will love you. Oh, and don’t go thinking they’re all dirty, that the people who come in are sleeping in doorways and the like. Many work hard—it’s just a difficult thing to come into this country sometimes and instantly make a living, especially in an expensive city like New York.”
“Naturally,” Kieran said. “And yet we—as Americans, who really have it pretty good—like to whine!”
Mary Kathleen laughed. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my beautiful adopted homeland. But here’s the thing—people come here because we can whine. Complaining is the God-given right of every American! You just have to remember that throughout history, people have come here for a dream. And right here in good old NYC, there used to be notes on the doors of all kinds of businesses that said No Irish! We have to watch out for prejudice against any new group. People still come for the same American dream.”
“And even when we think we’re a mess, we’re still the best kind of mess?” Kieran said. She smiled. Mary Kathleen was going to be a wonderful sister-in-law.
“‘Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time,’” Kieran quoted. “Churchill, 1947, to the House of Commons—if I remember right!”
“Yes, except I’ve been told that he was quoting a predecessor,” Mary Kathleen said. “Anyway, the point is, people do come here for a dream. And sometimes, it’s damned hard to realize. In fact, it can be a nightmare for some. They fall on hard times.”
“Please, I hope you know me better than thinking I would be dismissive or mean in any way. I wasn’t thinking of judging anyone, really,” Kieran assured her. “I was just thinking...”
Declan suddenly strode directly between the two of them.
“Kieran was thinking she needed to be occupied—or she’d drive us all crazy,” Declan said. “Thank the Good Lord, Mary Kathleen. It’s a true kindness you can give her something to do! Go on, Kieran—dish out some soup. It is a very good thing to do. And when you’re done, if you’re still walking around like a caged cat, Kevin has to learn some lines for a guest shot on a cop show. You can give your twin a hand!”
“Cool. Of course, I’ll run lines with my twin,” Kieran said.
“Ah, yes, poor lass!” Mary Kathleen said. “You do need to be occupied. You canna quit thinking about that poor murdered woman and the wee babe? I don’t blame you. So sad. And they still can’t find out who the woman was—and they have no idea as to where to find the babe’s mother?”
“No, not yet. Not that I’ve heard about,” Kieran said.
“They will,” Declan assured her.
“Of course,” Kieran said. She took the large dish from Mary Kathleen. “We’re out of here!” she told Declan.
“Go forth and be bountiful,” Declan said drily.
She made a face at him again.
But he was right, of course. She was very, very glad to have something to do.
* * *
The folder that Richard Egan had given Craig didn’t yield much more than he already knew; the murdered woman had been found with no identification—no purse, nothing. She’d been wearing clothing with labels from the largest chain retail outlet offering budget-priced brands. There were literally dozens of the shops in the five boroughs alone. Her shoes had been the most common brand of sneaker. The hood she’d had wrapped over her head was a scarf that had most probably been bickered over and bought on the street.
She had been about five foot five inches in height, estimated age about forty.
The baby had been healthy and well kept—also wearing clothing bought at the same bargain-priced chain. The blanket covering the baby, however, had been hand knit. The creator had not signed the work in any way. Still, it was one of a kind.
The knife found in the woman’s back was equally common—sold at outlets across the five boroughs, the state and the country. It was a hunting knife with a leather handle and six-inch blade.
The woman had been struck so hard that nearly four of those inches had gone into her back.
There were no fingerprints found on the knife.
The bystanders had been canvassed for information. No one remembered anyone suspicious in the crowd; no one had seen who had thrust the blade into the woman’s back.
It was impossible—absolutely impossible, Craig thought. He tried to reimagine the crime, the woman hurrying away...
Someone must have seen something. They were afraid. Or it had been so swift an act that they hadn’t even understood what they had seen. Maybe, when people thought about it...
He set the folder down, frustrated. There was a tap at his open door. He looked up. His partner, Mike Dalton, stood in the doorway.
“So I come back from a glorious vacation to you and Kieran stirring up the neighborhood again,” he said drily. “You missed me, huh?”
“I did miss you, Mike. I always miss you when we’re apart,” Craig said, grinning. “I’m sure you heard about the news-making events.”
“I did. Murder and mummies. Creepy!”
Craig pressed his lips into a tight line and nodded. “I worked the case with an old friend, guy named Micah Fox, and one of my cousins—mostly their case. A man they both admired had been killed in Egypt—a mentor. Weird case for sure, but...hey, yeah. I’m glad you’re back!” Mike was a great partner. Ten years Craig’s senior, he’d been the one to really show Craig the ropes. They both had the same sense of moral duty, of right and wrong, and a way of thinking together that had gotten them through many a situation.
“I read all about your mummies,” Mike told him. He shuddered. “And saw it all over the news. Mummies! Glad you did that one without me. Actually...well, hell, this one sounds pretty bad. A woman stabbed, during rush hour, in the street, and no one saw it, no one can say anything?”
Craig pushed the folder toward him. “This is what they have. Autopsy coming up in a few hours. I was trying to catch up on all the reading first.”
“Good, we’ll share the reports.”
“Thanks for getting here on Saturday—and so damned early.”
“Hey, nothing like a good autopsy to get you right back into it all, right?”
* * *
Mary Kathleen had been right about the people who arrived at Soup du Jour.
Most were clean and decently clad, and between them, they seemed to speak every language known to man, and yet they all seemed to get on with one another, as well.
The space where the multi-faith organization operated had once been a giant textile factory. The machinery was long gone. Big old windows covered half the wall space—a great early effort in solar power, using daylight to see and work—and they still let in a glow of beautiful, natural light, though, of course, it was now enhanced by electrical power within. The rest of the walls
