So much for waking up early and being so antsy she’d rushed through a shower.
It was frustrating as hell, but Kieran kept watching the news. She couldn’t stop herself. It was like the pre-election coverage of the last election. A train wreck. And she’d still felt compelled to watch.
Although, this was different. She had known the woman.
Well, she hadn’t known her, but she had spoken with her right before she had been murdered.
The more she watched—even though she didn’t see anything new reported—the more she began to wonder and try to figure out just what the hell was going on and how the police would try to put it together—try to find a murderer.
So far, they hadn’t talked about the knife on the air or in the paper—online or in physical print.
Where had the knife come from? The killer had to have had the knife on them. And if so, wouldn’t that mean there would be prints on the knife? Of course, those prints would need to be in the system. And what if the killer had been wearing gloves?
She itched to call Craig again—but she wouldn’t.
He would call her.
Would Richard Egan get the FBI on the investigation?
Kieran was well aware sometimes the different agencies working on a situation could be territorial—and not just cops and FBI. New York was filled with different organizations of law enforcement, including the cops and the FBI but extending to the US Marshals Service and Homeland Security. Depending on who found what when, there could be some disputes.
She didn’t know anything about the detective who was in charge of the investigation so far on the NYPD side of it all. Drs. Fuller and Miro had a tendency to work amazingly well with all branches—and she knew that Craig and his partner, Mike Dalton, were both the type who worked hard to see that any rivalry was kept to a minimum—that the crime was of upmost importance, no matter who solved it.
She couldn’t help worrying about the case. She was on pins and needles, waiting to find out what was going on. And worse, she wanted to see the baby again. Though the child was being cared for by professionals, and Kieran assured herself everything was fine, she couldn’t tamp down the urge to see the baby herself—just to make sure.
There was no way she could simply sit in her apartment and wait for Craig.
It was ridiculous that she had started watching the news at the get-go.
She’d known what she really needed to be doing. She forced herself up, forced herself to turn off the television.
Outside, she headed to the subway—finally determined on getting to the venue that was always her cure-all for being as antsy as the proverbial cat on the hot tin roof—without further delay.
The front door to Finnegan’s was locked when she arrived. She let herself in with her key.
The pub was getting ready to open for the day. Most of the time, Declan spent a good twelve to fifteen hours a day at the pub; it was easy for him since Mary Kathleen—the love of his life—worked there, as well.
Mary Kathleen had only been in the country about three and a half years. She’d come over to take care of an ailing grandmother, and a family friend had set her up at Finnegan’s. She and Declan were a perfect—and beautiful—couple, in Kieran’s mind, at least. Declan was tall with very dark auburn hair and the blue-gray-green eyes that characterized their family. Mary Kathleen had eyes that were huge and wide and the color of the sea. Her voice was musical and her accent truly charming—though she had found it funny one day when a patron had told her she didn’t need to pretend to be Irish to work in the pub—it was, after all, America.
The alarm had already been turned off when Kieran stepped in. The place was spotless; she was sure that their late-night cleaning crew had been in, one hired just for the weekends when the traffic at the pub was extremely heavy. They had an impressive row of taps; Kieran was proud the place never smelled like stale beer. They maintained it beautifully.
She walked up to the bar, thinking she could put away glasses or do something else useful, but as she was standing there, Declan stepped out from the hallway that led to the offices and the stock room down in the basement. He was wearing a white apron and evidently had been working behind the bar, setting up, and perhaps he’d been in back in the kitchen as well, checking with the chef on the daily specials. On Sundays, Finnegan’s always served a traditional roast with a choice of regular mashed potatoes or colcannon—potatoes and cabbage—and a special fresh vegetable. But on Saturdays, Declan and Chef liked to be adventurous—as in “Irish spicy tacos—trust us, the sauce is pure green!” Kieran wondered what delight he’d have prepared for today.
“I figured I’d see you,” Declan said.
“I couldn’t sit around,” she said.
“And you sent Craig off to see his boss, to try to get involved, didn’t you? And I know Craig. If he values his peace of mind, he’ll see to it that he’s involved.”
