll find,” Egan said. “Let’s see what else we can get here, okay?”
She was aware that Egan never counted on anything until it was a done deal. She felt restless herself—anxious. Riley had described a place that the detectives seemed to know. Probably Jacob Wolff was familiar with it; Brooklyn was his stomping ground. Then again, maybe it was something they had all figured out together.
“Are you okay to speak with me?” Kieran asked. Detective Wolff sat down next to her and repeated her words in Russian.
Tanya began to speak.
She was effusive. Wolff smiled and lifted a hand.
“She’s just fine with you. You’re a wonderful, brave woman. She wishes she could say so herself.”
“Please, yes!” Tanya said.
And so Kieran went through the same questions she’d asked Riley.
After a moment, Tanya did have a little more to add. She described the same surroundings. She talked about the young women who did nothing but cry; she talked about the way that language hadn’t been a barrier. They had learned to cling to one another. They became friends. They ate well enough—they could only clean houses or entertain gentlemen if they were in good health. And, of course, when they were going to have babies...well, they were treated very well.
She frowned and said something very softly to Wolff.
“What is it?” Kieran asked.
“She said that she believes that the babies were all born in the same place—the same place where they were kept. She could swear that she heard babies crying sometimes. But Tanya wanted to come to America so badly because her mother just had another baby, and she wanted to eventually bring her whole family. The other young women thought that she heard babies because she was worried about home.”
“How many young women at a time, Tanya? How many were kept in this place?”
Wolff relayed the reply to Kieran. “The numbers varied. Once a girl had a baby, they didn’t always see her again.”
Kieran tried not to show the shudder that rippled through her.
How many had been killed?
“Ten at a time...twenty?” she asked.
Tanya was thoughtful after Wolff translated.
She spoke; Wolff said, “Ten to fifteen.”
“Did they ever go out?”
“Sometimes, but rarely. Sometimes, and it was at night, and they were blindfolded before they were put into the back of a car,” Wolff translated.
“Did she notice anything when she was out in the car?” Kieran asked.
Wolff translated. Tanya answered in English. “Pizza,” she said. “Good...so good, the pizza.”
Kieran smiled. “We can order pizza. We can order pizza for you right now, I believe?”
She turned and looked at Egan.
“Of course,” he said.
He nodded to one of the agents; the man went out to get food.
Kieran thought that he looked at his watch; that he was too pensive.
Did he think that the agents should have called with information by now?
She didn’t know; Egan hid his thoughts well. So did Jacob Wolff, at her side.
But as someone went to get Riley McDonnough to come back out and join them, she thought that Wolff slipped—just a bit.
He glanced at his watch.
And he looked anxious.
And naturally, that made her worry, as well.
* * *
Craig knew from the moment they reached the building that they were too late.
Looking up at the edifice—a 1930s shell of a building with five floors—he could almost feel the emptiness, and then the enormity of what might have been. It was dull and gray, dingy from years of the pollutants that had spilled into the skies over the city before steps had been taken to slow down the amount of toxins let loose in the air.
There were no windows on the ground floor.
There were windows upstairs; they all appeared to have been blacked out—perhaps covered over with cheap paint.
It was quickly decided; Craig and Mike were going through the front.
Kendall, McBride, Beard and Holmes were heading around back. A slew of officers in uniform had been called, and they’d be arriving momentarily.
“Let’s just walk down the street,” Craig told Mike. “Check out the entry. It’s going to be empty. They’ve cleaned out. They know that their man Paco is dead—and that he missed killing Riley and Tanya. They’ve moved on. We don’t need a barrage of firepower.”
“Situation calls for backup, kid,” Mike reminded him.
“And we’re waiting. I just want to be at that door in case there is a straggler in there anywhere,” Craig said. “These guys must have the ability to move fast. We know it’s a pretty major operation. They seem to have the ability to move at the drop of a hat—”
“Easy enough,” Mike interrupted, “when you maintain a lot of property that really belongs to dead men.”
“Easy enough, but not for forever,” Craig said. “And they haven’t had much time this go-around.”
“They didn’t have much time last go-around,” Mike reminded him. He sighed softly. “These people...they have balls out the kazoo. This Paco guy just about asked you to shoot him. How the hell are they doing it?”
“I’m thinking family,” Craig said. “What is a man willing to die for? His children, his wife, his mother. Maybe they have some kind of hold over them. Hell...who knows.”
“Pizza,” Mike said.
“What?”
“You can smell the pizza—big-time.”
Mike had barely finished before the sound of an explosion ripped through the air.
To their side, the building seemed to burst into splinters and turn into a roar of fire that sent heat waves streaking up to the sky.
“Down!” Craig shouted, even as the force of the blast pushed them sideways.
He grabbed Mike, and the two of them ran like hell across the street as far as they could.
The world around them burned.
* * *
The fire went high and fierce—quickly. In a matter of moments, the shooting flames were gone, and the building was beset with just a few flames here and there.
Car alarms were going off all around.
Craig was on his feet, ready to race for the building.
“Craig!” Mike caught him by the arm.
He swung around. “Mike, what if...what if they left someone in there?”
“Oh, God,” his partner murmured.
Sirens were blaring. The fire department was near.
Near. Not there yet.
Some windows had been blown out—Craig and Mike were really lucky they weren’t injured...or dead.
“We gotta go in!” Craig said.
Mike didn’t argue. They hurried to the entry; the doors had exploded outward. Glass crunched beneath their feet.
“The basement,” he said to Mike. “The basement...it’s where they kept the women. If someone is in here...”
“Jesus.” Mike sighed. “We are idiots.”
“What if someone is in there who’s alive? Seconds can matter!” Craig pulled his shirt up to cover his mouth and nose.
“Then let’s go.”
Craig rushed in.
Mike plunged after him.
They’d searched the ground level, moving carefully across the smoldering floor, and were doubling back across the building when they saw a firefighter.
“Hey, you guys, we can take it—”
“Yeah, yeah, but we’re already in. Follow me, please!” Craig said.
At first, they couldn’t find the stairs. Then, Craig saw a charred sign. He tore for the doorway, Mike and the firefighter behind him. Racing down, he entered into a cloud of smoke.
He crouched low.
He saw the remnants of the “dorm” Riley had described. Sheets, feather pillows, half burned, here, there, everywhere, charred and in puffs of white-and-black feathers.
“Smell that?” Mike whispered. “That ain’t pizza!” he said.
No.
Only one thing smelled that way.
Burning flesh.