Читать книгу A Dangerous Game - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 10

CHAPTER ONE

“Kieran? Kieran Finnegan, right?” the woman asked.

She was wrapped in a black trench coat, wore a black scarf that nearly engulfed her face, and held a dark blanketed bundle against her chest as if it were the greatest treasure in the world.

Kieran wasn’t sure when the woman had come in; the offices of psychologists Fuller and Miro were closed for the day, the doctors were gone, and Kieran had just about left herself. The receptionist, Jake, usually locked the office door on his way out, but apparently tonight he had neglected to do so. Then again, Jake might have already left when Kieran’s last patient had exited a little while ago. Whether Jake had been gone or he had forgotten to lock up, the door had been left open.

And so this woman accosted Kieran in the reception area of the office just as she was on her way out.

“I am Kieran, but I’m so sorry, I’m the therapist, not one of the doctors. Actually, we are closed for the day. You’ll need to come back. Both the doctors are wonderful, and I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you another time.”

And this woman certainly looked like she needed help. Her eyes were huge and as dark as the clothing she was wearing as she stared at Kieran with a look of despair.

“All right, let me see what I can do. You seem distraught,” Kieran said, and winced—wow. Stating the obvious. “I can get you to a hospital. I can call for help—”

“No. No.” The woman suddenly thrust the bundle she’d held so closely into Kieran’s arms. “Here!”

Kieran instinctively accepted it. Reflex? She wasn’t sure why.

It began to cry. And writhe. Of course. The bundle was a baby.

“Ma’am, please—Hey!” Kieran protested.

The woman had turned and was fleeing out the door. “Wait! Hey!” Kieran cried. She reached immediately for the phone, hoping that she’d be in time to reach the building’s security desk.

Ralph Miller answered the phone at the lobby desk. “Hey, pretty girl. What are you still doing at work? I’ve got a few hours to go, and then I am out of here. I hear that the Danny Boys are playing at Finnegan’s tonight. Can’t believe your brother snagged them. I would have thought that you’d have gotten out early—”

“Ralph, listen, please! There’s a woman who was just up here, and she ran out. Can you stop her from leaving the building?”

The baby wailed in earnest.

“What?”

“There’s a woman in black—”

“In black, yeah. She just left.”

“Stop her—catch her! Now.”

“I can’t hear you, Kieran. I hear a baby crying. A baby! Whose baby is it?”

“Ralph! Get out in the street and get that woman!”

“What?”

“Go catch that woman!”

“Oh! Gotcha! I’m gone.”

She hung up, then quickly dialed 9-1-1.

Emergency services probably couldn’t move quickly enough to help, since no matter how quickly they arrived, the woman was already on the run.

She was running on the busy streets of New York City where rush hour was a swarm of humanity in which to get completely lost. But Kieran still explained the situation, where she was. The operator was efficient; cops would quickly be out. Child Services would arrive.

But no matter. The woman would get away.

Kieran tried to hold and rock and soothe the baby while dialing Craig Frasier.

If you were living with an FBI agent, it made sense to call him under such circumstances, especially since he—like Ralph—would want to know why she was working so late when the Danny Boys were playing at Finnegan’s. To Craig, it was still a normal night—and a Friday night! A nice, normal Friday night—something that would be very nice to enjoy, given their chosen professions.

“Hey, Kieran,” Craig said. “Are you already at the pub?”

She apparently wasn’t good at rocking and soothing and trying to talk on the phone all at the same time. The baby was still crying. Loudly.

“No, I—”

“Whose kid is that? I can’t hear a word you’re saying!”

“I’m still at work. Can you come over here, now, please?”

“Uh—yeah, sure.”

Kieran hung up the phone. She didn’t know what Ralph was doing; she didn’t know where the police were. She glanced down at the baby as she hurried from the office, ready to hit the streets herself. How old was the tiny creature? It was so small!

Yet—nice lungs!

Was the woman in black the mother?

She had looked older. Perhaps fifty. Too old for an infant.

Ralph wasn’t at the desk; Kieran heard sirens, but as yet no police had arrived.

Bursting out onto the New York City rush hour sidewalk, she looked right and left. There, far down the block, she thought she saw the woman.

“Hey!” Kieran shouted.

Despite the pulsing throng of humanity between them, the woman heard her. She turned.

There was something different about her now.

The way she moved. The way she looked, and the expression on her face.

She didn’t try to run. She just stared at Kieran, and then seemed to stagger toward her.

Kieran clutched the screaming infant close to her breast and thrust her way through the people; luckily, she was a New Yorker, and she knew how to push through a rush hour crowd when necessary.