She made a face at her brother. She was glad, though, that Declan—and Kevin and Danny—knew Craig well and really liked him. They’d met Richard Egan, Craig’s boss, and Mike Dalton, his partner, too. All them had come into Finnegan’s at various times, whether having to do with a case, or simply to have some good Irish pub food.
The pub itself—and her brothers, upon occasion!—had been too involved in deadly activities taking place in the city. She’d actually met Craig in the middle of a diamond heist—a situation Danny had ridiculously gotten her into while attempting to help a friend—and Kevin had recently been a suspect in a murder when an actress he’d been dating had been found dead in the church-turned-nightclub that backed up to the alley just behind the pub. The good thing was that they were all friends with Egan and the FBI. By tradition, of course, they always hosted police officers from the local precinct and firefighters from the fire hall down the street. After all, being a cop had once been a major Irish occupation—and the city had certainly been filled with the Irish!
“It’s Saturday—I thought I’d help out around here.”
“And you are always a help,” he told her. “But as you can see, the cleaning crew was already in. We don’t open the doors until eleven thirty. Chef is busy...we have a full staff on. In fact, I think we probably have one server too many today. Sounds ridiculous, but if I don’t give them all enough tables, they can’t make it in their tips.”
“Ah, and no worries!” came a cheerful cry. Mary Kathleen came through the tables in the dining room, having just left the kitchen, or so it appeared. She was wearing a light spring jacket and carried a large disposable takeout tray. “Kieran, hello there, me love!” Mary Kathleen paused to kiss Kieran on the cheek. “I’m off to the mission by St. Peter’s.”
“That’s so nice!” Kieran told her. She’d known that—a few times a month, at least—Mary Kathleen volunteered at a mission soup kitchen just down the block off Church Street by old St. Peter’s.
The mission concentrated on immigrants who needed support—on seeing that they were fed, first and foremost, and then offering information on citizenship, green cards, work and whatever else might be necessary for someone newly arrived to the country, searching for the American dream.
“Chef has given me a great big dish of shepherd’s pie!” Mary Kathleen said, nodding affectionately toward Declan. “Thanks to the generous soul of your brother Declan. Well, actually, thanks to the largesse of all the Finnegan family.”
“Oh, no, that’s all Declan. He makes the decisions,” Kieran said. “But I’m awfully glad. I know that we were all—and different family members have been through the decades—immigrants. I’m delighted we’re helping people.”
She looked around the spotless, still-empty pub.
“Want some help at the mission or whatever it is?”
“Soup du Jour!” Mary Kathleen told her. “It’s great—the Catholics and Anglos and Jewish community and members of several of our NYC mosques came together to fund it. All are truly welcome—and we do mean all. It would be great if you came with me! Super. People will love you. Oh, and don’t go thinking they’re all dirty, that the people who come in are sleeping in doorways and the like. Many work hard—it’s just a difficult thing to come into this country sometimes and instantly make a living, especially in an expensive city like New York.”
“Naturally,” Kieran said. “And yet we—as Americans, who really have it pretty good—like to whine!”
Mary Kathleen laughed. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my beautiful adopted homeland. But here’s the thing—people come here because we can whine. Complaining is the God-given right of every American! You just have to remember that throughout history, people have come here for a dream. And right here in good old NYC, there used to be notes on the doors of all kinds of businesses that said No Irish! We have to watch out for prejudice against any new group. People still come for the same American dream.”
“And even when we think we’re a mess, we’re still the best kind of mess?” Kieran said. She smiled. Mary Kathleen was going to be a wonderful sister-in-law.
“‘Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time,’” Kieran quoted. “Churchill, 1947, to the House of Commons—if I remember right!”
“Yes, except I’ve been told that he was quoting a predecessor,” Mary Kathleen said. “Anyway, the point is, people do come here for a dream. And sometimes, it’s damned hard to realize. In fact, it can be a nightmare for some. They fall on hard times.”
“Please, I hope you know me better than thinking I would be dismissive or mean in any way. I wasn’t thinking of judging anyone, really,” Kieran assured her. “I was just thinking...”
Declan suddenly strode directly between the two of them.
