Flawless (11 page)

“You know it will be a few days before people leave you alone, right?” Kevin asked her.

“What do you mean?” she asked, glancing worriedly back at Kevin.

“You're the girl of the moment,” Kevin said. He looked out the window, as if searching for hidden paparazzi. “Reporters, bloggers, anyone looking for an audience is going to try to interview you. I guess people don't know you're a
Finnegan's
Finnegan or the place would have been crawling with reporters.”

Kieran leaned her head back and groaned softly.

“Don't worry. It will end soon,” Craig assured her. “The press is fickle. They've already forgotten about the other night, and they'll move on again as soon as there's a new sensation or a juicy scandal.”

“Must be something going on at the karaoke bar,” Kevin said, sitting forward to peer out the windshield as they drew close to her building. “Reporters, I bet. The wolves are congregating.”

“Great. Everyone knows where I live. How is that?” Kieran asked.

“Easy enough information to find,” Craig said.

“I can't believe this,” she said, falling back on the seat and staring ahead. What if she didn't go home? She could sleep on a sofa at the office. That would be fine.

“What do you want to do?” Kevin asked her.

“Back to the pub, to a hotel, my office—anywhere but here,” Kieran said.

Craig kept driving past the clump of reporters milling on the sidewalk.

She hoped the karaoke bar would at least get some extra business from curiosity seekers drawn by the men and women of the media with their cameras, notepads and microphones, then staying to sing.

Craig pulled over about five minutes later, near Cooper Union and about a block off Broadway.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“My place. We'll hang out here for a bit. Maybe I can get you home unnoticed in a few hours,” Craig said. “If not, I have an extra bedroom and an office with a sofa. Plenty of room.”

“In New York City?” she asked incredulously, staring at him.

“I bought my place right after the housing collapse about ten years ago,” he explained briefly. “Anyway, make yourselves comfortable.”

“What about your boss and your partner?” Kieran asked.

“I'll give them a call.”

“You're going to make your boss call a cab?” She was incredulous.

Craig shrugged that off. “We're sworn to protect and serve. That comes first.”

She wasn't sure that protecting a woman from the press fell into that category, but Craig Frasier seemed completely comfortable with what he was doing.

He found a place to park on the street, quiet except for the faint sounds of music and revelry from a horror-themed club on Broadway. While making his call, which seemed to go fine, he led them to his building door, unlocked it after quickly sifting through his keys, then led them down a hall.

The building was beautiful, dating back to the deco era. Everything was well maintained, and crown molding and arched doorways gave it a charming look. The lone elevator appeared to be hand run, a unique, glass-enclosed vestige of the past, but Craig started up the stairs and they followed.

His loft was incredible. It must have been several thousand square feet, with half walls separating it into rooms. The kitchen stretched into the dining area, which stretched into the living area, with the other rooms off to the side.

At the far end of the living area, a large-screen TV hung on the wall, surrounded by shelves that were filled with books, games, CDs and DVDs in seemingly random order. That slight messiness surprised Kieran; she would have expected an FBI agent to be somewhat anal about keeping everything in order.

The couches and sofa were old leather pieces, comfortable and inviting, and there was a fireplace to the side with another couple of chairs, then the dining area, with a simple wooden table and six chairs. The kitchen was fairly new.

“Guest room is the first door there, my office next and then my room,” Craig told them.

“I'm going to crash, sis,” Kevin said to her. “I have to be a bouncing ball of dryer fluff in the morning.”

“I thought we were just staying a little while to see if the press would give up and I could go home,” Kieran protested.

“Bouncing balls of dryer fluff need their rest,” Kevin said.

“Don't they also need to shower and brush their teeth?” she asked.

“I can set an alarm for 5:00 a.m.,” Craig said. “We'll all get up, and I'll take you both to your place, Kieran. That should give you both plenty of time to get ready for the day. Meanwhile, make yourself at home. You're welcome to shower here, of course, and I may even have an extra toothbrush or two in the bathroom cabinet.”

