“Okay, but I have people as friends who can see to it that nothing bad happens to you. First, you’ll be protected because we protect people from crime in this country. Plus, you’ll be helping with an investigation, which means everyone will want to help you all the more. There is legal entry to this country—we can make it happen. My family will help. Special Agents Craig Frasier and Mike Dalton and even their boss, Richard Egan, will help. And the cops. Please, let me help you! Let me call Craig. Let me call him right now.”
Tanya suddenly came rushing over to Riley. She spoke in rapid Russian, leaving Kieran unable to understand a single word.
“We have to go,” Riley said.
“No, no, you can’t go—”
“You go, too! Do you want a knife in your back?” Riley demanded.
“Come with me. I’ll stand up with you—”
“Against them? Listen to me, quickly, comprehend,” Riley snapped. “Wait for the nun. She’ll contact you. Now get the hell out of here!”
Tanya was grasping desperately at Riley’s hand. Riley let the young Russian woman pull her hard toward the other alley, back the way Kieran had come from.
They were almost out of the alley when Riley shouted back to Kieran again. “Run!”
It was daylight, a bright day. A beautiful spring day with a powder blue sky and brilliant sun.
And yet it appeared that the largest, darkest shadow suddenly appeared at the top of the alley across the courtyard.
Kieran’s heart thudded.
The killer? Killers?
Riley had warned her; she had to go. She was standing in a small, deserted alleyway, and these people had already killed in the midst of a crowd. They wouldn’t hesitate to leave her dead among the sad cardboard “houses” and rubbish of the alley.
She turned and ran.
* * *
The warehouse in Vinegar Hill was just that—a squat, ugly building with a main entry in the middle of the block and its giant arms reaching out to just about the ends of the block on both sides. Only one quaint old residence ruined the building holding court on all of the address; it was a colonial with a historical marker on it—the kind that made you happy someone had tried to preserve something of the past somewhere along the line.
There was a small gap of space—enough for two slim people to walk abreast—between the walls of the house and the warehouse. The rear of the warehouse backed to a broader alley with broken pavement and bracken coming through what had been—or could still be—a delivery entrance.
Mike and Craig walked around the warehouse several times.
Craig was surprised that the place offered ground-floor windows; peering in through one of the filthy panes in the front, he surmised that the bottom floor had been something of a machine shop. A few of the machines remained.
There were broken windows here and there—no one had cared much for the property in a long time.
“So we think that at one time, our killers were keeping women here? Illegal immigrants, pregnant women among them,” Craig said thoughtfully, looking up at the massive building.
“This just doesn’t look like a place where anyone could keep anyone else alive,” Mike murmured.
“Let’s see if they’re paying electric and water bills,” Craig suggested, starting to reach for his phone.
“I’m on it—calling our number one tech boy,” Mike said. He was referring to Marty Kim.
“On a Sunday?” Craig asked.
“It’s Marty—he’ll answer,” Mike assured him.
Marty did. “Hey, Marty! It’s Mike Dalton. Yeah, actually, I know you know by the caller ID, but, you know, thought it might be polite to identify myself.”
Craig walked up and down the street, studying the building. A young woman—bleeding to death from childbirth, unattended by any physician—had died right by the place.
Something had gone on here.
Absentee owner. Jim Smith. Out of the country—could claim he hadn’t been involved in anything. If criminals had used his property, he could say he didn’t know. He hadn’t been in the States. People break in. Why hadn’t the cops been on it?
Craig hurried back to Mike. “Ask Marty to do a thorough search for us on Jim Smith—the guy who owns the property.”
“The absentee owner?”
“Yes.”
Mike repeated Craig’s request to Marty. He listened to Marty’s reply and then looked at Craig and said, “He wants you to know that there are probably hundreds of men named Jim Smith.”
“He just wants us to appreciate him. I know Marty. He can narrow it down in a matter of seconds—the owner of this building. Talk nice to him. Tell him we owe him dinner.”
“We owe him overtime,” Mike muttered, but repeated Craig’s offer.
Craig walked past the front of the warehouse building while Mike waited on the phone. It was fronted by a storage facility and an office building. Across the street kitty-corner to his left was a gas station; to his right, there was a parking facility.
Few people would be in the office building on a Sunday, he reasoned, but checking with some workers might not be a bad idea.
“The building is under Boswell Management Corporation—they handle all rentals for Jim Smith. Yes, electric and water bills are paid—promptly and on time.” Mike spoke a little breathlessly, after chasing to catch up with Craig.
“I want to get into this building,” Craig said.
“The cops served a search warrant here. They brought all kinds of personnel and crime scene technicians. They didn’t find anything. It’s ego to think that we might do better.”
“I’m not thinking about doing better,” Craig said. “I want to put my mind in the head of whoever is running all this—figure out the real plan, the main plan—or where the hell they went from here.”
“I don’t see any reason...”
“I do. Broken window—the pane there really smashed. We thought we saw someone slipping into the building, maybe hiding out or trespassing.”
