“Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, we can narrow down DNA to a certain extent,” Dr. Andrews said. “A DNA profile can take weeks to be processed—often because of backlogs in the system, but not just that. Obviously, it is imperative that all instruments and lab equipment be maintained in excellent condition. Then generally, the process involves finding the sample or samples of human material to be tested, ascertaining that they are separate and that the exact sample itself is not complicated by other factors. Just to get started, at the best of times it requires about twenty-four hours’ worth of careful and tedious laboratory work, and, usually nearly fifty-four hours. It can be days and maybe weeks or months on some cases because of the massive accumulation of work. You need to have the facilities to do all this and the technicians who have been trained to prepare and find results.”
It was Sunday morning, but Mike and Craig were back in the morgue.
The body of their Jane Doe lay before them. Andrews had a look on his face that clearly displayed the fact that they should understand—and be excited by—every word that he was saying.
“DNA—amazing,” Craig said enthusiastically, elbowing Mike. “The amount of cases it has solved—the amazing way it has helped not just in court, but on the streets. Not just helping to find the guilty, but showing us just as clearly who was innocent of a charge.”
“Not to mention telling curious people in America that they should be wearing kilts instead of lederhosen,” Andrews said, shaking his head. “The technology of DNA can be complex, but in this case, at the very least—and for whatever good it may do you—I’ve been able to find out exactly where this woman came from originally.”
“Exactly? I didn’t realize that markers could be so exact. I thought it was a broad strokes kind of thing.” Mike paused. “Okay, I know nothing. Just what I’ve seen in commercials for various ancestral DNA testing companies,” he added.
“Yes, because when we, mankind, began to move about in prehistoric times, country borders weren’t what they are today. As we all know, many of them have changed even during our lifetimes. But what can be done is narrowing it down to certain geographic areas,” Andrews explained.
“And are you planning to share the info about Jane Doe here with us?” Craig asked, his tone light.
Luckily, Andrews grinned. “So this poor woman hailed from Transylvania.”
“Transylvania? As in, vampires? That Transylvania?”
“You’ve done more than just a country,” Craig said curiously. “That’s a specific section of a country.”
Andrews nodded. “I’m good, right?”
“You’re good.”
“She does come from a country filled with lore and superstition, though whether that will help you any, I don’t know. Transylvanians are not vampires. Vampires are myth and legend and lore, helped along by novels such as Varney the Vampire, created by James Malcolm Rymer and Thomas Peckett Prest, and first published as a series of pamphlets between 1845 and 1847, and then published in book form in 1847 as a penny dreadful. Bram Stoker went on to perpetuate the legend with his 1897 novel, Dracula. Actually, 1897 was a big year for vampires—artist Philip Burne-Jones unveiled his painting The Vampire, displaying an evil and yet seductive woman over the prone body of a man. Others, like Rudyard Kipling—”
“You missed your calling!” Mike interrupted. “Doc, you should have been an English professor,” he added.
Craig shook his head. “We didn’t think she was a vampire, sir. She was a victim. Romania is a beautiful country. The thing is, Dr. Andrews—how do you know? How can you know so specifically where she came from?”
“Ah-ha! You law enforcers tease and taunt me cruelly,” Andrews said. “The fact that I am fascinated by world culture has given me what you need. I am—and God knows why, with what I do daily—a fan of myth and legend and even horror novels. In that vein, of course, I find many countries especially interesting. Romania happens to be one. We have a tendency to think of ourselves as the best educated, the most advanced population in the world. Well, we are ego prone.”
Mike looked at Craig a little helplessly.
Craig smiled. “Okay, so the Romanians are up on us in some kind of science?”
“Not exactly. But they—like many countries—have excellent scientists and doctors, who have specific ways of doing things. Gentlemen, with this woman—voilà—her teeth. She had some dental work done, probably at least thirty years ago, that wasn’t just specific to Romania, but to Transylvania. Once her initial DNA results had narrowed my search down to the rather broad spectrum of Eastern European, I went through my resources to find a more exact location.”
“Phenomenal,” Mike said.
“An incredible help, thank you,” Craig told him.
“My pleasure. I put a call in for Detective Kendall. I guess he takes his Sundays off,” Andrews said.
“Go figure,” Mike said drily, giving Craig an evil glare.
“Yep, go figure,” Craig agreed.
They thanked Dr. Andrews and left. When they were out of the morgue, Mike turned to Craig and said, “He couldn’t have done that with a phone call?”
