“James Bryan Baron!” Craig said. “We have to get to his family.”
Marty had provided Craig with a list of teachers who had not shown up for work. Since the area they were looking at was fairly massive, it had been a good-sized list. And while they weren’t completely certain that their burn victim’s name was really Jimmy, there was a possibility that it was. And it was all they’d had to go on.
James Bryan Baron was in his late thirties. He was married with children. His wife’s name was Lillian; his daughters were Mary, ten; Susan, eight; and Katie, just five years old.
Craig stood, nearly knocking his computer from his desk.
Mike, sitting across from him, jumped to his feet, as well.
“Okay, you think we’ve got our guy? We have to make a call, Craig. We can’t get out there faster than the local cops can. They may already be alerted—it’s more than possible that his wife reported him missing.”
“I’m headed to Egan’s office. He has to get the captain there to make sure that this is handled as discreetly as possible. There are kids involved, an innocent woman—”
“They’ll take care of it,” Mike said quietly. “Yes—let’s get Egan.”
Egan was quickly on the phone to the captain of the precinct; as of now, James Bryan Baron had not been reported missing.
They would have a plainclothes detective out to the house as quickly as possible; they would be expecting Special Agents Frasier and Dalton at the precinct, ready to take the family into protective custody.
“The girls might be at school—they probably are at school,” Craig said. “Unless someone’s already got to them.”
“As far as anyone knows, the man they meant to kill in that explosion is dead,” Egan reminded Craig.
“But remember, there was a man at the hospital last night, watching. Maybe someone from the gang waiting to see who came and who went. I know that the marshals were checking up on it and didn’t discover anything. The thing is, their henchmen may appear to be nobody on the surface. And whether or not James was willing to die in order to save his family, they may still be after the wife and kids. Tying up loose ends,” Craig said.
“Trust me—we were top-notch on this. It did appear that James Baron died. No one could have seen our cops and agents come or go,” Egan said. “But, yes, this group may want to tie up loose ends. So as we speak, the cops are heading out to the victim’s home. Everything will be done to protect them. I suggest you two—”
“Already moving, sir. Already moving,” Craig said.
“I’ll keep in touch, let you know how the local men are progressing,” Egan called after them.
Down by the car, it was tacitly determined that Craig would drive. He and Mike didn’t try to talk; they had been partners too long for any need to fill the air with chatter. Craig knew Mike—they were both thinking that this group was ruthless and that there were children’s lives at stake. They were nearing the bridge—moving at a decent clip despite New York traffic—when they received the first call from Egan.
“No one is answering at the home address,” Egan said.
“What about the girls?” Mike asked anxiously.
“They didn’t report to school today,” Egan said.
“The uniforms have gone into the house?” Mike asked.
“They’re there now—they’ve just gone in. I’ll keep you abreast.”
Craig glanced over at Mike. The police would be in the house long before they could get there.
Neither one of them wanted to imagine what might be found: a woman, three children, dead. Shot, left in their rooms. The little ones killed gently, maybe, pillows over their heads before bullets were sent into their brains. Maybe not. Maybe all had been stabbed, gathered together, tied and strangled...
There was no pretty picture.
It was just a few minutes before Egan was back with them.
“Nothing,” Egan said. “No one was found in the house.”
“What? And they know that the girls weren’t at school?”
“The locals are trying every avenue. The neighbors are being questioned. Cops are going door-to-door. You’ll be there in thirty minutes or so—”
“We’ll be there in fifteen,” Craig vowed grimly.
* * *
Chopra and Harding had a patrol car just down the street. Harding offered to get the car; Kieran assured him she’d walk dead center between the two officers and that she could reach it on foot just fine—no one had to drive to retrieve her, or worry about who stayed with her while the other went for the car.
They got in, buckled up and pulled out into traffic. Chopra said with a bit of obvious excitement, “Off to see the babe.”
“I feel like we should be singing, though, huh?” Harding asked. “‘The babe. What babe?’ I mean...didn’t you ever see Labyrinth?”
“I did indeed. And in that, my Lord! Bowie as the goblin king...you could have taken me anytime!” Chopra said. She made a face at Kieran. “Sadly, I haven’t seen anyone at Child Services who remotely looks like David Bowie.”