“Craig, there’s nothing going on in there now,” Mike said. “We can’t lose this one when it gets to the courts.”
“Right.”
Mike’s phone rang. He answered it quickly. “Yeah, yeah, yeah...wow. Go figure. We’re going to have to work on getting down to the truth on that one. All right. Thanks, Marty. You are a true scholar and gentleman, however that saying goes. And yes, we owe you dinner.”
Mike hung up and looked at Craig. “Our Mr. Smith was part of a bank inquiry a few months ago. Apparently, he supposedly arrived in his private jet and headed into his bank to get something out of his vault. One of the employees was disturbed by the way he looked and acted—he was pushy and rude and in a real hurry—but by the time she got her manager, Smith was gone. They reviewed the security footage, but when they tracked him down to verify his appearance at the bank, he was already out of the country, out of contact.”
“And where did he go?” Craig asked.
“Cuba. From Cuba, he wrote in and swore that he had been the one to arrive at the bank. Naturally, they wanted him in person, and he was indignant. He’s a busy man. He’d be happy to remove all of his business from their bank. Since it was just the assertion of one teller, it was at that point that they all decided to let it go. People studied the surveillance footage, and the man’s face, and apparently they came to the conclusion that he was one and the same. The teller was let go—hey, we all know that money talks. Of course, if someone had wanted to pursue it, they would have hit a stone wall.”
“Cuba. Getting to find out if the real Jim Smith is there might be difficult. Or impossible. Doesn’t mean we can’t see that his assets are frozen,” Craig said.
“Not going to happen. According to the powers that be, he proved himself real. Call Egan. I’ll drive. I want to get on this Jim Smith thing.”
> “Right.”
Craig called Egan.
Then, realizing the time that had gone by, he put through a call to Kieran. Her phone rang and rang. She didn’t answer.
Worried, he called the pub.
Mary Kathleen answered. “Ah, hello there, Craig. And how are you doing this fine day?”
“I’m good, Mary Kathleen. Is Kieran there?”
“She’s at the soup kitchen.”
“Yes, I know she went there, but she’s not back yet?”
“I’m not expecting her for maybe another hour. It’s wonderful that she’s helping, Craig. Just wonderful. They needed me today, but we had a reservation for a group of Shriners coming in, and while Kieran may be an owner, I’m way better on the floor than she is, so I’m grateful she took my place.”
“I’m sure she’s happy to be doing it,” Craig said. He still wished that he could speak with her. “If you see her, have her call me.”
“Indeed. Ah, and the roast is especially fine today, my friend! Hope you’re coming around when the day is done!”
He assured her that he would. And hoped he’d find Kieran there.
He hung up.
“Buddy,” Mike said.
“Yeah?” Craig looked over at his partner.
“She’s a very smart, savvy woman who has handled many a situation brilliantly before,” Mike assured him.
Kieran was all those things. That’s why he worried. She could have been a detective. She knew people, too. Better than he did sometimes, though he prided himself—silently, of course—on his ability to read lies from the truth.
She really had a lot of intuition and curiosity...
Enough to get herself into all kinds of dangerous situations.
* * *
There were times when a situation just called for it—a time to run.
Kieran ran.
She burst out of the opposite alleyway, not sure where she wound up at first, but familiar enough with the neighborhood to head straight toward Broadway. Once she reached Broadway, all she had to do was get to Finnegan’s.
She turned around to look behind her on the street.
She saw a woman with a stroller, and a man walking along hand-in-hand with a little boy.
A pair of young lovers laughed and teased as they held hands, too, bumping into one another as they walked, pausing for a kiss.
And older woman with a veil on seemed to be headed for church.
No one appeared to be the least bit dangerous.
Was there really a baby in the stroller?
Were the young lovers really lovers—or assassins?
Okay, it was crazy if she was going to start suspecting everyone on the street. For that matter, she’d never be able to go out again. The paranoia had to end.
She forced herself to slow her gait.
There was indeed a baby in the stroller.
The lovers seemed to be in love.
She dashed along the street, panting.
People barely noticed her. It was New York City, after all.
She reached the pub and raced into it, and then closed the door and leaned against it, desperate to regain some of her breath.
She wasn’t sure what to do.
Call Craig right away. Tell him.
What if the nun didn’t call her? What if she never heard from either of the women again?
Mary Kathleen saw her by the door and hurried over to her. “All done for the day at Soup du Jour? Was it busy? Are you enjoying it?”
“Ah—yes! Very much. Sister Teresa is really something, isn’t she?” she asked.
“She is a force of nature, that she is,” Mary Kathleen said. “Well, it’s at a nice low roar here. The roast is really fine today. Are you hungry?”
Actually, she was starving.
“I am, but I guess I should wait. I assume that Craig will be coming. He isn’t here already, is he?”
“No, but he called. Please call him right away. Table eleven needs a check—I’ve got to be running it over. Call Craig. Now, please! He’ll think I forgot to tell you. Well, I did forget to tell you right away, but...”
She waved a hand in the air and went on to take table eleven their check.
