Flawless

  “One day,” Craig murmured, “I’m going to have to go in there.”

  She smiled, feeling his hand at the small of her back as they climbed the stairs.

  “You enjoy karaoke?” she asked, slightly incredulous.

  “Can’t sing a note, but yeah, I love a karaoke bar. Do you know the owners?”

  “Yes, and they’re a lovely couple. He’s Chinese and she’s Japanese. A lot of their customers sing in Japanese and Chinese. Their food is very good, too.”

  “That’s got to be a date night sometime in the future,” he said.

  Date?

  Didn’t a date always follow sleeping together?

  At her door, she undid the double locks. As soon as they were inside and she’d resecured the dead bolts, she turned and found herself in his arms. As breathless and turned on as she was, she pulled away, suddenly embarrassed.

  “I—I need a shower,” she murmured. “Too much beer, whiskey and white sauce. And,” she added drily, “sweat.”

  “As you wish,” he said.

  She stripped hastily, leaving a trail of clothing for him to follow as she hurried into the shower.

  And follow he did.

  She felt his arms around her and heard him whisper in her ear, “Lots of soap, hot water, steam...”

  His voice trailed off. For a brief moment she winced, imagining what he might have said, considering the way his morning had started off.

  So much blood.

  She turned in his arms. The day had been long and difficult for both of them. And now, somehow, despite it all, they were one another’s reward for enduring, for making their way through those endless hours.

  Sharing a shower with him was wonderfully sensual.

  Steam...

  Soap...

  Slippery lather, lips and kisses and hands everywhere...

  And then laughter when she dropped the soap and they both reached to get it, clunked their heads together and staggered. She nearly fell into the exposed pipes.

  He caught her, and with one look into each other’s eyes, they mutually agreed that their shower was done.

  Which was fine.

  Because there were towels whose softness became erotically charged as they slowly dried each other while walking slowly into the bedroom, where, lips locked once again, he angled her backward until the backs of her knees hit the bed. She fell onto the mattress, and he came down atop her in a tangle of towels. They wriggled out of the towels and into one another, breathless, whispering incoherently and touching clean, hot flesh.

  Relationship...

  Could it really be?

  Or was it sex...the circumstances...the world of wonder he’d seemed to open?

  For these moments, at least...

  Sex.

  He was a practiced lover, balancing arousal and tenderness with a fire that quickly escalated into passion and urgency. She felt his lips everywhere, intimately, his hands caressing her, and the size and heft of him against her seemed to make her skin spark with something electric. She moved against him and with him, and felt the delicious waves of heat rise within her until she climaxed with such a surge that it seemed the night literally broke into stars. She lay beside him thinking that there were so many secrets between them, it ought to be impossible to feel so close, so much as if they were one, if only for those moments, and yet she did feel close, closer than she’d ever felt to anyone else.

  He held her gently in the aftermath of what had seemed so wickedly wild and urgent. But, she reminded herself, there seemed to be multiple facets to him on every level—the stoic agent who loved gaming, so strong and serious, then filled with laughter when a bar of soap fell.

  She could fall in love with a man like that....

  Oh, no, no, no.

  Like was fine right now.

  Lust was definitely in the picture.

  He rose up on an elbow to look down at her. “You’re remarkable,” he said.

  She flushed. “I’m not at all sure that’s true. But,” she added, touching his face, “I’m very happy you feel that way.”

  As if by mutual agreement, they didn’t talk about the day, about jails, criminals, victims or diamonds.

  They murmured little nothings to one another.

  They made love again. And finally, ridiculously spent physically and mentally, they fell asleep at virtually the same time.

  Once again, however, they were woken by the strident sound of Craig’s phone.

  He answered it, listened tensely and turned to her.

  “You have to go?” she said. “Not another—not another robbery and murder?”

  “We have to go,” he told her.

  There was something in his voice. Something that frightened her.

  She sat up, tension filling her. “One of my brothers?” she asked in a whisper.

  He shook his head, and relief filled her. Then he spoke, and her relief drained away.

  “No, not one of your brothers. But I think you’re going to want to come with me. It’s Bobby O’Leary.”

  Her heart seemed to stop. “He’s—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  “He was attacked last night. Just the other side of the block from Finnegan’s, by the old St. Augustine’s Church. I’ll drop you at the hospital on my way.”

  * * *

  Craig met up with Mike at the crime scene.

  The police had roped off the area, and a crime-scene unit was searching it.

  People gathered around but then, realizing there wasn’t a body or anything else exciting to be seen, moved on quickly.

  The crime scene was the small remaining parcel of churchyard that belonged to St. Augustine’s of the Fields. While not as old as Trinity and St. Paul’s, St Augustine’s was, in Craig’s eyes, both beautiful and fascinating. At a time when what was now downtown was pretty much the entire city and Wall Street was the site of a real wall built to protect the original settlers, the little church of St. Augustine’s was actually in a field, thus the name.