“Hey! You have a husband,” Harding reminded her.
“I do. And I adore the man. But Bowie as the goblin king...well, he was always my secret love. So sad. I can still dream, but he’s passed on to that great gilded studio in the sky.” She paused to sigh.
“A brilliant talent lost,” Kieran said.
Chopra smiled and nodded and turned to Harding. “See? She appreciates the beauty of the goblin king. Anyway, there may be no goblin king, but to the best of my knowledge, Sandy Cleveland is there and will be waiting for us so that you might have a visit with the wee one, Kieran.”
“She’s no goblin king,” Harding said. “Even I agree on that.”
“But she is a very nice woman,” Kieran said, “and I’m sure she’s taking wonderful care of the baby.”
Ten minutes later, they were at Child Services.
While the city did the best it could—and many fine people worked for and with the children—it was almost impossible for Kieran not to feel her heart sink painfully low into her chest. Children were such a precious gift, and here were so many who were abandoned, who had been taken from abusive homes, who lived without the love that should have been a birthright.
Kieran was considered an “official” visitor as she arrived with the cops; that meant that she didn’t sit in an office vestibule, away from all the action. Instead, she walked along halls with glass windows where social workers looked over children of different ages; toddlers playing with well-used toys, five-year-olds listening to a story, preteens watching a DVD. One room offered a slightly older group, busy at computers, flirting with one another, laughing, teasing...
Some bore looks of confusion and hopelessness. Some had already been toughened by the system; their faces were hard and cold. They were nearly ready to head out into the world, aware that it was a tough place and that their defenses must be up at all times.
Sandy Cleveland’s office was a small room that attached to a larger one that looked almost like a hospital delivery room—except that it was filled with little cribs instead of tiny newborn bassinets. Two aids were in with the babies; Kieran estimated that there were twelve little ones in the nursery.
It appeared that those working with the children were good at their jobs; they were gentle and loving with the babies. Kieran wondered if it could begin to compensate for the love little ones should get from their parents. Naturally, she didn’t know what had brought the infants here, to be cared for by strangers—maybe their parents were just getting back on their feet. Maybe they had lost both of them in tragic accidents.
“So sad,” Kieran murmured.
“The hospital is worse. Trust me. In our line, a lot of the witnesses we wind up protecting can testify against crime lords because they’ve been in their clutches—and often have used all kinds of drugs. The babies born to mothers on crack or with fetal alcohol syndrome,” June Chopra said. “Thing is, most people looking to adopt want a perfect little child. There are only a brave few who’ll take on a child who may have medical problems as they get older. Family members tend to disappear when it comes to taking in a little relative who is blind or deaf or facing a situation like juvenile diabetes... Sad, yes. So sad. And yet, there are thousands of people waiting to adopt, but to adopt perfect little babes.”
Like the little girl thrust into her own arms, Kieran thought.
Sandy Cleveland waved to them from within the infant room. They could see her through the glass, picking up one of the little bundles.
Baby Jane Doe, received into the system Friday last, when Alexandra Callas had passed her over to Kieran, and then been stabbed to death in the street.
A moment later, Sandy was out with them, handing the child to Kieran. “Miss Frasier, how nice to see you. June, great to see you, too. And you, too, Abel,” she added to Officer Harding.
Kieran glanced at the officers.
“We’ve been here before—a few times. The innocent—little ones—are often the collateral damage in the world of crime,” Harding said.
“June and Abel helped wrest a baby from a dad trying to toss her off the balcony,” Sandy Cleveland told Kieran. “She got adopted, by the way, despite many difficulties—legal and medical hurdles. See, good things do happen here. Foster families are found, biological families are sometimes reunited. You must know that. Don’t you work with parents struggling to get back on their feet?”
“Our office does, yes,” Kieran said. “And I’m glad—and surprised—that it worked out so well for the little one you rescued, June. Often—in our experience, anyway—it’s the parents who are most abusive who aren’t willing to give up their children. The father gave up his rights? And the mom?” Kieran asked.