“Maybe MEs get lonely and need some appreciation for their work.”
Mike made a grunting sound. “Yeah, he wants to feel a part of the footwork. Still—Detective Kendall will just call him and get the info in two minutes. We’re the ones who probably have the ongoing problem.”
“The ongoing problem—what’s that?” Craig asked.
“He likes you. Andrews really likes you.” Mike sighed. “As if we don’t already spend enough time at the morgue.”
* * *
Mary Kathleen was needed at the pub, so Kieran was solo at the soup kitchen. Kieran wasn’t worried—she was accustomed to doing things on her own, even if in situations like this, it was always more fun to be with a friend.
She had, however, acquired a number of friends the last time she’d worked there.
The chefs, cooks and people working in the kitchen were great; the volunteers on the soup line were equally nice.
She’d arrived at the soup kitchen at 10:00 a.m. Manual labor didn’t bother her a bit. Once when they’d been kids, one of her brothers had complained about helping unload supply boxes, and their father had reminded him to thank God that he was capable of moving boxes. Health and wellness were some of the most precious gifts in life and were to be cherished. Since her dad had said those words, she’d been happy to pick up any box. There were people in wheelchairs or otherwise disabled who could not.
By 11:00 a.m., she was on the line.
As guests came through, some people were talkative. She saw an older man again whom she’d seen the other day; he was excited and ready to talk to her. He’d come from the Gaza Strip; he spoke fluent Arabic and fluent Hebrew. He’d been hired the day before as a tutor for a businessman in the garment district. Kieran told him how happy for him she was. He assured her that he was on his way. He was going to become a citizen of America—in his opinion, the greatest country on earth.
On a break, Kieran spoke with a major-league attorney with a large maritime firm in New York; on the side, he worked with immigrants pro bono. Andy was in his early thirties and good-looking, and the younger women in the soup kitchen flocked to him.
“My father was a rich man when I was born—a high-priced criminal attorney,” Andy told her. “My mom was a Polish immigrant, and the way for her and members of her family wasn’t at all easy. That’s why I do this.”
“People love you,” Kieran assured him.
He flashed her a smile. “Yeah, I like that part, too. Doesn’t always matter what kind of an attorney you are—people have a tendency to think of us as walking sharks. Not that maritime law tends to be so terrible, but...anyway, I’m happy to be here. My pro bono clients all know that I won’t take them for everything they have—and that every step I take will be within the law. Having had a family member who lived the experience, it just means a little more.”
“I understand,” Kieran told him. She realized that no member of her family had ever had a problem when immigrating—but then, the Finnegans had always been helped along, sponsored and supported by others already in the States.
By 1:00 p.m., she was wondering if Sister Teresa wasn’t one of the most cunning nuns out there, luring her to work with the promise of information. She acknowledged Kieran with a small nod and knowing smile, but didn’t say anything else.
But Kieran didn’t mind being of service. She enjoyed interacting with the people who came through.
Some were lonely. Or they came in couples, or sometimes in families.
Going through a rough patch or battling homelessness could happen to anyone.
One girl let Kieran practice Spanish on her.
A man complimented her—her French accent wasn’t entirely horrible.
People came and went.
But no shy girl. No one with anything to say about a murdered woman and a beautiful infant.
It was nearly 2:00 p.m. when Sister Teresa—while chiding a man for not speaking up that he’d missed out on a great piece of cheese bread—stopped mid-rant and elbowed Kieran in the ribs. “Eleven o’clock,” she announced, as if they were in the military. “Yes, over there. Somebody, please give this good man a piece of Chef Rosello’s cheese bread.”
Kieran looked across the large central room, trying to determine just where eleven o’clock to Sister Teresa might be.
She thought she honed in on the right person.
The woman was tiny—perhaps five feet even and ninety pounds. Her hair wasn’t just blond, but rather like a soft and shimmering platinum. Her face was lovely, a little gamine face with wide cheekbones, a pursed red bow for lips and giant eyes. She was chatting with another woman, and yet it seemed that she looked around nervously as she did so.
She suddenly looked directly at Kieran, staring.
And then she turned and walked away—toward the rear exit of the facility. Kieran was holding a soup ladle. She wasn’t sure just how rude and uncouth it would be to drop the ladle and take off after the stranger.
The petite blonde paused at the exit. She stared pointedly at Kieran again.