Kieran whipped out her phone and noticed that she’d missed a call from Craig just a little while earlier. She quickly dialed.
He answered on the first ring and guilt riddled through her. The tone of his voice was filled with worry.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine. Absolutely fine,” she assured him. She was going to tell him—just maybe not the whole thing. Maybe she would say that Riley and Tanya had run off quickly and she hadn’t been able to stop them. That had been true. She certainly didn’t have the physical power to tackle both women. But she didn’t want to lie to Craig. What she needed was a moment to process what had just happened. Better to tell him in person, anyway.
“I’m hungry, though. I hear this pub has an exceptional roast today. When do you think you’re going to get here?”
“Soon, but don’t wait for me if you’re hungry. Go ahead and get something to eat. Mike will probably come with me. Save us some food, eh?”
“Yep—I’ll see we have a couple of servings kept aside,” she told him.
“We won’t be too long.” He hesitated on the other end. “I may have a few things to tell you. I mean, I don’t know where we are yet, but I think we’re actually on a very old case. Tell you about it when we get there.”
“Great. I have some things to tell you, too,” she said, and then added quickly, “See you soon.”
She hung up before he could reply.
She threaded her way through the tables to the back, eager to reach the kitchen.
In charge in back was Chef Rory O’Bannon, a tall, red-cheeked, white-haired, powerhouse of determination who had arrived in the country about ten years earlier, hailing from County Cork. Kieran’s dad had hired Rory; he was like family now.
Working with him were the grill cooks he’d hired, brothers named Pedro and Javier Marcos, and they hailed from where they considered to be the “very far south of Ireland—Puerto Rico.” Pedro and Javier had been there for over five years, and everyone loved the brothers. No, they weren’t even a little Irish. Declan thought that the combo was absolutely perfect—it made Finnegan’s a truly Irish American pub. The cooks kept their customers very happy. Any of the three would happily make a change on a plate for a customer with an allergy, a diet or a simple dislike of something. After all, their menu wasn’t for surgery, Rory was quick to remind them all. It was quite all right to change things up.
She hurried on into the kitchen and was startled when Rory swept her up in a hug. “Hav’na seen you back here in a wee bit, Kieran, lass. What would you like?”
“Roast, of course!” she told him. “And I need a favor. Craig is coming and bringing Mike. If it looks like we’re starting to run out, hold a couple of servings, please.”
“A pleasure for the lads. How are they doing on that murdered woman?” Chef asked her. “They must be investigatin’, right? Else the lad would be with you on a Sunday, girl, eh?”
“They’re working it. We’ll find out soon enough how they’re doing,” Kieran said.
Chef Rory was moving about, fixing her a plate with far too much food. There was no way out of it; she accepted the loaded plate.
Pedro and Javier swept by quickly to give her hugs. They chided her, telling her that she didn’t stop in the kitchen often enough, though it was all right. They knew she had work.
It was good to be part-owner of a pub, and she usually loved the camaraderie. But since she was really hungry and needed some space to think about her encounter with Riley and Tanya, she thanked the cooks, swept by the bar to deliver a peck on Declan’s cheek and grab a soda, and then headed i
nto the solitary quiet of the back office.
She opened Declan’s office computer. She had no plan in mind at the moment—she just had to figure out how she was going to tell Craig everything she knew without sounding as if she had ever put herself in danger. And also wait for Sister Teresa to call her.
She wondered if Sister Teresa knew that she was supposed to be getting in touch with her. Maybe she should finish up and hurry back to the soup kitchen. Kieran didn’t actually know the address of Sister Teresa’s convent, though she doubted that it would be difficult to find.
She wondered, too, just how much Sister Teresa knew about Tanya, Riley, the imprisoned Yulia and the poor dead woman, Alexandra.
Kieran decided not to use the computer, but she drew out a notepad and started writing, hurriedly eating with her other hand. She began with the baby being thrust into her arms. She created a picture, with the King as a stick figure, minions beneath him on one side, and his prisoners on the other.
She thought of so many more questions she should have asked.
The King: What did he look like? Did he speak with an accent? Did he have a real business, or was he exclusively a criminal?
She stood up.
She had to see Sister Teresa and find out exactly what, if anything, she knew.
Hurrying out to the dining room, she saw that Mary Kathleen was with Declan at the bar; all seemed quiet and in control for the moment.
She wished that Mary Kathleen wasn’t standing next to Declan. There was something about her brother. Maybe it was just that he was the oldest. She found it very hard to lie in front of him.
“Craig is still out working on a Sunday?” Declan asked. “You have him running ragged.”
Kieran forced a smile. “Hey, the man chose to be an agent. Anyway, I figure the soup kitchen is closed now, Mary Kathleen, but I’m pretty sure I left my scarf there, and I’m willing to bet that Sister Teresa picked it up for me. Can you tell me where to find her now?”
“She might be at mass, but you can head to the convent. It’s within walking distance—for the young and energetic, anyway—not far off Church Street. Here...” Mary Kathleen scribbled the address on a cocktail napkin and handed it to Kieran.