“The father couldn’t get the child over the balcony, so he went over himself,” June said. “The baby’s mother was long gone,” she added softly. “Being a cop is what I always wanted to do. But sometimes, I guess, we come across the kind of stuff that really haunts you.”
Her words made them all fall silent for a moment, at a lack of what to say against such a truth.
“I’m so sorry,” Kieran murmured at last.
“Anyway,” Sandy said, “as you can see here, we have our hands full. Enjoy your time with our little Baby Doe.”
“Thank you,” Kieran said. “What are you calling her? We do have a last name for her—just not a first.”
Sandy glanced at June. “Well, we call her Baby Doe. She’s actually Baby Doe Seven.”
“Oh,” Kieran said. “Well, she is Miss Decebel, from what we understand. And I know that all forms of law enforcement are still working very hard to find her mother.”
“And I’m sure they will,” Sandy said. “We’ll just hope that they find her...” Sandy’s voice trailed. They all knew the unspoken word. Alive.
“There’s a little playroom down the hall. You can spend some time with the baby there,” Sandy told her.
“Great!”
The playroom contained the kind of flooring—cheap foam squares, easily replaceable—that allowed for little ones to crawl or shimmy about on their own without obstacles that might hurt them. There were all kinds of toys just right for very little ones—a dog that sang “Bingo” when a paw was squeezed, big plastic blocks, mobiles, blankets and more.
Officers June Chopra and Abel Harding were both good with children. Seeing them all together from the outside, it might have been a very strange family reunion.
The baby was still beautiful. She was healthy. And she smiled. She definitely smiled.
“Miss Decebel! You are so beautiful. And we are going to find your mommy for you. I’ll bet she is very nice, and lovely, just like you! We will find her!”
Sandy Cleveland looked on like a loving godmother.
Kieran was glad that they had come. She was laughing as Abel Harding sang and made faces for the baby when her phone rang.
It was Craig.
She thought maybe she just wouldn’t answer. Which was, of course, ridiculous. She was just worried what he’d think about her continuing to have a relationship with the baby, though—he had never suggested that she not check up on the infant who had been thrust into her arms.
“Hey,” she answered.
“You’re all right?” he asked, not bothering with hello or any other such greeting.
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. My police protection officers are with me,” she told him.
“Where are you?”
She winced. “Child Services, at one of their facilities. I spoke with Egan and he said that it was okay to visit. And it is fine, I’m good, I’ll be safe—I have a couple of lovely NYPD guards,” she said, and then paused for breath. “Where are you?”
“Brooklyn. Looking for our burn victim’s family. Mike and I are almost there, but the police haven’t been able to find the wife or the children. I don’t like this. I don’t know how this gang is one step ahead all the time. There was no way anyone should have known that Jimmy was still alive. There’s got to be something going on that we’re not seeing. These people literally seem to have eyes everywhere. Kieran, please—let the officers get you home safely. Make them stay with you.”
“We can go to Finnegan’s,” Kieran said.
“No.”
Kieran cringed inwardly at his tone. Then again, they had met when murderers had been using her family pub as their meeting point.
And, to be honest, did she want to bring any kind of danger back to her family?
“All right. We’ll head to my apartment. We’ll lock in. We’ll watch Netflix. They’ll keep their guns out. They’ll be armed. We’ll all be safe.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Let me know when you’re in, okay?”
“Will do, I promise,” she told him.
She hung up. The baby was still cooing at a face Abel had made.
The three adults in the room looked at her.
She glanced at Sandy.
The killers always seemed to be a step ahead. They always knew what was happening, even before it happened, or so it seemed.
Someone close had to be involved.
A king and queen.
A queen.
Besa Goga?
Or...
Worse.
Riley McDonnough, the young and lovely Irish woman?
She realized that she was growing suspicious of everyone.
Even Sandy Cleveland!
And so she said simply, “Sandy, thank you so much for this visit. The baby is beautiful, and it did mean so much to me to get to see her. Officers, I believe it’s time to go!”
* * *
Jimmy’s home was nice. It was a modest family home. It had a typical perfect little cookie-cutter New York facsimile of a yard.