“Kieran was thinking she needed to be occupied—or she’d drive us all crazy,” Declan said. “Thank the Good Lord, Mary Kathleen. It’s a true kindness you can give her something to do! Go on, Kieran—dish out some soup. It is a very good thing to do. And when you’re done, if you’re still walking around like a caged cat, Kevin has to learn some lines for a guest shot on a cop show. You can give your twin a hand!”
“Cool. Of course, I’ll run lines with my twin,” Kieran said.
“Ah, yes, poor lass!” Mary Kathleen said. “You do need to be occupied. You canna quit thinking about that poor murdered woman and the wee babe? I don’t blame you. So sad. And they still can’t find out who the woman was—and they have no idea as to where to find the babe’s mother?”
“No, not yet. Not that I’ve heard about,” Kieran said.
“They will,” Declan assured her.
“Of course,” Kieran said. She took the large dish from Mary Kathleen. “We’re out of here!” she told Declan.
“Go forth and be bountiful,” Declan said drily.
She made a face at him again.
But he was right, of course. She was very, very glad to have something to do.
* * *
The folder that Richard Egan had given Craig didn’t yield much more than he already knew; the murdered woman had been found with no identification—no purse, nothing. She’d been wearing clothing with labels from the largest chain retail outlet offering budget-priced brands. There were literally dozens of the shops in the five boroughs alone. Her shoes had been the most common brand of sneaker. The hood she’d had wrapped over her head was a scarf that had most probably been bickered over and bought on the street.
She had been about five foot five inches in height, estimated age about forty.
The baby had been healthy and well kept—also wearing clothing bought at the same bargain-priced chain. The blanket covering the baby, however, had been hand knit. The creator had not signed the work in any way. Still, it was one of a kind.
The knife found in the woman’s back was equally common—sold at outlets across the five boroughs, the state and the country. It was a hunting knife with a leather handle and six-inch blade.
The woman had been struck so hard that nearly four of those inches had gone into her back.
There were no fingerprints found on the knife.
The bystanders had been canvassed for information. No one remembered anyone suspicious in the crowd; no one had seen who had thrust the blade into the woman’s back.
It was impossible—absolutely impossible, Craig thought. He tried to reimagine the crime, the woman hurrying away...
Someone must have seen something. They were afraid. Or it had been so swift an act that they hadn’t even understood what they had seen. Maybe, when people thought about it...
He set the folder down, frustrated. There was a tap at his open door. He looked up. His partner, Mike Dalton, stood in the doorway.
“So I come back from a glorious vacation to you and Kieran stirring up the neighborhood again,” he said drily. “You missed me, huh?”
“I did miss you, Mike. I always miss you when we’re apart,” Craig said, grinning. “I’m sure you heard about the news-making events.”
“I did. Murder and mummies. Creepy!”
Craig pressed his lips into a tight line and nodded. “I worked the case with an old friend, guy named Micah Fox, and one of my cousins—mostly their case. A man they both admired had been killed in Egypt—a mentor. Weird case for sure, but...hey, yeah. I’m glad you’re back!” Mike was a great partner. Ten years Craig’s senior, he’d been the one to really show Craig the ropes. They both had the same sense of moral duty, of right and wrong, and a way of thinking together that had gotten them through many a situation.
“I read all about your mummies,” Mike told him. He shuddered. “And saw it all over the news. Mummies! Glad you did that one without me. Actually...well, hell, this one sounds pretty bad. A woman stabbed, during rush hour, in the street, and no one saw it, no one can say anything?”
Craig pushed the folder toward him. “This is what they have. Autopsy coming up in a few hours. I was trying to catch up on all the reading first.”
“Good, we’ll share the reports.”
“Thanks for getting here on Saturday—and so damned early.”
“Hey, nothing like a good autopsy to get you right back into it all, right?”
* * *
Mary Kathleen had been right about the people who arrived at Soup du Jour.
Most were clean and decently clad, and between them, they seemed to speak every language known to man, and yet they all seemed to get on with one another, as well.
