she said.
He rose. She kept sitting.
He smiled at her. “I meant that literally. I’ll get you back to work.”
“Oh! Okay, thank you.”
She stood quickly, dismayed to feel herself blushing.
She felt his hand at the small of her back as he politely ushered her out.
She told Millie goodbye and passed another half dozen men and women in well-tailored suits as they left the building, walking past the line where people were still lined up, chatting as they waited to pass through security.
She noticed an interesting group waiting their turn. They weren’t in suits and didn’t look at all like members of the FBI.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“A teachers’ group,” he told her.
“Oh?”
“They’re going to take a class in keeping schools safe.”
“I didn’t know the FBI offered anything like that.”
He flashed her a smile. “We’re a friendly crowd, not the enemy,” he said.
“I wasn’t suggesting that. I just never thought of the FBI as being so...open-door,” she told him. “Practically warm and cuddly.”
“Well, that depends on who you are and what you’re up to,” he told her.
A car was waiting for them. Double-parked again, she noticed. Craig Frasier seated her before walking around to slide into the driver’s seat himself.
“In a city full of very different crimes, I find this to be an especially interesting case,” he said as he drove.
“I think it’s a terrifying case,” she said. “Men holding up jewelry stores and killing people, but making it look as if other people are the killers.”
She realized from his expression, which had hardened as she spoke, that he was accustomed to dealing with people killing people. That had to be difficult. Then again, she had known when she took her job that she would be dealing with criminals whose behavior made her brothers’ previous escapades look like child’s play.
“Actually, I was referring to you,” he said.
“Me?” She prayed there was no fear—or guilt—in her voice.
“Bartender by night, assistant crime fighter by day.”
“I’m a psychologist, not a crime fighter.”
“A therapist.”
“Yes.”
“What sort of cases have you handled?”
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,