Inside, there were three bedrooms, a kitchen, dining room and family room; the three bedrooms were upstairs, one taking up half of the house on a side, and the other two smaller rooms just across a hallway.
The house was beautifully maintained, clean as a whistle. Lillian Baron was obviously an excellent housekeeper. Or possibly James Baron was just as good.
Craig couldn’t help but imagine the family once they had reached the house.
There were pictures on the wall. Mom, Dad, three kids. Smiling, huddled together in a park, posing together at a restaurant. There were baby pictures on the wall.
It appeared to have been a very loving home.
How had Lillian Baron not known that her husband had fallen into drug abuse? Working as he had over the years, Craig was far too familiar with the havoc uppers, downers, cocaine, heroin and alcohol had on the human body and mind.
Had she known...had she been a user herself?
The pictures about the house did not show a man or a woman who had been affected by the ravages of such abuse. According to Tanya, Jimmy had gotten a grip on himself, but not in time to save himself from falling into debt with the King and Queen of the crime ring.
So maybe... Maybe his wife had known. And if she had known, they had talked. And she would have been warned that if anything happened to him, it was up to her to save the children.
Craig asked the officer in charge if the family owned a car; the man immediately made a call.
Yes, they owned a Volvo.
It wasn’t in the garage.
So they were gone. Lillian had known what was going on. She had fled with her children.
Which might have been fine at first...
“All points bulletin out on the car—and the missus?” the officer in charge asked.
Craig wondered, What if there was a cop involved? David Beard himself, Randy Holmes. Or what if Jacob Wolff hadn’t just been undercover? What if he was crooked?
No.
He liked to think he was a better judge of people than that. But still...
Lance Kendall...what about him? Or even McBride...?
There was also the matter that he and Mike weren’t superheroes—they never had and most probably never would manage to solve this kind of case on their own. They needed their fellow workers—cops, agents, marshals, everyone.
“Hold off just an hour on that,” Craig said.
“Time could mean everything,” Mike said quietly.
“I know. In many ways,” Craig said. He smiled grimly for the officer and Mike.
And as soon as the officer was gone, Craig said, “Sorry—I’m afraid if we do an APB right away, we might seal her fate. Info is getting out somehow. If we tear this place apart ourselves, we may find a clue to where they’ve gone. I’m going to start in the bedroom. Can you give Marty a call? He can find out about relatives, any other property they might own...”
“I’m on it,” Mike said.
Craig headed up the stairs and looked around the neat and charming bedroom where the Baron couple had slept together. Quilted bed cover—handmade, he was certain. Kids’ pictures on the walls. Lovely lace doily thingies on the furniture.
A family home...
“So where did you go, Mrs. Baron?” he asked softly.
Walking in, he began to search.
* * *
Kieran knew that her guests weren’t two friends who had just happened to stop at her place to binge-watch the next hit show.
They were cops, on duty, and on guard.
But Harding and Chopra were easy about every move they made.
They were in her apartment, door was locked, and Kieran was pretty sure that a patrol car was cruising by now and then.
She did make coffee and tea. Coffee for Chopra and tea for Harding. And she did turn on the television. But Harding sat in a chair by the door; she knew that he was ready to leap to his feet at any given moment, that he was probably even listening and would be watching no matter who came into the building for any reason. Chopra seemed to be hovering closer to her, ready to use her own body to protect Kieran’s life, if need be.
It might have felt excessive, but right now, Kieran was glad of the extra protection. She had heard the level of concern in Craig’s voice when he’d told her to go to her apartment.
Kieran had been to the gun range one time with Craig after the diamond heists case when they had met, but she knew that she needed to go back and take it all incredibly seriously—and actually get a permit to carry. She just hated the very idea of it; she wasn’t a fan of guns in any form.
Well, neither was she a fan of having a knife in her back, or having someone with a knife in their back fall dead before her.
“Amazing!” Chopra said. “Cable—better stuff on television these days than in the movies!”
“Ah, come on. There are still good movi—” Even as Harding spoke, he leapt up. He must have heard someone on the stairs.
He had.
There was a knock at the door. He looked out the peephole, and then at Kieran.
“Asian guy, young, late twenties,” he told her.
