“It’s all right. We are going to get them. Especially if you start talking to me,” he told her.
She nodded. “I just...”
“There’s no just. Kieran, seriously, you’re not a trained agent. Or cop. Please.”
“Yes, yes,” she whispered.
They stared at each other for a moment.
He let out a breath of serious frustration.
Then he suddenly swept her up into his arms.
She smiled wider and held on tight.
Make-up sex after an argument seemed like a damned good way to make sure they’d really made up.
CHAPTER NINE
Kevin Finnegan—a fine and respected actor in the community, as well as part-time pub-keeper—had once told Craig that if the law-enforcement thing hadn’t worked out for him, he might have joined the ranks of entertainers.
Craig wasn’t so sure about that, but he’d never been against going undercover and in disguise. In fact, when he’d first met Kieran, he’d had a good dose of her infamous Irish temper when he’d worked in disguise.
Thankfully, his disguise had been instrumental in breaking the case.
A disguise for a soup kitchen wasn’t difficult. He was exceptionally good with whiskers, mustaches, beards and spirit gum. He could look like the dregs of the earth—or just like someone who had fallen on really hard times. The kind of person who would try to get a toothbrush and a bar of soap over a bottle of whiskey.
Or not.
Mike was joining the other workers on the soup line—just doling out food and chatting, much like any other volunteer.
Not that he would have been needed that day.
Sister Teresa had been really loved and respected. Craig wished he had known her.
The news was out that she had died, and everyone seemed to have a story about her. Every shared remembrance was about a good woman. Not one who was continually soft-spoken and gentle, but the kind of mentor who would lay it out flat—call it as she saw it—and create change with the sheer force of her will.
She had lived many years—a full life.
Still, was it possible that she had been murdered?
“Sir, there’s water over here, and coffee is that line, there.”
An older fellow in the food line pointed out directions for Craig. “Are you all right?” the man asked.
“Just thinking about Sister Teresa,” Craig said softly.
The man made the sign of the cross over his chest. “Amen. Those in need flocked to her, son. She’ll be dearly missed. Every now and then, I see someone come in here with a look on their face like they’ve just been hit in the head—they didn’t know until they got here that she’s gone. Like the girl there...or those two that just came in.”
Craig turned casually. He was careful not to twitch or move a wrong muscle.
The one was tiny and blonde.
The other was taller with flaming red hair.
It was, of course, possible that neither woman was one of Kieran’s new friends. But, as they walked in and searched out those working the soup line, they seemed to be full of confusion and dismay. He saw someone come to talk to them—a man with ill-kept facial hair and worn, dirty clothing. The two women listened to him; Craig saw tears spring to their eyes.
Then they looked at the serving line—and they seemed to be afraid.
The redhead gave the man with whom she’d been speaking a big hug, and then she linked arms with the tiny blonde.
They turned and went back out the way they’d come in.
Craig set down his bowl and stepped out of the line, hurrying after the young women.
* * *
Kieran truly worked for the nicest people in the world. They were, in fact, so nice, that she almost felt she worked with magnanimous puppets that might have been created at a Jim Henson fabrication facility.
Dr. Fuller was good-looking, had a beautiful wife, played tennis, attended PTA meetings—and worked with hardened criminals.
Dr. Miro was a small woman, single, energetic as a flash of lightning, and enthusiastic about learning history and gleaning any knowledge that came her way. She, too, worked with hardened criminals, sometimes the worst of the worst: serial killers, psychopaths, ruthless and remorseless.
But as bosses, they were just great to work for.
“Listen, you know that in a time like this you are certainly allowed to take whatever time you feel you need to take,” Dr. Miro told her firmly.
“A baby! Thrust into your arms!” Dr. Fuller exclaimed.
“And a woman, stabbed in the back right on the street in front of you!” Dr. Miro added.
“We’ve been watching the news, of course,” Dr. Fuller said. “Since your beau is working on the case, you’re surely up to your neck in it all, as well.”
Kieran bit her lip to hide a smile. She hadn’t heard a boyfriend or significant other referred to as a beau in a very long time.
“I know—you two are wonderful. I so appreciate it. But I had one important appointment on my calendar—Besa Goga. Her court date is coming up and I need to speak with her again. She’s had a tough life, and I still don’t believe she’s really grasped the fact that she can’t bite people—that she will wind up in the court system again and again,” Kieran said.
Dr. Fuller looked at his watch. “She’s due now?”
“Any minute,” Kieran told him.
“Okay, well, you know that we’re here for you,” Dr. Miro said.
“Thank you. I’ll finish here with Besa today, and then meet up with Craig,” Kieran assured them.
They left her; a moment later, Besa was at her door.
Besa Goga had once been a victim, similar to the women they were seeking. She’d been a teenager when she arrived in New York City on a ship, Eastern European by birth—according to her, she wasn’t even sure which country she was from, it had all been part of the USSR when she had left, and the language that she spoke was Russian.
