Flawless (7 page)

She took a breath and shrugged. “I haven't been in the role that long—I'm pretty fresh out of school. But so far I've spoken with a woman regarding a competency hearing. And I was asked to speak separately with a husband and wife suspected in the death of their newborn. That one was very sad.”

“Life can be sad,” he said wearily. “And you're a bartender on top of all that?”

“It's a family business,” she said. She winced. Did that make her family sound like the Mafia?

They'd reached her office, she realized. He had the car in Park and was ready to hop out and open her door for her. Professional courtesy? Was he always like that?

“Thank you,” she said quickly, opening her door. “I appreciate the ride back.”

“Thanks for your help,” he told her.

“Of course,” she said quickly as she stepped out of the car, then bent to look back in at him. “Um, goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Miss Finnegan. And my thanks again.”

She closed the door and hurried toward the building. When she got upstairs, she was grateful to discover that both her bosses were in consultation. She hurried to her own office and began to write up her report on the parents she had interviewed the other day. Both were heartbroken; in her opinion, neither had in any way been responsible for the death of their child. It was sad, as she'd told Agent Frasier, but infant deaths still occurred through no one's fault. She was convinced this was just such a case.

Eventually her bosses finished their consultation and came in to see her, quizzing her about her visit to the FBI. They both seemed pleased that she'd been consulted.

“If you're needed again, you just go right on over, Kieran,” Dr. Miro said.

“We always help whenever we can,” Dr. Fuller assured her.

She smiled weakly. “Of course.”

They left a few minutes later, and Kieran realized she'd worked through lunch and the day was nearly done.

* * *

Craig spent most of the rest of the day reinterviewing everyone he could get hold of who had been at any of the robberies. The prosecutor, Julian Smith, wanted to charge the men they'd caught with the murders, and they finally got together to discuss that with him late in the afternoon. Craig, Mike and Eagan argued against bringing charges, showed him the security footage, brought up Kieran's insistence that the tapes showed two different men and emphasized that the men in custody had been caught with toy weapons.

Smith was a hard-ass, though. He wanted to throw everything at the defendants that he could possibly throw. On top of that, the media was already calling them murderers.

Everyone in the city wanted the crime spree to be over.

“They were toy guns!” Craig said, slamming the table with the flat of his hand. “Even a public defender will be able to make that case. Give us some time to work this.”

“Toy guns this time, real ones the last,” Smith said. “You could have been killed, Agent Frasier. I'd think you'd want them locked away forever.”

“And
I'd
think
you
would want them charged for the appropriate crimes,” Craig said.

“Yes, well, real guns or not, there are laws—” Smith began.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Eagan protested, raising a hand. “Smith, give my men time to work this. You're going to want all available evidence and witnesses concurring about the facts, aren't you?”

Smith finally left in a huff after agreeing to give them more time. “But not too much,” he'd said threateningly.

It was nearly seven o'clock after a damned long night and day.

Mike was heading to the hospital for a checkup. One of the perks of being FBI was that doctors bent their schedules to see you after hours. Craig offered to tag along, seeing as he had no plans for the night.

“Hell, no,” Mike told him. “Leave me alone. Let me be grouchy and crotchety tonight, go in, go home and then hit a bottle of Scotch and my bed. You should go do something fun. Shake off this job for a few hours.”

But when he left the building at last, Craig wasn't ready to go home.

And he wasn't sure why, but he found himself heading for Finnegan's on Broadway.

Maybe he
did
know why. Kieran Finnegan intrigued him. She'd been helpful, pointing out body language he might not have noticed himself.

But she'd also been nervous. Nervous just because she'd been in an FBI office?

He doubted that.

He had a feeling she was still hiding something. So what the hell was it?

Had she somehow been in league with the thieves?

He relived the previous night in his mind. It didn't seem likely, though he couldn't say it wasn't possible.

It certainly seemed like a coincidence that she'd even been there. She had a day job, and though he doubted she worked two jobs every day of her life, she'd been slated to work at the bar that night. He knew from the NYPD report he'd read through that she had her own apartment near St. Marks Place. Not right next to the pub, but not much of a subway trip, either. On a beautiful day and with a little time, she could even walk it easily enough.

But if she
was
involved, what was his plan? Come right out and ask her what the hell she was acting so guilty about in the hope she would confess?

She would hardly admit to being guilty, so that wouldn't do anything except raise her suspicions and make it even harder for him to figure out what was going on.

He would have to take a more indirect approach. Luckily for him, Finnegan's was known for its food as well as its hospitality and selection of beers on tap.

Couldn't hurt to get some dinner.

Old double wooden doors with frosted, etched glass faced Broadway, the sidewalk in front protected by a green-striped canopy overhead. Inside there were a number of booths to the right and a few more to the left, tables filling the rest of the room, and a long bar lined with taps at the rear. The place was busy with the dinner crowd and a number of cocktail-hour stragglers. He quickly saw that Kieran Finnegan was there, standing behind the bar and talking to a waitress. A tall man with dark red hair was also working behind the bar—one of her brothers, he was certain.

He started to head that way, then chose a booth that gave him an unimpeded view of the bar instead. He watched the action for a while. Another tall man, this one with lighter red hair, was working the floor along with two young women.

Before long one of the women headed to his table. He didn't think that she was a Finnegan. She was petite and blonde, with lively blue eyes and a quick smile. “Hello. Welcome to Finnegan's. What can I get you?”

He was in an Irish pub, so he figured why not order Guinness on draft? He asked for a menu, as well.

“Special tonight is fish-and-chips. Really good,” she told him.

“Then forget the menu. I'll have fish-and-chips.”