At her side, Kieran felt Sister Teresa reach for her ladle. “What? Did you need an engraved invitation? Go on. I’ve got this. She’s the one you want to talk to. And she’s also the one who was here with a very pregnant woman... I’d say that was just about four or five months ago. Get going. She’ll be out of here—afraid of who else may follow her.”
Kieran released the ladle without a word.
The young woman was out the door.
Kieran ripped off her apron and followed just as quickly as she could.
* * *
Detective Lance Kendall arrived at the FBI offices almost at the same time that Mike and Craig made it back from the downtown morgue.
Craig was pleased to see that he was with McBride, a detective he had worked with on the case when he’d first met Kieran.
Kieran would be happy.
“McBride,” he said, and Mike echoed his enthusiasm.
“Yeah, my fed friends, it’s me. Lance was told he had to partner up on this. He asked our lieutenant about me, and I said, those feds are a pain in the ass, but, hey, I know how to work with them. Sure, use me!”
“It’s good to see you—seriously,” Craig told him, and he looked over at Lance Kendall.
Kendall shrugged. “I thought you guys might like me better if I pulled in an old friend.”
“I liked you just fine,” Mike said. “My partner here, Frasier—he’s an ass sometimes.”
“Kieran was involved,” McBride said, and Craig nodded.
“Egan got us a conference room. Let’s head up,” Craig said.
In the office, a large board held the information they had acquired thus far: pictures of the dead woman, and of the baby. Beneath those, the police report from the responding officer, and then the notes Lance Kendall had taken.
There were four folders at seats around the table—each was filled with information on known criminal activities involving immigration, both legal and illegal.
Mike droned out loud about a few of the investigations that the NYC office of the FBI had handled.
Twenty women from mainland Mexico, smuggled across the border in a meat truck, intending to work in an underground sweatshop for a clothing manufacturer.
A Russian bride, basically sold into sexual slavery.
A Latvian woman rescued—along with many others—from a “gentlemen’s” club.
An Eastern European cartel broken; the women brought in had not just been intended for use in high-priced brothels—they’d been used as mules and carried in bags of cocaine. Swallowed so that they wouldn’t be caught with it on them.
And there were more.
Despite any politics from 1776 on, the American dream remained strong.
“Because no matter what, they believe they’ll be better off here than in the poverty and oppression they face elsewhere,” Craig murmured. He was studying his folder. “Here!” he said, looking up at the others. “In 2012, the Brooklyn police arrested a man named Michel Marcus. He was suspected of being a broker in an illegal adoption operation. A woman was found bleeding to death in an alley in the Vinegar Hill area of Brooklyn. She named Marcus and whispered Baggatella—which turned out to be the name of a restaurant—before dying. The medical examiner found that she had given birth just hours before and her death was caused by a severe hemorrhage. Had she just been in a hospital, it would have been stopped in time. The baby was never found, but...” He paused and looked up at the others. “Michel Marcus was found, right where the woman said—in the restaurant.”
“What happened to Marcus? He couldn’t have been working alone,” McBride asked.
“Right—but nothing happened. Because he killed himself in his cell before ever going to trial,” Craig told them. “Police at the time staked out the restaurant, searched, questioned and kept a task force going for a year. They never found another thing—not another baby, nothing. And because legal adoptions are so protected, it can be a very difficult maneuver to look for illegal adoptions.”
“It’s something,” Kendall said.
“It’s more than anything else,” Mike agreed.
“Hell, this has to be it. Michel Marcus couldn’t have been acting alone. That poor woman escaped the house, apartment, abandoned warehouse—wherever she gave birth—in order to stop them. I’m sure she hoped to get her baby back. I doubt if she intended to die, but maybe she was willing to die to stop them.”
“According to the records, though,” Mike said, flipping through his folder, “she only ever gave one name—that of Michel Marcus—and one place, the restaurant. The cops never even knew the name of the deceased woman—no one came forward to claim her body and no one ever found the baby.”
“The restaurant looks like it’s along the lines of a diner—breakfast, lunch and dinner. A pancake place,” Mike said.
Craig stood. “How should we do this? McBride, Kendall? You want to try the restaurant? We’ll talk to the cops who worked the case before. That way it’s the FBI and not Major Crimes asking if they missed something.”
“Oh, great—the feds horning in!” McBride said. “But, yeah, let’s start that way. We can swoop in as sympathetic saviors if you come off as asses!” He grinned and turned to Kendall. “Guess we’re all heading on out to Brooklyn.”