Her parents had been political activists and had been “disappeared” by the regime. Her aunt, whom she’d never seen or heard from again, had put her on the ship bound for America, in order to protect her.
She’d been semi-adopted by one of the workers on the ship. She’d been vulnerable. He, in turn, had put her to work.
By her sixteenth birthday, she’d been pimped out to hundreds of men. She’d learned to deceive and steal—and she’d gotten hooked on the drugs she’d been dealing.
Caught stealing, she’d been brought into family court, and there, a kindly judge had seen to it that she’d received a second chance.
She used it, getting a job cleaning bathrooms in office buildings and putting herself through school at the same time. She’d become a dental assistant, applied for and been granted American citizenship, and married another immigrant, Jose Sanchez, from Madrid.
The two didn’t have children.
They did have a nice home in Queens.
Two cats in the yard... Kieran thought, the sound of the song in her head.
But Besa had a temper. She had gotten in trouble once for beating the man from the water company over the head with a loaf of bread.
This time, she’d bitten the cable man because he’d told her that the problem with the cable was her fault—she’d spilled something in the cable box.
Despite the fact that her sessions with Kieran had been court ordered, she’d been extremely forthcoming and honest.
Apparently, the cable man had deserved biting. He’d accused her of stupidity.
Besa now had iron-gray hair that she wore in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. She had gray eyes, too, and a face with broad handsome cheekbones and a generous mouth. She was fit—not skinny, but wiry—and she loved jogging, she had once told Kieran. Jogging used up all the “angry” that she was feeling; it made h
er happy.
Kieran told her that was very good.
“So!” Besa said. “I am good, yes?”
Kieran laughed softly. “Please, Besa, have a seat. Let’s chat for a few minutes.”
“We’ve chatted. I like you. I like chatting with you. But life must go on. I am a busy woman.”
“Yes, I know. Work and jogging. Here’s the thing—I have to file a report. You know that. And I have to be convinced that you understand that you can’t bite anyone because you’re mad at the cable company.”
Besa took a seat across from Kieran’s desk and smiled at her. “I do understand that. Perfectly. I will wind up arrested. I could do time for that—in prison,” she said, her eyes widening. “So I will not bite anyone. I promise that I will not bite anyone.”
“The next time you think that a cable man is being nasty to you...?”
“I will not bite him!” Besa swore. “I will scratch the blood out of him instead!” she announced.
“Besa—”
“Kidding! Just kidding. There, you see, that’s the point. I understand now. I have to control my temper. We have worked on this anger management. Breathe! I will breathe. I will walk away. I will not resort to violence of any kind.”
Kieran was supposed to be good at reading people.
She wasn’t sure she believed Besa.
She leaned forward. “You’re joking, yes, of course. Very funny. Except, Besa, it isn’t funny. Because if you do such a thing again, you might wind up in a mental ward or doing some time. Please, do you understand?”
Besa nodded. “Oh, Kieran. Yes, honestly. I knew it then. He just made me so mad. And he was swinging his arm around and around—and I just bit it. I know... I do know that I mustn’t do those things. I just...well, you know... I do have problems. I dream that I can go back and...and hurt the people who hurt me.”
“I know that your past was horrible, Besa. But you can’t become horrible because of that. You broke out of the horror—so many people wind up dead, Besa.”
“Like the woman on the street.”
Of course, everyone in the city had heard about the murder.
“We don’t know much about that yet, Besa. But...yes, it seems she was probably an immigrant, and maybe she was about to blow the whistle on someone abusing others.”
“Terrible, terrible,” Besa said. “And I heard there was a baby, too. What about that baby?”
“The baby is with Child Services. It’s being looked after.”
“The woman—did she suffer?”
“Yes, of course. But, she died. In that, I suppose, death does end all suffering. Besa, we have to work on you. You’ve made incredible strides—you’ve worked hard. You were helped by the system. You put yourself through school. You married a good man.”
“Jose is a good man. A very good man,” Besa said.
“So there you go. Keep it all good. Don’t throw away your hard work.”
“I will not bite anyone again,” she said.
“Good.”
“Should I shoot them?”
Kieran glared at her, and Besa started to laugh again. “Oh, I am so sorry. You should see your face. I am joking. I am just joking. I know. I swear I know. I cannot bite people. I will not bite people. I will not scratch or shoot them, either.”
“Right. That’s what I need to hear. What I need to believe.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“You’re doing a lot of joking.”
“I’m sorry. Really sorry. It’s just that... I work just part-time now, you know, yes? Jose and I...we have free time! We shop, we sit in the yard. It’s not a big yard, but it is a yard. It is good. I will not bite the cable man again.”
“What does Jose say?” Kieran asked.
Besa smiled. “He is a grateful man. He married a passionate woman.”
“Yes, passionate,” Kieran agreed. “Watch that passion.”
“I will try to direct it in a better way. Jose is an even happier man when I direct my passion toward him, yes, you think, right?”