She brought his beer quickly. He thanked her and sipped it as he continued to people watch. A group of young women seemed to be holding a baby shower. Business executives filled several of the tables. An older couple sat and ate a quiet dinner; the bar stools were mostly filled.

When his food came, he thanked the waitress again. “So this is a family business, huh?” he asked.

“Yup, and the Finnegans are all working tonight. That's Danny on the floor there, Declan and Kevin behind the bar—and Kieran is back there, too.”

“Are you related, too?” he asked her.

She laughed. “Actually, I'm the only one—well, besides the kitchen staff—who isn't a Finnegan or almost one. That's Mary Kathleen O'Shaunnessy over there,” she said, pointing. “She's Declan's fiancée. And I,” she told him brightly, “am Debbie Buenger, an old family friend. I went to school with Kevin and Kieran—who are twins, by the way. Anyhow, enjoy the fish. Our food is great, so if you haven't been in here before, you're in for a treat.”

“I don't think I've been in before—and I'm pretty sure I'd remember. I have a lot of friends who love this place, though.”

She gave him another of her charming smiles. “What's not to love?” she asked, and moved on.

The fish was delicious.

At least at first glance, Finnegan's seemed to be everything a pub was supposed to be. He couldn't help but allow his mind to consider the possibility that there was something going on beneath the surface, though, since there had definitely been something off about Kieran Finnegan both last night and today. Were they laundering money? Raising funds for the Irish Republican Army? He doubted that. The violence seemed to have dropped substantially in Ireland since just about the time the Twin Towers had been hit.

What, then? Was there an illegal poker game in the back?

He'd nearly finished his meal when he paused, taking a sip of his beer, to stare at the bar again. Kieran happened to look up at just that moment and see him. She was visibly startled.

She also looked guilty—again.

She stared at him so long that Debbie—waiting in front of her with a tray of shot glasses—had to say something to stop her from pouring as whiskey started sloshing over the rim of the glass she was filling.

Kieran looked away quickly, flushing, and reached a bar rag. She said something to Debbie, who smiled and replied cheerfully.

Within a few minutes Kieran came around from behind the bar and walked over to his table.

He liked the way she moved, almost in rhythm with the music of the Dropkick Murphys playing in the background.

For a minute, he thought she was going to demand to know what he was doing in her bar and ask him to leave.

But she just looked at him, puzzled and uneasy.

“Agent Frasier,” she said after a long moment.

“Guilty as charged.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Eating.”

What did she think he was doing there? He would love to know.

“Oh,” she said. “Well. Um, I hope you're enjoying your dinner.”

“I am. Very much.”

“It's only pub food, nothing gourmet.”

“I love pub food,” he said blandly, curious to see where she would take their conversation. He didn't have to wait long.

“Are you watching me for some reason?” she asked him.

Was he?

She was certainly a pleasure to watch, with her long, long legs, blue eyes and fiery hair. But he doubted that saying as much would please her any more than would giving voice to his suspicions that she was keeping something from him.

“Actually,” he heard himself say, “I wanted to talk to you again but figured I'd wait a bit. You seemed to be pretty busy when I came in, and I was hungry anyway.”

“Being busy is a good thing for—for a business,” she said.

He smiled. “Yes, of course. But I was wondering...” He paused, surprised that the right approach came to him so quickly. “The thing is, the prosecutor wants to charge the men from last night with murder, but I don't think they're the killers.”

“Yes, I know. I spent the morning studying video footage, remember?” she said, smiling for the first time since she'd come over to his table.

“I'd like to get you to Rikers so you can speak with the men. They were held in lockup last night, but they were arraigned on grand larceny today. The prosecutor wants to add homicide charges right away. I'd like to counter him with more than grainy video, toy guns and my own gut feeling. Would you come with me to talk to them?”

She seemed surprised—and relieved. And still uncomfortable.

“Um, sure.”

He saw the taller bartender heading in their direction. One of her brothers, but which one?

The question was quickly answered.

“Declan Finnegan,” the man said, holding out his hand.

There was a definite family resemblance, at least in height and coloring, Craig thought, rising to offer his hand. “I'm Craig Frasier. Special agent, FBI.”

“Pleased to meet you, and thank you for keeping Kieran safe and sending her back to us. Your meal is on the house. The least we can do,” he added, when Craig started to protest.

“Kieran did extremely well on her own. She's quite competent in a tough situation,” Craig said. “And thank you, but I need a bill. We're not allowed to accept gifts, not even a meal.”

Her brother shot Kieran a frown, but he didn't object. “I'd love to hear more about what happened last night. If you've got some time, come on up to the bar when you've finished your dinner.”

“Will do,” Craig promised.

Kieran's face grew a full shade paler. “Great,” she said, not quite managing a smile. Then she turned and walked away.

Her attitude made him even more certain that something was going on, whether at the pub or just with her, and he was going to find out what.

* * *

Things had gone from bad to really bad.

There was Craig Frasier sitting at the bar. And there were her brothers—all three of them—chatting with him as comfortably as if they'd known him all their lives.

Danny didn't have the sense to realize that a federal agent might, at any moment, ask him questions he might not be prepared to answer. Honestly, her baby brother could be so oblivious.

She forced a smile each time she passed by them, determined not to be drawn into their conversation. But she couldn't help overhearing, and she realized after a little while that they were talking about city politics, local sports, music and theater, and the newest exhibition at the Met.

By about eleven, the place was almost dead quiet. It was a Tuesday night, and only some regulars were hanging around along with a smattering of tourists, all nursing their last drinks before their night's rest and the workday or the exertions of touring the city come morning. Both Debbie and Mary Kathleen had called it quits earlier; the chef and his staff were cleaning up the kitchen, and Kieran knew there was no reason for her not to join her brothers and Craig Frasier.