Flawless (17 page)

“You're sure no one breathed a word to a girlfriend, a sibling, a mom or dad, a best friend?” Kieran asked.

“We're all each other's best friends,” Sam said gravely.

“If you think of anything at all, will you ask someone to get hold of me?” she asked him.

“Will it help me get a shorter sentence?”

Kieran couldn't answer that.

Eagan spoke up. “It might. It might also be the decent thing to do, since people are dying. The victim was practically a kid, nice girl, twenty-two years old.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. I'll make sure I get ahold of you,” he said huskily.

“Sam, can you do something else for me?” Kieran asked.

“Yes.”

“Make a list of all the places you guys talked. Every place you can remember.”

“Will do. Without asking for anything,” he said quietly.

Sam Banner was taken out and Robert Stella was brought in. The questions were the same, and the answers were just the right amount of slightly different to assure Kieran that Robert Stella was just as perplexed, and that the men hadn't planned or rehearsed what to say if they were caught. She asked him to write up the same list of places, hoping he might remember at least one Sam had forgotten.

Next up was Lenny Wiener. Everything went the same way with him, too.

Last in was Mark O'Malley. He looked at Kieran and shook his head. “You're back.”

“I am.”

“I know that you're the one who clocked my buddy in the van,” he told her.

“It seemed necessary,” she said.

“Pretty good hit.”

“I have three brothers.”

He grinned at that. “Irish women. They're tough, huh?”

“Irish-American,” she said.

“It's all the same. Something of the old country comes with us,” he said. “I wasn't born there, but my mom...what a tyrant, God rest her soul.”

Kieran smiled. “I think mine was an angel. I was just ten when she died.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. Then he frowned, looking at her. “Finnegan? You any relation to the Finnegans that run that place down on Broadway?”

Kieran felt a strange, creeping sensation shiver through her and tried to keep her unease out of her expression. She wasn't sure why she felt so uneasy. The pub was well-known, so it wasn't a crazy question, and yet...

“Family owned,” she said.

He nodded and looked away. “Cool place,” he said. “Real Irish bands—or at the least bands playing actual Irish music. Not everyone brings in the real thing anymore.” He looked at her and grinned.

“So you've been to Finnegan's?” she said, filled with tension.

“Just a few times.”

“Is it by any chance one of the places the four of you met to plan a job?”

“No, no. We were there once, but just celebrating. I'd been before, and I brought the guys with me. Just for the music, you know?”

Apparently even jewel thieves loved good music.

“So where did you do your planning?” she asked him. “Tell me what you can remember, but I'm going to ask you to write down anyplace you can remember for me, too.”

“Sure,” he said, and he looked up at Eagan. “It'd be nice if maybe that helped us at trial.”

Eagan glared at him.

“Whatever!” Mark said, taking the hint and shutting up. “Offhand...” He paused to think, then rattled off the names of five restaurants, three dives and two expensive places.

It was time for the guards to take him away. When he was gone, Kieran sat silently at the table for a minute.

“Thank you, Miss Finnegan,” Eagan said, joining her. “I think they talk to you more easily than they would ever talk to an agent.”

She nodded.

“You're upset,” he said.

She looked at him. “They've been to Finnegan's.”

He smiled and sat down across from her. “You know, most New Yorkers have been to dozens of restaurants at least once.”

“You're not concerned.”

“He said that they didn't do any of their planning there,” he reminded her.

“But...what if they did say something? Anything? Any little thing?” She hated the thought of Finnegan's being involved in any way. Hated to think what an investigation of the pub might turn up about her brothers.

“Then whoever the killers are, they could have followed them out and kept an eye on them from there. But most likely they overheard them somewhere else,” Eagan said.

“You're just trying to make me feel better. And I know now you'll have to investigate Finnegan's up the wazoo,” she said softly.

He shrugged. “We follow up on all leads,” he said.

“Of course. And it will be good, I guess....”