“I’ll let Egan know what we’re doing,” Craig said.
“Text him. The man isn’t a fool—it’s Sunday, so he’s not in his office. I did get a message from him about keeping in touch,” Mike said.
“We’ll all keep in touch,” McBride said grimly. “You want a ride over?”
“We’ll take our own transport—we may be moving around,” Craig said.
Kendall and McBride preceded them out of the office.
Mike collected the folders and told Craig, “Got another message from Egan, too.”
“Yeah?”
“He said to watch you—personal involvements can be dangerous.”
“We’re just going to see some cops. Nothing dangerous about that,” Craig assured him.
“I think he might have been referring to you being dangerous,” Mike said. “So watch the pounding on the guys, huh?”
“I’ll be as good as gold,” Craig promised.
“Oh, yeah. That’s a long shot. Just don’t be an asshole, okay?”
* * *
Kieran rushed to the back entrance—if it could be called rushing. She wove through the crowded room, excusing herself as she pushed by.
When she reached the door, the young woman was gone. For a moment Kieran stood there, frustrated.
And then she thought she saw the woman heading toward Church Street. She raced after her.
She reached the end of the block and paused, inhaling hard to catch her breath. Again, she thought she saw the woman just turning a corner up ahead, except that it seemed the corner was in the middle of the block, and when Kieran reached it, she realized that the young woman had disappeared down an alley.
She hesitated.
It was broad daylight, of course. The alley wasn’t shadowed—there was no reason to believe that dark characters might be lurking there.
But Kieran knew that she needed to be careful. In this case, a woman had been murdered—in broad daylight in the midst of a crowd.
Only an idiot would go down that alley.
Kieran liked to think she wasn’t an idiot.
She had a true feeling—gut intuition—that she was being approached because someone wanted help. They didn’t plan to hurt her.
They needed her to help them.
Of course, Craig would kill her. Not literally—he’d just be disgusted with her lack of common sense and restraint. But she couldn’t worry about that now.
She stepped into the alley.
The old buildings were close together. One was an office building that had probably been erected in the 1890s. The one on the other side had been a residence of some kind. It had been built circa the Civil War, she thought, either right before or right after.
A true treasure—a beautiful little building. Overtaken now by T-shirt shops and possibly apartments, it had a Victorian facade that was absolutely charming and probably seldom noticed.
She came to the end of the alley; four buildings backed onto the narrow space, creating a kind of courtyard. Fire escapes ran down the walls, but there was only one other way out—another alley across the way. A large group of trash and recycling containers were shoved together at odd angles, creating some patches where the homeless had created little houses, lining the hard ground with cardboard boxes and newspapers.
As Kieran blinked against a sudden flare of the sun, she saw that the petite blonde woman was standing at the entrance to the other alleyway.
Right in front of her, there was another woman: taller, about five-eight, and perhaps twenty-five years old. Her hair was a true flaming red—a color Kieran had seldom seen in anyone who wasn’t Irish or of Irish descent. Or, of course, who had bought the color in a box.
She frowned, not thinking that she needed to be afraid in any way, and yet she knew that she had been led to this woman.
“Are you Kieran Finnegan?” the woman said.
Irish. By the inflection of her voice, she was definitely Irish.
“Yes,” Kieran said softly. “And you are?”
“Riley McDonnough, Miss Finnegan. How do you do?” She extended her arms, indicating the trash containers and the makeshift cardboard beds on the ground. “Welcome to my home.”
Kieran hesitated before speaking.
People sometimes came to Finnegan’s from the mother country when they were looking for jobs. Declan was always willing to help—legally. If this woman just needed work...
She swallowed, not wanting to be disappointed. It wasn’t that she—and her family—didn’t want to help newcomers. That was how Declan had met—and fallen in love with—Mary Kathleen.
But this wouldn’t bring her any closer to figuring out who the beautiful baby belonged to.
“You know who I am. You must know, then, that if you just came to Finnegan’s—”
“Oh, no, no. It’s not like that. I am Irish, of course—I suppose you’ve noticed?” Riley McDonnough said, her tone dry. It was impossible not to notice. She had a beautiful brogue.
“Yes, well... If you came to the pub—even as an illegal—we could set things in motion to help you.”
“I’m illegal, but, trust me, there are people out there looking for me, and I would not bring them to your pub.”
Kieran shook her head. “Okay, please explain. I admit to being at a complete loss.”