She saw that his hand was in place to draw his weapon.
It was the same with Chopra.
“Should be okay—that’s Lee Chan. His family owns the karaoke bar and sushi restaurant right beneath my apartment.”
Harding stepped back slightly. Kieran saw that Chopra was in position to shoot—if she was threatened in any way once the door opened.
“Lee!” Kieran said as she pulled the door open.
“Kieran, hey,” Lee said. He frowned. She realized that he could see June Chopra behind her.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said. “But, I had a visit from a young woman who came to karaoke on the night you sang with me.”
“You did?” Kieran recalled speaking with the immigration officer. “Esperanza?” she asked.
“She said her name was Esperanza Rodriguez. Yes, exactly! Oh, good, you do remember her, then.”
“Yes, of course. She’s very nice. What was her message?”
He handed her a card. “She said to call her. One of her fellow officers might have some information that could be useful to you.”
“Great. Anything else?”
Lee shook his head. “That was it. Sorry—I was in the middle of sashimi, sushi and a coconut California roll. She was in a hurry. All I did was get that message.”
“That’s great, thank you, Lee.”
“Could it really help you in some way?”
“Maybe.”
Lee grinned. “Well, there you go. Come down for karaoke and sushi soon.”
“I will,” Kieran agreed. “Thank you so much.”
He gave her a wave, looking over her shoulder again at June Chopra.
“My friend June,” Kieran said, smiling.
“Hello!” Lee said, and waved. “Does she like sushi?” he asked.
June, back against the wall, assured him, “Love sushi.”
“We are really good,” Lee said.
“Yep, they are!” Kieran said cheerfully. “Thanks again, Lee.”
He seemed to be staring past her and into her apartment.
Yes, he was looking at June Chopra.
He couldn’t know she was a cop.
Kieran was seriously becoming almost ridiculously distrustful of everyone. She’d lived in the apartment over two years; she’d been above the sushi restaurant all that time. They were good neighbors. Except for an occasional slaughter of Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer,” the restaurant and the people there were peaceful, kind and great.
This situation was getting to her. Even Lee was suddenly suspicious to her!
Kieran smiled tightly and said goodbye to Lee, closing and locking the door behind her.
“Is everything all right?” Chopra asked.
“Anything we should worry about?” Harding asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Kieran said. “I’ve known Lee and his family several years. If they’re hiding something, they’re doing it incredibly well—though, I must admit, their sushi is so good it would make a great cover.”
Neither of the cops smiled.
“He was letting me know someone stopped by to see me. Her name is Esperanza Rodriguez and she’s with INS. Immigration and Naturalization Service.” The two officers stared at her, politely waiting. Of course, they would know what INS meant. Kieran grimaced and continued. “Esperanza—like everyone in the city and probably beyond—knew about the woman murdered on the street. We chatted, and I asked her to let me know if she heard anything about trafficking babies. I’m going to give her a call.”
“Okay,” Harding said.
Kieran didn’t walk away from the officers. She perched on the edge of the sofa and dialed the number listed on the card.
Esperanza answered with her full name and position in a professional voice.
“Hello, it’s Kieran Finnegan. I just saw Lee. He gave me your message, said you asked that I call you.”
“Kieran! Great. I was afraid you might have forgotten me and wondered, who in the hell is this woman and why is she bothering me. I think I really have something for you.”
“I certainly hadn’t forgotten you,” Kieran assured her. “Thank you for getting in touch.”
“I’m not positive that I have anything that will help, but I was chatting with my coworker, Alyssa Ryan, and she became very excited. About four months ago, Alyssa had just left the office when she was approached by a young woman who was very visibly pregnant. She was Romanian, and she was trying to find out the right way to legally apply for help. But when Alyssa started asking questions, she suddenly seemed to panic, and she ran off. As she ran, she dropped something. Alyssa picked it up, hoping to get it back to her. It was a prayer card from a church in Brooklyn. Very worn, as if the woman had touched it and held it over and over again. Alyssa asked around to see if anyone knew anything about a pregnant young girl, but...well, our social agencies are over-burdened, and no one knew who she was talking about or cared to find out. Anyway, if you want to speak with Alyssa, I can set it up for tomorrow.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you. And yes, please, we would love to have that slip of paper.”