  There were no graves left in the little yard. While a few revered priests rested in coffins inside altars inside the church, those consigned to the graveyard had long ago been moved out to a Catholic cemetery in Queens.

  The churchyard still retained some beautiful sculptures, though. There were a Madonna and Child, a huge winged angel of victory, a weeping cherub and more. A few little concrete benches sat about, making the area, inside its two-foot stone wall, a peaceful, if small, place for contemplation.

  Detective Mayo was there, standing just inside the low stone wall. Craig and Mike flashed their badges to the men in uniform guarding the area, then passed through the narrow wooden gate—though they could have stepped over the wall—and joined him.

  “I called you in on this,” Mayo told them, “because I pushed myself in on it since it happened so close to Miss Finnegan’s family pub. I know you guys don’t usually show up for a mugging. Hell, I don’t usually show up for a mugging, since sadly, as we all know, a mugging in Manhattan isn’t considered a major crime. But given that Kieran Finnegan has been unwittingly involved in two recent crimes and works at the family pub sometimes, I thought you two would be interested.”

  “Good call,” Craig said. “Not to mention Bobby O’Leary is an acquaintance—almost a friend, I guess,” he said, glancing at Mike.

  “A friend,” Mike agreed. “We spent a lot of last night talking with him.” He looked at Craig. “When did he leave?”

  “Right at closing,” Craig said. “The very tail end of the night. The streets were almost empty, a few cars and cabs on the road, some people still out, but it was quiet.”

  Thinking back, he could easily see how a mugger could have emerged from the shadows to attack Bobby.

  “M
y sense is this,” Mayo said. “Someone knew when the pub closed and that O’Leary tended to stay till the bitter end. Our mugger waited here, in the shadows, behind this wall. O’Leary wouldn’t have been worried about anything—probably walks this same way most nights of the week. Thing is, I doubt your usual mugger hides out in an old churchyard hoping someone will go by. I think Bobby was targeted.”

  “He’s hanging in, right?” Mike asked.

  “Tough old bird, so yeah, he’s hanging in,” Mayo said. “A crack to the head—forensics already told me he got a beating with a piece of wing broken off that angel over there—and some major bruising. The mugger might even have left him for dead. Anyway, Father Christopher—over there, on the church steps—came in about five this morning and found him. He called 911 right away.”

  Craig looked over at Father Christopher. He was a young priest, somber as he watched the action around him.

  “Kaley, what ya got?” Mayo called, addressing one of the young women in a crime-scene coverall.

  She rose from the patch of grass she’d been inspecting and headed their way.

  “I don’t know if what we’ve got helps much. We’ve found gum stuck under all the benches, not to mention on a few angels. Some candy wrappers, some beer cans...going to be hard to prove anything based on what we’re finding. I’m pretty sure the attacker wore gloves, anyway. That piece of angel wing has blood on it, but it’s going to be the victim’s. There are no prints on it at all. We already tested. If he didn’t wear gloves, he wiped it clean.”

  “Of course he did,” Mayo said, shaking his head.

  Craig looked from Kaley to the small churchyard.

  “Okay,” he said, “so Bobby O’Leary was walking down the street. The attacker, maybe even more than one, was waiting behind the wall—probably in the shade of that massive cherub over there.”

  “That’s my thought, and it looks like it, the way the grass is trampled,” Kaley said.

  “Then the mugger grabbed Bobby and dragged him over the wall,” Craig said.

  She nodded. “Yep. Scrape marks on the stone.”

  “And then the bastard bashed him,” Mike finished.

  “Exactly.” Mayo nodded grimly. “Like I said, this was a planned attack.”

  “Do you think the mugger meant to kill him?” Mike asked quietly.

  “In my opinion, yes,” Mayo said. “That broken wing was one wicked weapon. If they’d struck him just a bit differently, he would be dead. You see why I called you. And,” he added, “the kicker is, Bobby O’Leary was found with his wallet in his pocket with all his credit cards and a couple hundred in cash.”

  * * *

  Kieran hurried straight up to see Bobby. He was in the critical care unit, though, and she was stopped by a nurse before she could enter the hallway to his room.

  “Are you family?” the nurse—Emily, according to her name tag—asked.

  Kieran found herself glad that this woman was like a bulldog when it came to protecting her patients.

  “Yes,” Kieran lied quickly. They were like family, and in the circumstances that would have to be good enough. “I’m his niece.”

  She didn’t know why she’d added that; the lie she’d given would have been sufficient. Bobby really didn’t have family, and at Finnegan’s, people became family.

  “He’s in and out of consciousness and there’s a cop waiting to take a statement from him—assuming he’s ever able to give one. He’s in pretty serious shape. I’m not allowed to give details—you’ll have to talk to the doctor for those. You’re not to distress him in any way. I’ve told the cops that, too. His life comes before anything else. You understand me?”

  Kieran nodded, and Emily escorted her down the hallway.

  There was a cop seated before the door, a copy of the New York Times in his hand. He stood as they approached.

