out just what the hell was going on and how the police would try to put it together—try to find a murderer.
So far, they hadn’t talked about the knife on the air or in the paper—online or in physical print.
Where had the knife come from? The killer had to have had the knife on them. And if so, wouldn’t that mean there would be prints on the knife? Of course, those prints would need to be in the system. And what if the killer had been wearing gloves?
She itched to call Craig again—but she wouldn’t.
He would call her.
Would Richard Egan get the FBI on the investigation?
Kieran was well aware sometimes the different agencies working on a situation could be territorial—and not just cops and FBI. New York was filled with different organizations of law enforcement, including the cops and the FBI but extending to the US Marshals Service and Homeland Security. Depending on who found what when, there could be some disputes.
She didn’t know anything about the detective who was in charge of the investigation so far on the NYPD side of it all. Drs. Fuller and Miro had a tendency to work amazingly well with all branches—and she knew that Craig and his partner, Mike Dalton, were both the type who worked hard to see that any rivalry was kept to a minimum—that the crime was of upmost importance, no matter who solved it.
She couldn’t help worrying about the case. She was on pins and needles, waiting to find out what was going on. And worse, she wanted to see the baby again. Though the child was being cared for by professionals, and Kieran assured herself everything was fine, she couldn’t tamp down the urge to see the baby herself—just to make sure.
There was no way she could simply sit in her apartment and wait for Craig.
It was ridiculous that she had started watching the news at the get-go.
She’d known what she really needed to be doing. She forced herself up, forced herself to turn off the television.
Outside, she headed to the subway—finally determined on getting to the venue that was always her cure-all for being as antsy as the proverbial cat on the hot tin roof—without further delay.
The front door to Finnegan’s was locked when she arrived. She let herself in with her key.
The pub was getting ready to open for the day. Most of the time, Declan spent a good twelve to fifteen hours a day at the pub; it was easy for him since Mary Kathleen—the love of his life—worked there, as well.
Mary Kathleen had only been in the country about three and a half years. She’d come over to take care of an ailing grandmother, and a family friend had set her up at Finnegan’s. She and Declan were a perfect—and beautiful—couple, in Kieran’s mind, at least. Declan was tall with very dark auburn hair and the blue-gray-green eyes that characterized their family. Mary Kathleen had eyes that were huge and wide and the color of the sea. Her voice was musical and her accent truly charming—though she had found it funny one day when a patron had told her she didn’t need to pretend to be Irish to work in the pub—it was, after all, America.
The alarm had already been turned off when Kieran stepped in. The place was spotless; she was sure that their late-night cleaning crew had been in, one hired just for the weekends when the traffic at the pub was extremely heavy. They had an impressive row of taps; Kieran was proud the place never smelled like stale beer. They maintained it beautifully.
She walked up to the bar, thinking she could put away glasses or do something else useful, but as she was standing there, Declan stepped out from the hallway that led to the offices and the stock room down in the basement. He was wearing a white apron and evidently had been working behind the bar, setting up, and perhaps he’d been in back in the kitchen as well, checking with the chef on the daily specials. On Sundays, Finnegan’s always served a traditional roast with a choice of regular mashed potatoes or colcannon—potatoes and cabbage—and a special fresh vegetable. But on Saturdays, Declan and Chef liked to be adventurous—as in “Irish spicy tacos—trust us, the sauce is pure green!” Kieran wondered what delight he’d have prepared for today.
“I figured I’d see you,” Declan said.
“I couldn’t sit around,” she said.
“And you sent Craig off to see his boss, to try to get involved, didn’t you? And I know Craig. If he values his peace of mind, he’ll see to it that he’s involved.”
She made a face at her brother. She was glad, though, that Declan—and Kevin and Danny—knew Craig well and really liked him. They’d met Richard Egan, Craig’s boss, and Mike Dalton, his partner, too. All them had come into Finnegan’s at various times, whether having to do with a case, or simply to have some good Irish pub food.
The pub itself—and her brothers, upon occasion!—had been too involved in deadly activities taking place in the city. She’d actually met Craig in the middle of a diamond heist—a situation Danny had ridiculously gotten her into while attempting to help a friend—and Kevin had recently been a suspect in a murder when an actress he’d been dating had been found dead in the church-turned-nightclub that backed up to the alley just behind the pub. The good thing was that they were all friends with Egan and the FBI. By tradition, of course, they always hosted police officers from the local precinct and firefighters from the fire hall down the street. After all, being a cop had once been a major Irish occupation—and the city had certainly been filled with the Irish!
“It’s Saturday—I thought I’d help out around here.”
“And you are always a help,” he told her. “But as you can see, the cleaning crew was already in. We don’t open the doors until eleven thirty. Chef is busy...we have a full staff on. In fact, I think we probably have one server too many today. Sounds ridiculous, but if I don’t give them all enough tables, they can’t make it in their tips.”
“Ah, and no worries!” came a cheerful cry. Mary Kathleen came through the tables in the dining room, having just left the kitchen, or so it appeared. She was wearing a light spring jacket and carried a large disposable takeout tray. “Kieran, hello there, me love!” Mary Kathleen paused to kiss Kieran on the cheek. “I’m off to the mission by St. Peter’s.”
“That’s so nice!” Kieran told her. She’d known that—a few times a month, at least—Mary Kathleen volunteered at a mission soup kitchen just down the block off Church Street by old St. Peter’s.
The mission concentrated on immigrants who needed support—on seeing that they were fed, first and foremost, and then offering information on citizenship, green cards, work and whatever else might be necessary for someone newly arrived to the country, searching for the American dream.
“Chef has given me a great big dish of shepherd’s pie!” Mary Kathleen said, nodding affectionately toward Declan. “Thanks to the generous soul of your brother Declan. Well, actually, thanks to the largesse of all the Finnegan family.”
“Oh, no, that’s all Declan. He makes the decisions,” Kieran said. “But I’m awfully glad. I know that we were all—and different family members have been through the decades—immigrants. I’m delighted we’re helping people.”
She looked around the spotless, still-empty pub.
“Want some help at the mission or whatever it is?”
“Soup du Jour!” Mary
