Flawless (5 page)

The driver suddenly stepped on the gas. Craig looked out the windshield and realized that they'd miraculously hit a clear patch of Fifth Avenue.

Craig knew he couldn't have gone after the thief anyway. The woman was still in the van, and the driver was alive and well.

Now his lead foot on the gas sent both Craig and the woman flying. He landed half on top of the unconscious man she'd hit and half on top of
her
.

For a moment he got a good look at her face. Mid to late twenties, brilliant blue eyes, deep red hair, fine bone structure and porcelain skin.

He got moving again quickly, staggering to the front, pulling the Glock out of its holster as he went, then pressing the muzzle against the driver's head.

“Pull over. Now.”

“Ah, hell,” the driver muttered. He added a few colorful expletives, but, as ordered, he pulled over to the side. Craig cuffed him and then went back to cuff the other two, easing their guns out of reach as he did so, swearing inwardly. A takedown wasn't easy when he was stooping over the whole time to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling of the van.

The young woman was getting to her feet at that point, and he realized she was tall enough that she needed to stoop, as well. He met her eyes. They were a stunning crystal blue, almost impossible to look away from.

“Thanks,” he told her. “You saved my life.”

“I think you saved mine,” she said.

“Oh, fuck you both,” the driver said. “No one saved anyone. We don't kill people. We're thieves. We don't even use real guns!”

Craig spun around toward him and then bent down to pick up the thieves' guns.

It was an incredibly real copy of a Smith & Wesson. And it was made out of plastic.

He grabbed the other weapon off the floor of the van; it, too, was an excellent copy and, like the first, made of plastic.

“Where the hell did you get these?” Craig demanded.

The driver laughed. “Toy store,” he said. “Check that one out. It's a water pistol.”

“You idiot. Don't you know that the police would shoot you, whether these were real or not?”

“Police never should have caught us,” the driver said.

“Am I hearing this right?” Mike demanded over the earpiece.

Craig wasn't sure how Mike could hear anything, frankly. By now sirens were ripping through the air and police cars were surging around them.

He slid open the panel door, holding out a hand with his badge showing. “Lower your weapons. FBI. The situation is under control.”

He looked back at the driver.

The guy wasn't wearing a ski mask or a hoodie. He looked like any other blue-collar worker in a Yankees' beanie and a plaid flannel shirt. He was about thirty-five, Craig estimated. Brown hair, neatly trimmed beard and mustache.

Someone's all-around good old boy uncle, perhaps, come to the big city.

Craig realized that he and the woman were no longer in danger—not as far as this crew went. He regretted the fact that he was now certain he had been right.

There was a copycat group working the streets. With real guns—guns that killed.

He'd won the bet with Mike.

He wished that he'd lost.

Two groups...

And the one that killed was still out there.

CHAPTER
THREE

ALL KIERAN WANTED
to do was escape, but getting away wasn't going to be that easy.

The police and the FBI and everyone else who had shown up where the van had stopped needed to speak with her.

At least half of them were convinced that she needed medical attention.

She
was
somewhat banged up. There weren't seats in the van—the back had been empty except for some tools, including the tire iron she'd used on the thief when he'd had a gun trained on the FBI agent.

Except that it hadn't been a gun at all; it had been a water pistol. However, she didn't feel quite so foolish, because Mr. FBI hadn't known it was a water pistol, either.

Why the hell did companies make such accurate children's toys? Were they trying to help raise the next generation of crooks?

She needed to leave. She needed to get back to the pub before Declan started worrying about her.

But instead she was stuck sitting in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a blanket and drinking coffee while desperately trying to convince the police and EMTs and whoever else was there that she was fine and just needed to leave.

Finally one cop told her, “Sorry, miss, you're not going anywhere. You're the best witness we've got against these guys.”

“But I really need to go to work.”

She hadn't seen the agent who had leaped into the van like a fullback since the cops had sounded and he had jumped out again. An officer had helped her out, and then others had entered the van to gather up the thieves, who were now on their way to a police station somewhere to be held for arraignment. She'd overheard the driver, a good old boy with a beard and flannel shirt, inform them that he wasn't talking to anyone until he had a lawyer.

She had turned over all the diamonds to the police—including the one her brother had pinched.

She realized that she was now actively afraid of explaining to Declan what she had been doing. She had promised to work that night, and while Daniel might manage for a few hours, he wasn't up to handling the night crowds.

One of the EMTs came over to her. “You should really go to the hospital for a checkup, just to make sure you're all right. Sounds like you got pretty shaken up in that van.”

“I swear, I'm fine,” Kieran said, putting a little more pressure on the ice pack pressed to her cheek.

“Everyone who was in there looks as if they've been in the ring with Ali,” the EMT said. He kept talking, but Kieran didn't hear him. She was too busy being horrified by the reporters—with cameras—who had arrived on the scene.