The woman was still staggering forward. Kieran was closing the gap.

“Listen, I’ll help you, I’ll help the baby! It’s all right...”

It wasn’t in any way all right.

The woman lurched forward, as if she would fall into Kieran’s arms, if Kieran had just been close enough.

She wasn’t.

The woman fell face-first down onto the sidewalk.

That’s when Kieran saw the knife protruding from the woman’s back and the rivulets of blood suddenly forming all around her and joining together to create a crimson pool.

* * *

Babies tended to be adorable—and this baby was especially so. In fact, Kieran wasn’t sure she’d ever seen an ugly baby, but she had been assured by friends that they did exist.

This little girl, though, had a headful of auburn ringlets and huge blue eyes. Kieran had heard that all babies had blue eyes, but she didn’t know if that was true or not. Sadly, she just didn’t know a lot about babies; she was one in a family of four children herself, yes, but she and her twin brother, Kevin, were only a couple of years behind their older brother and one year older than their younger brother.

Actually, this beautiful baby looked as if she could fit right in with their family. Each of the Finnegan siblings had a form of red hair and blue or green or blue-green eyes. Kieran’s own were blue, and her hair was a deep red.

“They say it’s the Irish,” she said softly to the little one in her arms. “But I don’t think that you’re Irish!”

Talking to the baby made sense at the moment; FBI Special Agent Craig Frasier, the love of her life and often partner in crime—solving crime, not committing it!—had arrived shortly after the police. The medical examiner had come for the body of the murdered woman. While waiting for Child Services, Kieran was holding the baby, back up in the office.

Drs. Fuller and Miro worked with the police or other law enforcement. While not with the FBI, they were regular profilers and consultants for the NYC office. The Bureau’s behavioral science teams were down in DC, and while they could be called in, the city police and FBI often used local help in trying to get a step ahead of a criminal, or in working with criminals and witnesses when psychological assessments were needed, or, sometimes, when a child or a distressed person just needed to be able to speak to someone to ask the right questions and put them at ease. Kieran did a number of those assessments before reporting to the doctors, and she worked with victims of domestic abuse and both parents and children when they wound up within the child welfare system—such as a teenager who had been assaulted by her own father, or a senior citizen who was recovering from gunshot wounds inflicted by his wife. Or Kieran’s last patient today, Besa Goga. Besa was a sad case, abused for years when she’d first immigrated to the country, and now quick to strike out. Besa Goga was in court-ordered therapy because she’d bitten a man from her cable company. Kieran had only been seeing her a few weeks.

But the office didn’t always work through the police department, FBI or other such agencies. They also handled other cases that fell their way through happenstance or other circumstances—as in the recovering alcoholic who was also a politician and doing very well with Dr. Fuller.

Kieran had called her bosses to let them know what had happened. Both had said they’d come in immediately.

She had assured them that they shouldn’t; the police were dealing with the murder, and Child Services was coming for the baby.

Dr. Fuller—who had looks as dreamy as any TV physician—was at an event with his equally beautiful wife and their six-year-old. Dr. Miro was giving a keynote speech at a conference in Southern Jersey.

Kieran had convinced them both that she was fine, that it was just strange and scary.

The poor murdered woman hadn’t been scary; she had touched Kieran’s heart. She had needed help so badly. But she had called Kieran by name. And that made Kieran wonder.

She sat out in the waiting area of the offices—right where the woman had come up to her, right where the baby had been thrust into her arms. She thought that the baby was bound to cry again soon. That’s what babies did. They were hungry or wet or had gas or...who knew? She just really didn’t have much experience. And she had no clue as to the child’s age. But with little else to do—and probably in a bit of shock herself, despite the fact that she’d now thrown herself into the crime-fighting ring for a few years and had seen some shocking things—she talked to the baby. She made soothing noises, discussed her own uncertainty with a cheerful voice, and made a few faces here and there.

She could swear that the baby smiled.

Did babies smile this young?

She knew that those who knew—experienced parents, grandparents, and so on—claimed babies did not smile until a certain age.

This one, she was certain, smiled. She waved her little fists in the air and grinned toothlessly. She even cooed.

“Hey!” Craig had come back up to the offices after checking out the scene on the street.

He nodded to the policeman at the door. Since Kieran had no idea what was going on, and since a woman who had been looking for her had just been stabbed to death, having a policeman standing guard was very reassuring, and Kieran was grateful.

She looked up at Craig, hopeful. Though, of course, she doubted that he or the police or anyone—other than the killer—knew who had stabbed the woman, or why.