The space where the multi-faith organization operated had once been a giant textile factory. The machinery was long gone. Big old windows covered half the wall space—a great early effort in solar power, using daylight to see and work—and they still let in a glow of beautiful, natural light, though, of course, it was now enhanced by electrical power within. The rest of the walls were covered with posters, fliers and more—all to help men and women find apartments, jobs, day care and various other kinds of assistance.
The facility had a massive kitchen and a delivery area that was nearly as large. It had a massive dining hall with wood-plank tables, and on each side of the main room were large hallways that offered restrooms and showers—along with soap and razors and other basic toiletries, donated by various large corporations.
It was really a big enterprise—and it was astonishing the way that it was run.
People of every religion, ethnicity, color, creed, sex—whatever!—seemed to get along and pull together, and do it well.
Those working the food bank seemed to come from all walks of life: there were businessmen and -women, nuns, fathers, rabbis and imams, young and old, every color of humanity.
Kieran had come to give herself something to do. She discovered, instead, that she was in awe of Mary Kathleen and all that the volunteers tried to do at Soup du Jour.
“This is truly just incredible,” she told Mary Kathleen. “You’ve been doing this and I didn’t even know. It’s wonderful.”
“Oh, I do a day a week. That’s the great power of the place—they literally have hundreds of people who can come a day or two a week and we’ll do our best to cover for each other and that kind of thing,” Mary Kathleen said. “I was lucky. I had friends to help me when I arrived here in the city. My family in Ireland knew your family here. I’m actually doing well. But I am an immigrant, and I was able to see how hard life could be for others who didn’t have family and friends in the US—especially those fleeing poverty or war-torn countries. Anyway, I’m glad you like it!”
“Like it? I’m amazed. We get so much bad news—this is great!”
“People actually can get along working together,” Mary Kathleen agreed. She laughed softly. “Okay, so we have police officers among our friends here, too. If anything were to ever get rough or violent in any way, whoever caused trouble would be out on their ears in a flash! But I’ve been at this about a year and a half. So far, nothing bad has ever happened. People are really just trying to help each other.”
Within an hour, Kieran had come to know a ninety-six-year-old nun with a quick wit, salty tongue and empathy that brought people sweeping around her; a striking dancer from a Broadway play—who happened to know Kevin; a Wall Street broker; a stage designer; and a Penobscot Indigenous American girl with the most gentle voice she’d ever heard.
Kieran completely forgot she was there merely to keep herself occupied. She felt honored to be helping out in such a tangible way, and she was fascinated with the people she met working the food bank—and with those who came for food.
They were from the Middle East and the Far East, Russia, the Ukraine, Poland, England, France, Nigeria, Ethiopia, Argentina, Haiti and more. She realized that she was quickly learning a smattering of words—mainly please and thank you—in French, Creole, Spanish and what she was pretty sure was Russian.
People were grateful—so grateful. She was almost embarrassed; she had done so little.
The shepherd’s pie from Finnegan’s had disappeared in the first fifteen minutes, but many chefs and cooks volunteered their time, and there was a constant flow of food.
There were a few unwashed bodies, but Sister Teresa—Kieran’s newfound feisty friend—was quick to point out where showers and clothing could—and not should but must—be found. Sister Teresa fed everyone—they could bathe after they ate, but if they expected to find friends with whom to dine in the future, they had best do so!
Kieran was on her way to the kitchen for a refill on the actual soup pot when she realized that a group of young women was watching her.
Talking about her? They definitely looked at her—and went silent—as she walked by.
They seemed to be of different nationalities—two of the women appeared to be East Indian, three were black, and two were blue-eyed blondes, possibly of Nordic descent. Or Russian. She was friends with some really beautiful light-haired and light-eyed Russian women. Then, of course, the world was a wonderfully mixed-up place, so anyone could be from just about anywhere and have any combination of features: light hair, dark hair, skin, and so on.
She walked by, and then became curious, hurrying back to find them.
At first, she couldn’t see them at all. The group had dispersed.
And then she saw one woman moving through a crowd, but turning back now and then to see what was behind her.
Yes, it was one of the women who had been in the group—and now she was watching rather warily for just where Kieran might be.