“We—are you a cop now?”
“No, no...our office just works with the cops and the FBI. And I know they’ll want it. Thank you so much. Would now be a good time?”
“Oh, I’m sorry—she’s gone for the day. I can try to call her for you, if it’s that important.”
It just might be.
A prayer card. That could lead them to a church. And maybe a priest. And a priest might be someone that the woman talked to...
“Will you try for me, please, to reach her now?”
“Of course. I’ll call you right back.”
Both Harding and Chopra were staring at Kieran, naturally anxious.
“We might have a bit of a clue,” she said. “Maybe nothing, but...”
“We check out tons of nothing. That’s the only way you ever get to something,” Harding said.
Kieran nodded; he was so right.
Her phone rang a minute later. It was Esperanza. “I’m so sorry. I can’t reach Alyssa. I’ve left her a message. She has a two-year-old, so sometimes she just doesn’t get to her phone.”
“Thanks.”
Esperanza hesitated. “Normally, I would never do this, but...you are a professional. I’m going to give you her number—you can keep trying. I know that she would want to help in any way. She said she had the feeling something was really wrong with that woman.”
“Thank you!”
Esperanza gave her Alyssa’s information. She lived near Times Square.
When Kieran hung up again, she looked at Harding and Chopra. “It might just be important that we talk to this woman,” she murmured.
She was hesitant; she didn’t want to cause more of a problem than she was solving by dragging her police escort all over town. She knew that Craig felt best when she was in one place, protected.
If they could just capture these horrible people...
Well, not just capture the traffickers. Find Jimmy’s family, find Yulia Decebel, find the others who were used and abused and held hostage by them.
“Sorry, guys. Wee bit of a road trip, I think!”
* * *
Investigation, most of the time, didn’t involve high-speed chases or guns going off.
It was tedious and meticulous searching.
And that could be frustratingly slow, especially when it wasn’t even clear what one should be looking for.
It hadn’t been that long—though it did feel like hours and hours—that they had searched through James and Lillian Baron’s home when Craig finally came upon a small stack of receipts in the bottom of a drawer.
At first the pile appeared to be nothing.
A little toy pony from a local toy shop.
Doughnuts.
Vitamins and shampoo and other sundries.
And then, small and mixed in with the other casual receipts, was a bill for maintenance. It was folded in with the others, but the name on it was spelled wrong—it was written out to James Barow. It was for the yearly maintenance of a cabin in Norwalk, Connecticut.
“Here!” Craig exclaimed.
Mike, digging through drawers on the other side of the bed, looked up at him.
“Connecticut,” Craig said. He spoke softly. He truly believed that, most of the time, people in law enforcement were honest and doing their best at a tough job. But there could be bad seeds.
And there could be those who just talked too much sometimes, no malice intended.
“This place...you and me. We can be there in thirty minutes. We’ll let Egan know. No one else.”
“You think that someone working with us could be a leak?” Mike asked him.
“I don’t know. I think we shouldn’t take any chances.” He hesitated. “We know McBride—we’ve worked with him before. Solid. Lance Kendall...broomstick up his backside, but hey, doesn’t mean he isn’t a top-notch cop. Jacob Wolff had our backs, and helped Kieran and Danny. The marshals—Madison Smith and Hank LeBlanc—are new on this. Can’t see how they’d be compromised. Close—working on the inside—we’ve got David Beard and Randy Holmes. Beard has been around for years. Holmes presents himself as invested in figuring out what’s been happening—passionate to all ends. They seem to be great. But...someone does always seem to be a step ahead of us. Let’s just tell these cops here that we’re moving on—ask them to let us know of anything that they find. Then, let’s get going on our own.”
“Gotcha. Okay, let’s do it,” Mike said.
“This is a family in danger, Mike.”
“Yep, I agree. Like I said—let’s do it.”
Craig strode out of the room to find the police officer in charge; he didn’t tell him where they were going. He wasn’t bringing backup.
He hoped to hell that he wasn’t making a mistake.
And that ruthless killers weren’t already one step ahead.