“You okay?” he asked her.

“I’m fine. I was handed the baby. I don’t think anyone was after me for any reason at all, but...oh, Lord. Craig, you don’t think it’s my fault, do you? I mean, if I hadn’t chased after her—”

“Kieran,” he said, hunkering down by her. “No.” His voice was firm and—as usual—filled with confidence and authority. Craig had been a special agent with the FBI for a good decade. He always seemed to exude a comfortable assurance and strength—things she had to admit she loved about him. Well, along with rock-hard abs, a solid six-three frame and the fact that the term tall, dark and handsome might have been conceived just for him. He had hazel eyes that were like marble, seemed to see far too much, and still...well, in her mind, they were just beautiful.

“It happened all so fast,” Kieran murmured.

Craig adjusted the blanket around the baby. Kieran thought she cooed and smiled for him, too, but it was hard to tell.

Smile...maybe gas. Who knew?

“Kieran, that woman was trying to save this child. She brought her to you. You aren’t to blame in any way. I have a feeling that she was very heroic—and that she gave her life for the child. She might have stolen the baby from some kind of terrible situation. I don’t know—none of us can even begin to figure out what might have gone down yet. But I believe the minute she took the baby away from whoever had it before, her hours were numbered.” He was quiet for a moment and looked up at her. “This isn’t going to be an FBI case, you know. Whoever your visitor was, she was murdered on the streets of New York. It’s an NYPD matter.”

“Did you talk to Ralph downstairs?” she asked anxiously. “He should have been on the desk—and you’re supposed to sign in to enter this building.” So it was with most large office buildings in the city. It had been ever since 9/11.

“Yes, I spoke with him. The police spoke with him. He was a mess. He thinks it’s all his fault. UPS was here with a large shipment for the computer tech firm on the eighteenth floor. He thinks she slipped by him when he ran over to help the courier with the elevator,” Craig said.

“I can imagine he’s upset. Did he ever get out of here? He was planning on seeing the Danny Boys play tonight, too.”

“I don’t think he went to see the band,” Craig said. “The cops let him go about an hour or so ago now.”

“Ah,” Kieran murmured.

What an end to the week. Ralph Miller was a Monday to Friday, regular hours kind of guy. He looked forward to his Friday nights; he loved music, especially Irish rock bands. He must have been really upset to realize a murder had taken place somewhere just down the street from his front door.

The murder of a woman who had slipped by him.

A woman who had left a baby in Kieran’s arms.

A baby. Alone, in her arms.

“Craig, I just... I wish I understood. And I’m not sure about the officer handling the case—”

“Kieran, no matter how long we all work in this, murder is hard to understand. That officer needed everything you could give him.”

“I know that. I’ve spoken with him. He wants me to figure out why the woman singled me out. He’s more worried about that than the baby!” Kieran said indignantly.

“He’s a detective, Kieran. Asking you questions is what he’s supposed to do—you know that. Can you think of anything?” Craig asked her.

Kieran shook her head. “She probably knew about this office. And it’s easy enough to find out all our names.”

“Maybe, and then...”

“And then what?”

Craig smiled at her. During the diamond heists case—when they had first met—she had saved a girl from falling onto the subway tracks when a train was coming. When a reporter had caught up with Kieran, she had impatiently said, “Anyone would lend a helping hand.”

For quite some time after, she’d been a city heroine.

So she had a feeling she knew what he was going to say.

“Maybe they saw you on TV.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Some people have long memories.”

There was a tap at the door; the officer who had been standing guard held it open for a stocky woman with a round face and gentle, angelic smile. She was in uniform, and Kieran quickly realized that she was from Child Services.

“Hi, I’m Sandy Cleveland,” the woman told her. “Child—”

“Services, yes, of course!” Kieran said.

Kieran realized that she didn’t want to hand over the baby. She didn’t have a “thing” for babies—her primary goal in life had never been to get married and have children. She did want them—somewhere along the line. But not now. She knew that, eventually, yes, she wanted to marry Craig. She was truly, deeply, kind of even madly in love with him.

But no wedding in the near future. Maybe in a year. They hadn’t even really discussed it yet.

She didn’t go insane over babies at family picnics, and she was happy for her friends who were pregnant or parents, and she got along fine with kids—little ones and big ones.

But she wasn’t in any way obsessed.

Here, now, in the office, holding the precious little bundle—who had so recently been tenderly held by a woman who was now dead with a knife in her back—Kieran was suddenly loath to give her up. And it wasn’t that the woman from Child Services didn’t appear to be just about perfect for her job. No one could fake a face that held that much empathy.