“Kieran, it's the best plan,” Kevin said, his tone serious. “Unless you want to give the vultures what they want, get over it.”

“Fine,” she said with a sigh. “You want the guest room or the sofa?”

He laughed. “You're the girl. You get the guest room.”

“You're my twin, and you know I don't care about stuff like that.”

Kevin put his hand over his heart. “Mom might be looking down,” he said, “and she would never forgive me if I stole the guest room.” The genuine emotion behind his joking words made her feel a tremendous swell of affection for him, a measure of the strength of their sometimes difficult family bond.

“Okay, well, good night,” she said, heading toward the door Craig had indicated. Nearly there, she paused and looked back at him. He was still regarding her with what looked very much like suspicion. “Thank you,” she said. “I really don't think this kind of hospitality is in your job description.”

“We serve where we can,” he said.

He continued to stare at her, making her feel as if both sparks and chills were taking turns running through her bloodstream and into her very bones.

Why couldn't she have wound up sharing that getaway van with an older agent, a fatherly type, someone who didn't...

Didn't do this to her.

She smiled weakly and disappeared into the guest room.

It was nice—neutrally nice. Smallish, with a wardrobe rather than a closet, a dresser, period seascapes on the walls and blue bedding. She set down her bag and sat on the bed, awkward and uncomfortable for a minute, but also very aware that she was exhausted from the tension and worry of the past few days.

Just what she needed. Her miscreant brothers getting buddy-buddy with the FBI.

She could hear Craig and Kevin discussing the contents of the shelves by the flat-screen TV. The next thing she knew, she heard the muted sounds of a video game being played. So much for Kevin getting his rest, she thought.

Frustrated and completely confused, she made herself lie down. To her amazement, she immediately began to doze, even with the noise.

As she felt herself fading, she realized, to her dismay, that she could sleep because she felt safe.

Why this sudden need to feel safe? She'd lived in the city her whole life. She loved her job, the pub and having her own apartment.

But that was before someone had tried her apartment door, before she'd felt she was being stalked by a man in a hoodie and a girl had ended up on the subway tracks moments later.

The next thing she knew, she was waking groggily with special agent Craig Frasier knocking at the bedroom door, telling her that it was 5:00 a.m.

* * *

Craig went in to work early—ridiculously early—after he dropped off his guests and stopped by a diner for breakfast.

He pulled out the reports he'd been working on, sheets and sheets of eye-witness statements and forensics from the diamond thefts. Glancing at the clock impatiently, he rose at last and headed for the tech department. To his surprise and pleasure, he found that Wally O'Neill was in his office, or rather, his cubicle.

“Hey,” Wally said, after nearly dropping his coffee cup, startled by Craig's appearance so early in the day. “I was looking forward to seeing you. You can tell the bosses that you were right. They were in too much of a hurry to put a bad situation behind them.”

“Tell me more,” Craig said.

“I've finished my analysis, and there are definitely two sets of jewelry thieves out there. To be fair, I'm not surprised you and Miss Finnegan were the only ones who saw the differences because they're not obvious. The guys you caught are five-nine, five-ten, six foot even and six foot one. The guys from the Jersey tapes are six even, six-one, six-one and six-two.”

“Great work, thanks,” Craig said. He wasn't pleased or relieved; he wished he'd been wrong. At least he'd saved innocent men from a murder charge, but that meant the killers were still out there. “Have you sent the info up to Eagan yet?”

“Emailed it to him...marked urgent
.
If he's in, I'm sure he's seen it.”

“Are you analyzing the video surveillance from the subway last night?”

“Not officially—NYPD are handling that. But Eagan managed to get it to me.”

“May I see?”

“Sure. And in my opinion? That kid was pushed.”

“Show me,” Craig said. He dragged a chair from the next cubicle to join Wally at his computer.

The footage was grainy and only caught so much.

“I backed up pretty far before the incident,” Wally said. “I was looking for that guy in a hoodie from the Finnegan woman's police report and several of the witness statements.”