“I’m sure,” Kieran murmured. She realized that her cell phone was sitting on the desk by her computer.
She was staring at it.
She was waiting for Craig to call her. She wasn’t giving Besa the attention she should have been giving her. While her heart bled for the woman—considering all that she had suffered—she was never sure about her.
“You do understand the way the system works. What you did is considered violent, and it was an assault. And every time you wind up back in a courtroom, your record pops up. You have some strikes against you.”
“Yes, yes. If I do bite the cable man again, don’t get caught,” Besa said.
Kieran looked at her.
“Joking, joking!” Besa said.
“I hope so,” Kieran said seriously. Kieran did believe that Besa probably would bite the cable man again—and do it happily—if she wasn’t afraid that she’d get caught and pay a price.
“You have no sense of humor,” Besa told her. She wrinkled her nose. “So much for you being Irish. I am not seeing the smile and the charm.”
“I’m not feeling them at this moment, Besa. And my background is Irish. I’m American.”
Besa sighed. “Please, please, smile. I will not bite again.”
“Just as long as you really understand your actions—and the consequences,” Kieran said.
Besa nodded very seriously. “I do! I do!” she promised. She leaned forward, looking intently at Kieran.
“I get to read your report?”
“Yes. You get to read my report.”
“After the next session? And then the judge decides if I’m...cured. Or, okay, or...”
“He’ll make a final decision on sentencing. You assaulted a man, but thankfully, he will heal and no irreparable harm was done. I’m sure he’ll give you a few months’ probation.”
Soon after, Besa left.
Writing up the report was not easy. Kieran didn’t wish any ill on the woman. Still, she couldn’t lie. She had to recommend further counseling if Besa was going to stay out of trouble.
Kieran wasn’t focusing on her paperwork. All she wanted to do was leave, and find out if Craig was able to find Riley and Tanya.
Concentrate! she commanded herself.
But she couldn’t. She figured she had done a good enough chunk of work and would wrap up later. And so she was out the door, headed back downtown.
* * *
Manhattan has been compared to a concrete jungle, and not without good cause.
Buildings—skyscrapers, giant buildings, modern man’s homage to the gods of the clouds—covered so much space that it was impossible sometimes to find a single patch of green.
Downtown Manhattan had the rare distinction of being the oldest general area, and therefore, the few remaining buildings that dated back to the early settlement of the island were interspersed with those that had been built throughout the ensuing centuries and decades into the days when a hundred floors in a building was barely impressive.
There were scattered patches of park and oddly shaped alleys here and there, some leading to dead ends, some cutting through to other avenues or streets.
Craig went after the women; they moved quickly down the street, nervously looking around as they did so. Craig weaved in and out of the crowd, keeping his distance so they wouldn’t recognize that he was tailing them. They slid past a 1920s office block that offered a sliver of an alley between buildings. They moved past it, and then quickly doubled back into the alley.
Just as they did so, a man hurried past Craig. He was wearing a black sweatshirt with a hood. His hands were shoved into his pockets and his head was ducked low. The way he walked, there was little way that anyone could see his face.
By the determined direction
of his stride, Craig was certain the man was following Riley and Tanya.
Craig quickened his pace, falling into step behind the hooded man, though hanging back a bit.
The man hurried toward the alley and slipped into it.
Craig ran once he had moved out of sight, following him into the narrow space. Coming along the thin path between the two buildings, he heard a muffled scream, and then another. Craig drew his gun from the holster hidden under his coat.
Craig burst into a small open space filled with scraggly weeds trying to take hold in rocky ground. The tiny blonde woman—Tanya—had been shoved to the ground, and the woman with the flaming red hair was in the arms of the man in the hoodie—and he was wielding a knife. He had Riley crushed to him by the waist and the knife held high overhead—ready to be plunged into her chest.
He was young, dark-haired, and lean with a wiry build. He looked at Craig with menacing brown eyes that seemed to hint of drugs or, at the least, a burnt-out life.
“FBI! Drop it. I will shoot,” Craig told him, raising his Glock.
Riley, caught in the man’s deadly grip, let out a terrified gasp.
Tanya, on the ground, sobbed.
The man brought the knife to Riley’s throat. He wasn’t going to stop. Die or not himself, he wasn’t going to let Riley live.
It wasn’t an easy shot.
Riley was whimpering and gasping and trying to escape.
But this man would kill her.
“Last warning! Drop the knife!” Craig shouted. He adjusted his aim.
The man’s arm started to move.
Craig fired. A good, clean shot. He took him right in the middle of the forehead.
The knife dropped. The man in the hoodie released his hold on Riley. He fell to the ground, and Riley stumbled forward before slumping to her knees in a fit of tears. Tanya rushed over to her, sinking to Riley’s side to hold her. She lifted an arm toward Craig, tears streaming down her face, gasping out something in broken Russian.
Craig started walking toward the two women. He felt something whizz by his head and then explode against the wall.
“There!” Riley screamed, jumping to her feet.
“No, down!” Craig warned.