The tiny blonde woman watching the back alley said something—she spoke in Russian, Kieran thought, recognizing the sound of the language, but not the words.
Riley, however, apparently spoke Russian, as well. She replied in kind.
“Tanya is nervous and wants me to get to the point,” Riley said.
“Yes, which is...?”
“We knew her,” Riley said, and she sounded as if she was choking.
“Knew who?”
“Her name was Alexandra Callas. She was a dear friend. She cared. She tried so hard to help. We tried to get her to leave. She just wouldn’t... There were others, you see?”
“No—I don’t see. Exactly what are you telling me?”
“The woman who came to you, Miss Finnegan,” Riley announced, her brogue growing exceptionally strong. “The poor woman murdered with a knife in her back, right there on the streets of New York. We knew her—she was our friend. And she believed in you!”
* * *
David Beard had been the lead detective on the case when Michel Marcus had been arrested and later died by his own hand in jail.
Beard was about six foot even with close-cropped dark hair, a square man with big shoulders and rough hands—the kind of guy Mike referred to as an “in the trenches” kind of cop. Beard would never wait for backup, Craig thought—he’d plow right in.
The man agreed easily enough to meet with Mike and Craig; he was off duty and hanging out at a neighborhood pool hall that was frequented by cops.
Sitting with the two agents, he told them about a civilian being horrified when they’d seen the young woman bleeding to death in an alley—she’d been found by the early morning employee of a diner who had come out to dump trash. He told them that it had all seemed too easy—before dying, the victim had given them a name.
They’d gotten the guy, all right.
And then Marcus had died without saying a word against another soul.
“I can’t begin to tell you how many man-hours went into the hunt. There was a baby somewhere—we were all passionate. We owed it to the victim to find that baby. You should have heard about it on the news.” Beard shook his head and leaned forward on the table; he had arms like an old-time sailor, full muscles straining at his shirt.
“We probably did,” Mike said, a long breath escaping him. “But whatever we were into at the time was probably pretty heavy, too.”
“Probably,” David Beard said. He had a haggard face, worn from years on the job, but a good smile when he chose to use it. At the moment, he was reflective. “We had to give up. We had nothing but dead ends. Every officer in Brooklyn had been apprised of the case, and nothing. We got nothing.”
“We’re just wondering if you ever took the angle that this woman was illegal, or a refugee, if she’d been smuggled in. We have to keep pursuing that now, since it’s the only lead we’ve got.”
“It’s very possible,” said Beard. “When you have people willing to come here outside the law, they can end up on the wrong side of everything. It isn’t easy getting refugee status.”
One of the guys playing pool had apparently overheard them. Holding his stick while his opponent played, he joined in, saying, “The refugee thing is ongoing. You know, some of the things people are escaping...we can’t even picture. Dictators—including guys we almost never hear about. Or Islam Karimov from Uzbekistan. He’s taken all kinds of prisoners, given them no trial and executed them. There’s even sound evidence that he boiled two prisoners alive. The Gambia’s leader has been known to decapitate gay citizens. Eritrea’s leader—total dictator—known for torturing his prisoners. Hey, there’s a long list out there. People have to come to the States. They’re desperate.”
“And because they’re desperate,” David Beard continued, “they are far too often victims. There are those out there—some who even came from that kind of misery themselves—ready to take advantage of them.”
The waiting pool player added, “We knew that Michel Marcus was just the sprout of the plant on the surface—that there was a system somewhere going really deep. Any of us will gladly help at any time, let me say that. Oh, I’m Holmes, by the way. Detective Holmes. Believe that? It’s my real name. Randy Holmes.”
“Guys, meet my new partner,” David Beard explained. “My previous partner—who I worked with before, on the Marcus case—is retired now. Moved to Arizona. Or somewhere hot. Wherever. Cases like this—still gnawing at my insides—make me want to follow in his footsteps fast.”
Craig glanced over at Mike. It wouldn’t be easy to get in touch with Beard’s old partner and get a second opinion or memory on anything that had happened.
“We all knew there was much more to it. And we were close,” Randy Holmes said, nodding grimly. “I wasn’t a detective yet, but I was with the officers on the ground. We came to a building—a warehouse—right smack on the main street of the Vinegar Hill district, right near where they found the victim. They got a search warrant through some blood found on the door. When we opened it up, though, the place was as clean as a sterile chamber.”