“Good to know someone is watching?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Don't be ashamed of being afraid, Miss Finnegan. You're not stupid, and only a stupid person wouldn't be a little bit afraid. Come on. Let's head out. I'll drop you back at work,” Eagan said, then looked at his watch. “Nope. I won't drop you back at work. Where would you like to go? Home, where you can lock the door and relax for the evening? I'll make sure the cops keep an eye on your place.”

She nodded. “Thank you. But it's Friday night. If you wouldn't mind taking me to the pub, I'd appreciate it.”

“Great idea,” he said, smiling. “Friday night. Time for fish-and-chips.”

* * *

“Do you really think that the guys we're looking for were all dressed up in their finest for some gala?” Craig asked Mike.

“Who knows?” Mike said. “Belvedere suggested another half a dozen places. And we need to get on Maria Antonescu's friends and family here in the States. Between us and the NYPD, we're following up on every possible lead, just in case someone working at one of those places saw something.”

Craig nodded. Mike was right. There was no way in hell the two of them could be everywhere themselves, and in fact, as soon as they finished up with their current interviews, he would be heading to Finnegan's.

Their first stop was incredibly hard and painful. They had to speak with Maria's aunt, a woman who looked to be about eighty, spoke English poorly and could barely stop crying long enough to talk to them. In the end, she wasn't any help, either. Maria was a good girl. Maria had no friends and no lover. Maria worked.

They managed to make her feel just a little bit better, assuring her that Maria would receive a good Christian burial, thanks to Mr. Belvedere.

Craig asked her about computer access. She didn't have one herself, but Maria had owned what sounded like some kind of tablet, and yes, she'd had a cell phone. She took both to work with her.

Craig and Mike looked at one another. Maria's murderer had been smart enough to see to it that both her tablet and her cell phone disappeared.

“Probably at the bottom of the Hudson River,” Mike commented.

Craig thought that was about right.

Since she had been unable to give them any additional leads, their next visit was with Sylvia Mannerly, the CEO of Clean Cut Office Services.

Ms. Mannerly, Craig was certain, hadn't cleaned anything herself in years.

Her nails were perfectly manicured, her hands soft—as soft as the limp handshake she gave each man before asking them to take a seat in her spotless office.

“I can't tell you how devastating this loss is to all of us,” she said. “Maria was a dream employee. She was so hardworking. Her clients loved her.”

“I believe that,” Craig said.

“How can I help you?” Ms. Mannerly asked them, suddenly no-nonsense. She might have been devastated, but her manner said she was also a busy woman. She folded her hands on her desk and leaned toward them. “What can I do?”

“We need a list of every place she worked in the past month, no matter how briefly,” Mike said.

“And,” Craig added, “we need anything you can give us about her friends. Boyfriend's name, if she had one. Anyone she might have been close to.”

Ms. Mannerly frowned. “Maria was the victim. Why are you investigating her?”

“We're not suspicious of her, if that's what you're worried about,” Craig said evenly. “We're just trying to find out if she saw anyone strange hanging around. Anyone who might have asked her to meet him after work.”

“She went home after work and went to bed,” Ms. Mannerly said icily.

“Everyone needs friends,” Mike said.

The woman might have continued to freeze them out—perhaps afraid for what an investigation might mean to her business—but suddenly the sound of a truly anguished wail came from the foyer.

Craig quickly stood and walked out to see what was going on, followed by Mike and Sylvia Mannerly.

A pretty woman of about thirty and of possible Hispanic or Middle Eastern heritage had crumpled to the floor in front of the receptionist's desk, crying.

“Alicia, Alicia!” Sylvia Mannerly said quickly, stooping to draw the girl to her feet. “My poor dear, control yourself.”

“It's true? Maria is dead?” Alicia asked, looking around with tear-filled eyes.

“Yes, I'm afraid so,” Craig said. “She was your friend?”

Alicia nodded. “The best. A good person.”