“And?”

“I found twenty guys who could be him.”

“Great,” Craig muttered.

“Wait, wait—I'm not your go-to man for nothing,” Wally assured him. He paused the footage. “Guy in a hoodie here, guy in a hoodie there. But they look up, they look around, they look at their phones. Now...” He unfroze the frame and images went by. Then he stopped the film again. “Guy in a hoodie here. Head down all the time. Dark hoodie, either black or dark gray. Watch him—never looks up once.”

Craig studied the man as he paced the platform, then found a place by a pillar and lounged against it.

He was in a position where he could watch the stairs, see who was coming down. And still, it was impossible to see his face.

“There's Miss Finnegan,” Wally said, pointing.

Craig looked, and there was Kieran, coming down the stairs in her work suit. She smiled and apologized to someone as they brushed shoulders, then merged into the crowd. He saw her look around and frown and then take out her phone.

He saw the people on the platform, teens, uniformed schoolgirls, a rabbi, several Muslim women, everyone waiting, some patiently, some less so, edging forward.

Everyone edging forward.

Kieran looked up from her phone and appeared to be searching for someone.

The guy in the dark hoodie had shifted. He'd joined the throng, moving in more and more closely, filtering his way between people until he was directly behind Kieran. And as if she sensed someone there, she moved away from the edge and closer to the rabbi.

And then the girl fell.

Had the guy in the hoodie pushed her?

Or had he, like those around him, just surged forward?

He saw the chaos that ensued, the girl on the tracks and Kieran—right above her—reaching out. The girl scrambled up with the aid of Kieran's hand, almost leaping onto the platform as if her life depended on it.

Which it did.

After that it looked as if all the pins in a bowling alley had been struck, with people falling here, there and everywhere. They'd all been pushing to get on the train, and then some had tried to help Kieran, while others had apparently gotten caught in the crush.

“Looks like our Miss Finnegan is a true hero,” Wally said. “What are the odds on that? The same woman who came in here to help winds up saving a life a few days later.”

What were the odds?

Had the man in the hoodie been aiming for Kieran Finnegan and accidentally pushed the wrong girl?

“Thanks, Wally,” Craig said, glancing at his watch. Mike should have arrived by now. He was going to head up and have a talk with his partner and then assistant director Eagan.

He was attracted to Kieran Finnegan, and if he had any sense, he would step out of the picture entirely. Of course, he couldn't do that now without explaining himself.

Besides, he was still suspicious of her.

She was holding something back, and he needed to know what it was, needed to know if it impacted the case or not.

Had she been in on the thefts somehow? She'd known that there were two separate groups of thieves at work. That could indicate that she was connected to one of them. On the other hand, if she was connected, would she have shared what she knew, what she saw?

He was of two minds. The first possibility was that she knew something. And because she knew something, the killers saw her as dangerous.

Or she was innocent, but for some reason the killers were afraid of her anyway. In that case...why?

Either way, he was certain the woman was in danger.

And he had to keep her safe.

* * *

Doctors Fuller and Miro had joined Kieran in her office.

“We're so proud of you,” Dr. Fuller said, brandishing his
GQ
smile. “So proud.”

“The thing is, you really should grant an interview,” Dr. Miro said. “Our phone lines have been ringing off the hook.”

Kieran winced. “People are bothering you
here
? At work?”

“Yes, but the real point is that you did a good thing,” Dr. Fuller said. “Of course people want to know about it.”

Kieran shook her head. “Please, please, I'm trying to keep a low profile and just lead my life. I can't function like this.”

“Don't be silly,” Dr. Fuller said. “This is New York. Celebrities walk down the street daily, and they function just fine.”

“You're not at that level, so you have nothing to worry about,” Dr. Miro added. “A brief interview or two, everyone gets to feel good about their city and then the moment passes. There's so much bad in the world. If you do an interview or two, you'll make people feel good for a change. Trust me, it's for the psychological good of the city.”