“Who did it belong to?” Craig asked.
“Absentee owner, hadn’t been in the States in two years. He inherited the property from his family, apparently. Wealthy guy.”
“Absentee owner...a foreigner? Does he have a name?” Craig asked.
Beard sniffed loudly. “Foreign? Hell, no. The guy’s name is Smith. James... Jim Smith,” David Beard said. “American as apple pie, so it sounded—or as American as any of us can be. Just rich as Midas. Anyway, there was nothing found—nothing whatsoever. We looked like idiots. His attorney said that his rights had been violated. I’m telling you, though, there was something going on with that place.”
“What is it now? Still an empty warehouse?” Mike asked.
“Hey, Holmes!” another pool player shouted. “Your shot!”
“Excuse me,” Holmes said.
They watched him walk over to the table. He was emotional, worked up from the memory he was sharing, but it seemed to add to his expertise. He made his shot. Balls—the right balls, they noted—flew across the table and into the pockets.
“You play?” Mike asked Craig. “I’ve never seen you play.”
“I’m no shark,” Craig said. He glanced at Mike and shrugged. “Then again, I don’t entirely suck, either.”
“Don’t worry—he’ll clean up the table and come back,” Beard said. “This whole thing is really getting to him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a really good cop. But, as they say sometimes with the guys who don’t have a people way about them, Homicide is really a good place for him. The victims can’t give him their opinions on the world.”
“He has hot opinions, huh?” Mike asked.
“Don’t we all?” Beard asked quietly. There was silence for a minute, and then he said, “Poor kid forgets sometimes that I was lead on it and that it hurt like a son of a gun when we kept coming up against stone walls. It was my case, yeah, but it belonged to every cop in Brooklyn, too, really. We hated it—really hated it—that we couldn’t solve that poor woman’s murder. And that someone did it almost as easily as swatting at a fly and walked away free.”
Observing the pool game, Beard continued.
“We kept an eye on the warehouse—all of us—for a long time. It was used once as a staging house for a parade. And once there were a pack of sailboats stored for a while for a regatta. Apparently, Mr. Smith rents it out for occasions that intrigue him. Kind of disgusting, really,” Detective Beard said. “The kind of money you’d need to own a hunk of property like that in Brooklyn and leave it empty half the time. But the powers that be have kept at it. We tried the old catch-him-on-taxes thing, too. Jim Smith keeps his nose clean—and he stays out of the country and hires exceptional attorneys.”
They spoke for a while longer; Beard promised to have the complete files and anything that he could add sent to their office in Manhattan.
Holmes had cleaned up the pool table.
He headed back over, grabbing Mike and Craig before they could leave.
“You call us and let us know if you need us, day or night,” Detective Holmes said passionately. He handed Craig a card. “I mean it.” He shrugged suddenly, and his tone changed. “I’m one of those lucky guys who knows his family history. Mine came over right around 1900, and my great-granny was a hooker. Most of them died by the time they were forty. Anyway, people using other people and squeezing the life out of them? Pisses me off. And using desperate women for God knows what, and taking their babies? Maybe so that their infants can be sold? Even worse.”
“Some of those kids wind up in rich households, though,” Beard said. “Maybe better off than they would have been.”
Craig thought Holmes was going to explode.
“Adoption is great. When it’s legal. And when the birth mother really intends for the kid to be adopted—not when a baby has practically been ripped from her womb.”
“Thank you both,” Craig said. He looked at Mike, and Mike widened his eyes before nodding.
Yes, let’s get out of here before those two wind up in a full-blown fight!
Out on the street, Mike asked, “You want to go check out the restaurant? See if they missed something? Not that those guys aren’t fully competent, but I know you.”
“Sure. I want to see the restaurant,” Craig said. “Maybe we can join McBride and Kendall for meat loaf. But, first...”
Mike groaned.
“Yep, it’s a trip to Vinegar Hill—to stare at a warehouse.”
“Hopefully we can do more than stare at it.”
“Craig, we can’t get anything thrown out in court on this.”
“Me? You know me. I’d never dream of doing anything except by the book,” Craig said.
Mike groaned again.
“What?” Craig demanded.
“You’re by the book as long as you think you could possibly be caught!”
“The law is a marvelous tool—one just has to be careful how one uses it,” Craig said. “Let’s go. I don’t care how squeaky clean this Jim Smith appears to be. There’s something up with him, and with that warehouse. We just have to figure out what.”