“I've told them that,” Ms. Mannerly said primly.

“What was she like outside of work?” Craig asked gently.

Alicia told them at length about just how good Maria had been—always happy to meet up with others at the end of their shifts, even pitching in if there was still work to be done. She loved café lattes and watching the ducks in the pond in Central Park.

“You see?” Ms. Mannerly said. “The girl was a saint.”

It was obvious to Craig that they weren't going to get what they needed with Sylvia Mannerly standing there. “Ms. Mannerly,” he asked, “is there a place where we can speak quietly with Alicia—alone?”

Miss Mannerly's lips pursed and she stiffened. But, apparently realizing that they were FBI and she had no choice, she led them to a conference room.

They got Alicia seated with a box of tissues and a glass of water. Mike sat next to her, and Craig perched on the table.

With a little encouragement she started talking. They learned that she was Alicia Rodriguez, and that she'd come to New York from Puerto Rico when she was twelve. Like Maria, she was working hard to make her way through college.

“I can see how much Maria meant to you,” Craig said, “and we're very sorry for your loss. That's why we need to catch the people who took her life and make sure they face judgment for what they've done. Maria's not the only one they've killed.”

Alicia blew her nose loudly and nodded.

“Did Maria have a boyfriend?” Craig asked.

She looked up at him, startled, then quickly looked down. Too late. It was obvious that Maria had been seeing someone she shouldn't have.

Mike glanced at Craig. “Who was he, Alicia?” he asked very softly.

“I don't know his name,” Alicia said, sniffling. “And I never met him. She only saw him a few times.”

“What can you tell us about him? Where and when did she see him?”

“She only saw him when she got off work. That's how I know she only saw him a few times, because she'd go see him instead of meeting up with the rest of us. He plays in a band or he's a bartender or something. He would get off work right around when she finished. They'd only meet for an hour.” Alicia shook her head. “But I know he would have loved her if they'd had more time. She was nuts about him.”

“And you know about him because she told you about him?” Craig asked.

Alicia nodded and almost smiled. “She said that he saw her on the subway one day and followed her. She tried to ignore him, but he was so nice that she started meeting him. Just for an hour late at night. And then she'd go home, because she couldn't let her aunt know about him. Her aunt didn't want her dating. She wanted her to get through school, and Maria didn't want to disappoint her.”

“She met him on the subway,” Craig repeated. “Between her home and the Diamond District?”

Alicia nodded and blew her nose again.

“Do you know anything else about him?”

Alicia shook her head. Then she said, “I just remembered! I did see him once. From a distance. I was meeting her after she saw him because I was going home with her. We were going to the museum the next day. I met up with her at the Rose and Thistle. It's a little place not far from her house.”

Thank God it hadn't been Finnegan's. He didn't like the idea of criminals hanging out there—so close to Kieran.

“Can you describe him? If we set you up with a forensic artist?” Mike asked.

“I only saw the back of his head as he was leaving. He was pretty tall. About six feet, maybe? And he had dark hair. Very dark hair.”

“Thank you, Alicia,” Mike said.

“Can you remember anything else Maria told you about him?”

“Yes. He loved pubs. He told her once that he hated the whole club scene. He loved friendlier places, like pubs.”

Mike and Craig looked at one another.

“Did Maria ever mention a downtown place called Finnegan's on Broadway?” Craig asked.

Maria frowned. “I'm not sure. But if it's a pub, he would have liked it. She said he loved the downtown area. He told her it had character. Trinity and St. Paul's, the area they used to call Five Points. Wall Street. He was smart, she said. He loved architecture and history.”

“But she never told you his name?” Mike asked.

“I guess she wanted it to be a secret, something special because it was private. We called him Mystery Lover.”

Mystery Lover. Great.

“Let's backtrack for a minute. When you saw him, did he turn at all? Do you remember what he was wearing?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said.

“Well?”

“Jeans. He wore jeans. And sneakers. Jeans and sneakers.”