  “Vic, this is O’Leary’s niece. She may sit there and hold his hand. If she starts to bother him in any way, shoot her.” She winked.

  “I promise not to disturb him in any way.”

  “Good. I try not to shoot people in hospitals,” the cop told her. Then he winked, too.

  Bobby was almost as pale as the sheets. His head was wrapped in what looked like a white turban.

  She sat next to him, staring at the array of monitors attached to him and the IV that flowed into his veins.

  Poor Bobby.

  How the hell—why the hell—had this happened to him?

  His eyes were closed. She didn’t try to speak to him. His hand lay on the white sheet. She saw the gnarled old flesh and the spattering of liver spots. He had long fingers, calloused from a life of hard work.

  She slipped her fingers around his and held his hand with no pressure, but with what she hoped was reassuring warmth.

  She was sure he didn’t even know she was there.

  Then he squeezed her fingers.

  She looked quickly at his face. His eyes were still closed.

  But he had responded to her.

  She sat back, grateful that he was alive. She was happy just to sit there and stay with him.

  She heard a commotion in the hall and recognized Danny’s voice.

  She rose, still holding Bobby’s hand, and tried to signal the police officer. “My brother. Um, Bobby’s nephew!”

  A moment later Danny was there. “He’s—he’s hanging in?” he asked anxiously.

  She nodded.

  Danny went to Bobby’s other side and carefully took his other hand. A moment later, he looked at Kieran with relief. “He squeezed.”

  “Yeah,” she said softly.

  It wasn’t long before Declan and Mary Kathleen arrived, and then Kevin. That was okay. They were family; even Declan had come in with the lie on his lips.

  Poor Nurse Emily was having a fit. Only two people could be in the room, and that was that. And so they rotated, two of them in with Bobby, the others drinking coffee and pacing the waiting room.

  Hours went by.

  A doctor came in at last and spoke with them. Bobby had a skull fracture; the big fear was water on the brain. He and the rest of the team wanted to wait before taking further steps. They would only operate if it was Bobby’s only chance, because the operation came with serious risks.

  “What can we do?” Kieran asked.

  “If you’re the praying sort, then pray,” the doctor told them.

  “We’re Irish. We’re good at that,” Danny said. He looked over at Kieran, his expression anguished. “We’re great at praying—and guilt,” he said softly.

  She felt her stomach flip.

  Did Danny know something about what had happened to Bobby? Or, worse, about the robberies—and the murders?

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  RICHARD EAGAN CALLED an emergency interdepartmental task force meeting that morning, laying out flatly what they knew, what might be circumstantial, what they surmised—and what every law enforcement agency in the city needed to be looking out for.

  The FBI, the US Marshals Service, city and state police, and Homeland Security were all involved.

  Craig wasn’t sure if he was glad to be appointed—with Mike—as colead on the investigation, seeing as they didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

  Except Finnegan’s, he thought unhappily.

  And, of course, he was left to field questions such as, “What are we supposed to do? Stop and question anyone who’s wearing a hoodie?”

  After the Q and A, he wrapped up with an overview of what he did want everyone to do.

  “Watch for individuals in hoodies behaving in a suspicious manner. I want the surveillance footage from all the robberies shown at every agency, so every man and woman out there is aware of who and what to look for. We’re also posting twen
ty-four-hour surveillance in the Diamond District and at a rotating selection of jewelry stores across the city that carry high-end diamonds. We’re working on a theory that the killers stalked the foursome that we apprehended last Monday in order to learn and copycat their MO. We have a partially complete list of places where the original thieves met and did some of their strategizing, places where the copycats might have eavesdropped on them. We’ll have people at these locations, too, questioning staff to see if anyone noticed something that might help us, then cross-referencing that information looking for repeat customers, so to speak. We’ve already collected a massive amount of information, and you’ll all have access to those files.”

  Mike said a few words next, and then Eagan spoke again when he was done. Everyone filed out a few minutes later, leaving the three FBI agents alone in the room.

  Craig didn’t wait to consult with the others; he pulled out his phone and dialed Kieran’s number.

  She didn’t answer.

  He dialed the hospital and found that there had been no change in Bobby O’Leary’s condition.

  He realized, as he hung up, that his director and partner were staring at him. “Checking on O’Leary,” he said.

  “Could have nothing to do with any of this,” Eagan said.

  “But it does. Somehow, I know it does,” Craig said.

  “Can we really afford to work off our guts on this one?” Eagan asked.

  “Can we afford not to?” Craig asked in response, feeling a little desperate because he hadn’t reached Kieran.

  “All right, I guess I need to trust you on this. You’re a good agent, Craig. You and Mike are a crack team, which is why I put you on lead. Follow the evidence and your gut wherever they take you. Just solve this thing,” Eagan said.

  He left the conference room. Mike and Craig were left alone.

  “You really think the killers hang out at Finnegan’s?” Mike asked.

  “I think something is going on there.”

  “Think the Finnegans are involved?”

  “No!” Craig protested, knowing even as he spoke that he sounded defensive.