“It’s okay,” Sandy Cleveland said very softly. “I swear she’ll be okay with me. We take great care of little ones at my office. I won’t just dump her in a crib and let her cry. It’s my job—I’m very good at it,” she added, as if completely aware of every bit of mixed emotion that was racing through Kieran’s heart and mind. She smiled and added, “Miss Finnegan, the street below is teeming with police officers—and reporters. The chief of police is already involved in this situation. This little one will not just have the watchdogs of Child Services looking over her, but a guardian from the police force, as well. She’s going to be fine. I personally promise you.”

“I’m sure—I’m sure you’re good,” Kieran said. She smiled at Sandy Cleveland.

“That means you have to give her the baby,” Craig said, but she thought he understood, too, somehow.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Kieran murmured.

She managed to make herself move, and she handed over the baby.

It was so damned hard to do!

“Miss Cleveland, can you tell me about how old she is?” Kieran asked.

“I think about six weeks based on her motor function. And, please, just call me Sandy,” the woman told her. “Her eyes are following you—and when you speak, that’s a real smile. It’s usually between about six weeks and three months when they really smile, and I think this is a lovely, smart girl. Don’t worry! I’ll get a smile from her, too, I promise.”

The baby did seem to be settling down in Sandy Cleveland’s arms.

Craig set an arm around Kieran’s shoulders.

“Sandy, I’m with the FBI. Craig Frasier. You won’t mind if we check in on this little one?”

“Of course not!” Sandy assured them. She shook her head sadly. “I hear that the woman who handed her to you was murdered. There’s no ID on her. I’m just hoping we can find out who this little one is. She’s in good shape, though. Someone has been caring for her. Yes! You’re so sweet!” She said the last words to the baby, wrinkling her nose and making a face—and drawing a sound that wasn’t quite laughter, but darned close to it. “Hopefully, she has a mom or other relatives somewhere. And if not...” She hesitated, studying Kieran and Craig. “Well, if not—a precious little infant like this? People will be jockeying to adopt her. Anyway, let me get her out of here and away from...from what happened.” She held the baby adeptly while using her left hand to dig into her pocket and produce her business card. “Call me anytime,” she told them. “I may not answer, but I will get back to you if you leave me a message.”

Then she was gone. The cop who had been watching over Kieran went outside.

She and Craig were alone.

Kieran still felt shell-shocked.

“Kieran, hey!” Craig hunkered down by her again as she sank down into one of the comfortably upholstered chairs in the waiting room. He looked at her worriedly. “The cops are good—you know that.”

“Craig, you have to be in on this. That detective—”

“Lance. Lance Kendall. Kieran, really, he’s all right. He’s doing all the right things.”

“Yeah! All the right things—grilling me!”

“Okay, I will speak with Egan about it tomorrow, how’s that?”

She nodded. “Thank you. Get one of your joint task forces going—at least maybe you can participate?”

“Sure.” He hesitated. “I guess...um, well.”

There was a tap at the door. They both looked up. Craig stood.

A man walked in. It wasn’t the first officer who had arrived at the scene—it was the detective who had arrived while others were setting up crime scene tape, handling the rush hour crowd around the body, and urging her to get the baby back up to her offices and out of the street.

Detective Kendall was a well-built African American man. About six feet even, short brown hair, light brown eyes, and features put together pleasantly. He was around forty-five, she thought. He wasn’t warm and cuddly, but neither was he rude.

“Detective,” Craig said. “Have you wrapped up at the scene for the evening?”

“Yes—a few techs are still down there, but there’s nothing more I can accomplish here. Unless you can help, Miss Frasier? You can’t think of anything?”

“I have no idea why this lady chose me,” Kieran said. “None.”

“And you’ve never seen the woman before?” Kendall asked.

“Never.”

“Nor the baby?”

What? Did he think that the infant paid social calls on people, hung out at the pub, or requested help from psychiatrists or a psychologist?

“No,” she managed evenly. “I’ve never seen the infant before. I’ve never seen the woman before.”

“All right, then.” He suddenly softened a little. “You must be really shaken. I understand that, and I’m sorry. For now... I don’t have anything else. But I’m sure you know we may need to question you again.”

“I’m not leaving town,” she said drily.

He wasn’t amused.

Kieran continued. “I’ve spoken with Dr. Fuller and Dr. Miro. I’ve told them all that I could, and they will be trying to ascertain if they can think of any reason—other than who they are and what they do—that the woman might have come here.”

“I’ve spoken with the doctors, too,” Detective Kendall told her grimly. “And I’m sure we’ll speak again.”