* * *
Officers Harding and Chopra were, Kieran determined, just about the best possible bodyguards one could hope to have. Kieran was completely honest with them and explained what she wanted to do. They understood. June Chopra told her, “Kieran, honey, you’re not a prisoner. It’s easier, of course, to guard you here—but we know what we’re doing. If there is something important for you to do, let’s do it.”
“You might want to let Agent Frasier know what’s up,” Harding said.
“Or we can call our boss,” Chopra said.
“It’s just a suggestion,” Harding said.
“Not to worry. I have no problem calling Craig or Mike or even Egan,” Kieran assured him.
But she did have a problem—a technical one. Neither Craig nor Mike answered their phones. She tried Egan. It still always surprised and pleased her that he was so ready to accept her calls. She wasn’t one of his agents. She wasn’t even a cop. She just sometimes wound up in a situation where she could try to help.
She explained about her connection to the INS worker.
“Any lead is wonderful,” Egan said. “I can have some agents or a police officer go by and leave a message for her if she isn’t there.”
“I’d rather just try. I’m restless. And this is a loose, loose connection. A wild card. Still, a bunch of cops at her door could scare her. I think it’s okay if I just go.”
“Not alone.”
“No, of course not,” Kieran assured him. “I’ve got my protection detail. I don’t want to bring a lot of people with me—we’re just going to have a casual chat with this woman, and I hope she might have a clue in tracing the baby’s mother, Yulia Decebel.”
“Keep in contact with me, then. And if you get something—something physical—please bring it here, to our offices. Good luck.”
Harding and Chopra had politely waited for her to finish her conversation.
“A few ground rules when we’re moving about,” Harding told her. “One of us is slightly ahead of you, one slightly behind, and you listen to every word we say. If we ask you to drop to the ground—”
“I drop,” Kieran agreed.
“Slide to cover,” Chopra said.
“Whatever you say—it’s my wish to obey,” she assured them. “Come on, guys, I kind of know this drill.”
As soon as they left her building, they had her flanked. Harding was slightly in front of her. Chopra was slightly behind her. They were well trained.
They even understood that she didn’t know exactly what they were going to find once they reached the address that Esperanza Rodriguez had given Kieran. They knew that they were going to try to find someone who couldn’t be reached by phone. And if they were concerned that something might have happened to Alyssa Ryan, they didn’t show it.
Then again, why should they be concerned?
And that was probably the sane way to see things. It was possible—maybe even likely—that the woman wasn’t going to be home. People went out. And while people rarely left their phones at home these days, sometimes it happened. The woman had a two-year-old—that often meant that a phone was forgotten, or hidden even—lest little fingers find every kid’s video possible, call someone by accident, or even order an Uber.
Alyssa Ryan lived in a building in Midtown, not far from Times Square. Harding drove fluidly through the streets of the city, unfazed by whatever traffic they encountered. Kieran was aware that both her escorts were taking notice of everyone around them.
Chopra would mention a vehicle; Harding would study it in the rearview mirror. They were obviously talking about cars that might bear suspicious passengers. After consulting each other each time, it appeared that none of them really seemed to offer a threat.
Kieran was anxious to be out of the car when they drew up near the building’s entry, but she bit her lip and forced herself to wait until both Chopra and Harding were properly positioned. Outside the door, they noted twenty call boxes and found the one for the Ryan residence. They rang a couple times...and no one responded.
Kieran tried dialing Alyssa Ryan’s cell phone number again. There was no answer. As Kieran listened to the sound of the unanswered call ringing and ringing, she gazed about the street. She looked down.
There was blood on the concrete.
Little droplets of something dark red and shiny.
They led to the door going into the building.
“Oh, Lord!” she cried.
Clay and Harding were at her side. Kieran began to pull at the handle and shake the door.
“Kieran, please stand back!” Harding said.
She stepped away. Harding had her by a good hundred pounds. Definitely had much better shoulders.
And he wasn’t holding back.
He slammed his shoulder against the door. Again and again.
It gave way with a sharp snap, the lock breaking, and then they were in.
Before the door, there were more spots. Leading down the hall to the apartments, a trail of blood.