Kieran was certain then that they had realized she’d noticed them as they had been watching her.
The woman stood still for a moment; she was tall, ebony and regal in her bearing. She made eye contact with Kieran, and then turned away quickly.
“Hey!”
Kieran raced after her, but the woman slipped into the crowd. As Kieran made her way through people, excusing herself, she simply disappeared.
“What the heck?” she murmured.
“Kieran!”
She turned around quickly, aware that Mary Kathleen was calling to her.
“The soup—did you get the soup?”
“No! I’m so sorry. I—”
“They call it a soup kitchen because we hand out soup. Rich, delicious soup, full of beef and vegetables and good things to help people make it through the day.”
“Yes, yes, I know! I will get it, right away. Honestly. Mary Kathleen, do you know that group of young women who were over there?”
“What group?”
“The group that was standing over there.”
“Where are they now?” Mary Kathleen asked. “And you didn’t get the soup because a group of women was standing over there?”
Mary Kathleen was looking at her with perplexity.
“Sorry, sorry, I told you, I promise—I’ll get the soup. Mary Kathleen, I need to know who they were. They were staring at me.”
Mary Kathleen looked at Kieran, and then looked down. She was silent for a minute before she met Kieran’s eyes again. “Kieran, I’m not meaning to be cruel or rude with these words, but...it’s just not always about you.”
Kieran let out a sigh. “No, no...they were really looking at me, talking about me.”
“But you don’t know where they are now?”
“They scattered.”
“Maybe they just left,” Mary Kathleen said softly. “Maybe they actually managed to have some soup—and then they left. It’s what people do. We have showers here, but no beds. It’s not a hostel. People come, dine, sometimes bathe—and then leave.”
“But...”
Kieran’s voice trailed. Mary Kathleen was staring at her sorrowfully—and worriedly.
“Oh, Kieran!” Mary Kathleen said softly. “Aye, indeed, that woman last night came to you—used your name. But that does not mean that the rest of the world is watching you or whispering about you. You have to know that, right?”
Mary Kathleen was not going to believe her—no matter what she said. And now her almost-sister-in-law was worried about her. And she would tell Declan that she was worried about her. Declan would tell Craig. Craig would try very hard to keep her out of everything.
She let out an inward growl of absolute aggravation.
But she smiled at Mary Kathleen.
“Yeah, you must be right. Crazy, huh?” Kieran assured her.
And maybe she had imagined that she was being watched. Maybe the women had just moved on.
“I’ll get the soup,” she told Mary Kathleen.
She turned to head into the kitchen and almost plowed into a man.
He was about six foot two in height, sturdy in build. His eyes were almost like coal; his facial hair was dark, as well, though his head was shaved clean.
He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. She was certain that he would speak to her in a foreign language.
He did not. When he spoke, his English was perfect. Unaccented.
“I’m so sorry. I believe I nearly knocked you over.”
“No, my fault,” she said quickly. “Excuse me. I have to get more soup.”
“Of course,” he said.
She hadn’t seen him working the food bank—but neither did he seem like someone who would be in the food line.
But she’d seen other people there today who had come to see about hiring help for restaurants or other venues. There was some job placement support through the organization, who vetted possible employers so that no one was hired illegally or put in a position where they might find themselves deported.
Maybe this guy had a swanky restaurant somewhere and was looking for servers, cooks, busboys or -girls, and dishwashers.
There were all kinds of agencies to check up on what people were really doing, and they were ready, willing and able to connect people. But at the soup kitchen they only stepped in if their help was requested, since if they asked questions about the hungry men and women who visited, they might be scared off—and then not feel comfortable enough to come back.
Kieran headed into the kitchen, smiling at the mustached chef from a SoHo Italian restaurant, who offered her another big pot of the soup.
They chatted for a minute, then she turned to bring the soup out to be served.
The dark-haired man was watching her. He didn’t look away. He smiled, and it wasn’t an entirely nice smile. Then he headed out of the facility.
Kieran felt a shiver race through her.
Who the hell was that man? And who were the women? Had they really been whispering about her, watching her?
Should she trust her gut that something was not quite right? Or did she just need to get over herself?