“I’m sure,” Kieran muttered.

“Good night, Special Agent Frasier—Miss Finnegan,” the detective said. “You’re both, uh, free to go.”

He left them. Craig pulled Kieran around and into his arms, looking down into her eyes. “We are free. There’s nothing else to do tonight. You want to go home?”

“I know that we both really wanted to see the band play tonight,” she told him. “I’m sorry.”

“Kieran, it’s not your fault. I’m sure you didn’t plan for a woman to abandon a baby in your arms and then run downstairs and find herself stabbed to death.”

“It’s driving me crazy, Craig! We don’t know who she was. We don’t have a name for her. We don’t know about the baby. I think she was too old to be the mom, but I’m not really sure. And if not...she was trying to save the baby, not hurt it. But who would hurt a baby?”

“I don’t know. Let’s get going, shall we?”

“We can still go to the pub. Maybe catch the last of the Danny Boys?” she said.

“You know you don’t want to go anywhere.”

Kieran hesitated. “Not true. I do want to go somewhere. I’m starving—and I’m not sure what we’ve got to eat at the apartment.”

“Yep. We’ve been staying at yours—if there is food at mine, I’m certain we don’t want to eat it.”

“Then we’ll go to the pub,” she said quietly.

Kieran hadn’t realized just how late it had grown until she and Craig walked out of the building. New York City policemen were still busy on the street, many of them just managing the crowd. The body was gone, but crime scene workers were still putting the pieces together of what might and might not be a clue on the busy street.

It was Midtown, and giant conglomerates mixed with smaller boutiques and shops. Most of the shops were closed and the hour too late for business, but people still walked quickly along the sidewalks, slowing down to watch the police and curious to see what had happened.

Kieran looked up while Craig spoke with a young policewoman for a moment. Her brother had once warned her that she looked up too often—that she looked like a tourist. But she loved the rooftops, the skyline. Old skyscrapers with ornate moldings at the roof sat alongside new giants that towered above them in glass, chrome and steel. And then again, right in the midst of the twentieth-and twenty-first-century buildings, there would be a charming throwback to the 1800s.

From a nearby Chinese restaurant, a tempting aroma laced the air.

Even over murder.

The cops generally knew Craig; he was polite to all of them. They nodded an acknowledgment to Kieran. She’d worked with the police often enough herself.

“Is Detective McBride going to be on the case?” Kieran asked hopefully. They’d worked with Larry McBride before, not even a year ago, and he had been an amazing ally.

Drs. Fuller and Miro worked with city detectives regularly, and nine times out of ten, they were great. Every once in a while, as in any job, there was a total jerk in the mix. Mainly they were professionals, and good at their work, and Kieran knew it. Some were more personable than others. Homicide detectives could be very cut-and-dried. McBride had told her once that Homicide, while horrible, was also easier than dealing with other crimes. The victims couldn’t complain about the way he was working. Of course, the victims had relatives. That was hard.

She had come to really like McBride.

In this case, a baby was involved. A woman had died trying to save that baby, Kieran was certain. So she felt they needed the best.

Craig looked at her quizzically. “You know that there are thousands of detectives in the city, a decent percentage of that in Homicide—and even a decent percentage in Major Case.”

“Actually, when you break it all down...”

“I don’t know who will be working the case—probably more than one detective. For right now, it is Lance Kendall. And he’s all right, Kieran. He’s good. He was doing all the right things,” he added quietly. He looked as if he was going to say something more. He didn’t.

He took her hand in his. She held on, letting the warmth of his touch comfort her as they walked down the street.

“Hey, remember, I’m an agent, and you work with psychiatrists who spend most of their time on criminal files. It’s the life we’ve chosen, and we’ve talked about it. This will be just another case—whatever level of involvement we have with it. You can’t let it take over, or neither one of us will be sane.”

She nodded. He was right. There were other cases where they found themselves on the fringe, and, frankly, every day of Craig’s life had to do with criminal activity in the city of New York. They’d already worked on cases of cruel and brutal murders. This was another. And there was always something that seemed to make it better—at least for the survivors—when a killer was brought to justice.

She couldn’t obsess. She knew it.

But this one felt personal!

“Yep.” She spoke blithely and smiled.

“You’re cool?” She could tell he didn’t believe her; it seemed he didn’t know whether to push it or not.

But he was right about one thing. There was nothing for them to do right now except try to get their minds around what had happened—and let it go enough to get on with life.

Even figure out how to step back in order to step forward again.

“Yep. I’m fine. Let’s get food,” Kieran said.

“Sounds good. Thankfully, we always know where to go!”