She had to get out of there.

She slid off her perch. She'd told her story at least three times: once to a nice-looking man in his late thirties wearing a pin-striped suit, once to an officer in uniform and once to an older man with gray hair and a grim face. They'd said something about statements and the DA's office getting hold of her. Fine. They had her information and they could call her later.

She did
not
want to appear on the news.

As she slipped around the ambulance, hoping that she could just blend into the crowd, she stopped short. The FBI agent who had literally jumped to her rescue was talking with the man in the pin-striped suit she had spoken with earlier.

“The bosses want you to make a statement, Craig,” the man in the suit was saying. “They want you to say that the jewel thieves have been caught.”

“Mike, they
haven't
all been caught. These guys didn't kill anybody. Don't you understand?
They were running around with toy guns!
”

“Yeah, toys now. How do we know that they weren't packing the real thing before? That they weren't expecting to be caught sooner rather than later and were determined not to go down for murder?”

“Mike, why would they think—”

“Because it's hit the news, Craig. Two people dead—you didn't think that they'd be able to keep a gag on it long, did you?”

Kieran froze where she stood.

Two people were dead?

Killed by the same thieves who'd taken her hostage?

She stared at the two men in shock.

“Yeah,” her savior—Craig—said. “And I'm telling you, the killers are still out there.”

What the hell? Did he really believe that there were more jewel thieves out there, only carrying real guns?

“Just for a checkup,” someone said behind her.

She turned. The earnest EMT had followed her and was still trying to convince her to go to the hospital.

He flashed a light into her eyes, his own eyes worried as he examined her. “You need medical attention.”

“No, I don't,” Kieran said.

She looked away from him and saw that FBI agent Craig—was that his first name or his last? she wondered—was standing only a few feet away, staring at her.

She felt a moment's panic, then remembered that he'd managed to pass the stolen diamond to the police along with the others.

With any luck whatsoever, no one would know that it had ever been in her possession. Thank God she'd managed to give it back, even if not in the way she'd planned.

Thank God neither she nor anyone else had been killed.

“Miss Finnegan?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. She hoped he couldn't hear the note of guilt in that single syllable. And why should she feel guilty, anyway? She hadn't stolen the diamond. She'd been trying to do the right thing—and she'd been kidnapped for her efforts.

“I'm special agent Craig Frasier,” he said, and then he smiled, which changed his countenance entirely. He had high, strong cheekbones and a jaw that appeared to be made of stone. He was tall and dark haired with light eyes that drew her attention and seemed to home in on her like—like truth-seeking beacons.

“I know you've told your story several times, but would you tell it again to me?” he asked her.

“There's not much to tell,” she said. “And you were there at the end, so...”

“But I wasn't there at the beginning. You went to the store why? Were you looking for a premade piece or a unique stone you could have set?” he asked.

She looked at him, wondering why guilt had immediately set in. “I went to see some loose stones. A friend of mine was married—still is, technically speaking—to one of the salesmen there. She's interested in buying one of the stones he handles, but she didn't want to see him, so she asked me to go and look at them. It turned out he wasn't working, but anyone can show another salesman's stones. But before I could see them, the thieves came in.”

“And had you ever seen any of them before?”

She shook her head. “I still haven't actually seen them. The ski masks, you know. But none of them sounded familiar. I've definitely never seen the driver before.”

“Yeah, this is New York, after all,” he murmured.

She couldn't help but smile drily. “You mean we all live by the ‘don't make eye contact' rule?”

“I'd like you to come in tomorrow and take a look at some pictures of the men,” he said.

“Why? You can't need a lineup. You caught them all red-handed.” The thief who escaped from the van had later been apprehended by one of the officers.

“I'd still like to know if they look familiar to you in any way.”

“I'll come, but...”

“I'll send a car for you,” he said. “Around ten?”

At ten she would be working her job at the Midtown offices of Doctors Fuller and Miro.

And she knew for a fact that her employers—whose main work came from police consultations—would have no problem with her helping the police.

She started to look around for her purse, which one of the officers had brought to her. She dug into it and produced a card. She remembered how pleased she had been to have a card with the prestigious names of her employers on it—along with her own.

“You're a psychiatrist?” he asked.

“Psychologist,” she said. “May I go now? I have to get back to work.”

“You see clients at night?” he asked skeptically.

She shook her head, annoyed to find herself flushing slightly. “I'm a bartender, too. Family. I bartend for the family. I mean, the family doesn't have a private bartender. We own a pub. Finnegan's on Broadway. I'm still helping out there.”

She was annoyed with herself for babbling. She didn't know why he made her feel so off-kilter.

Guilt!

But she hadn't
done
anything. She'd returned the “borrowed” diamond, for heaven's sake.

But there was something about the way he looked at her... It was his eyes, she thought, so light against the bronze of his face. She realized that he was tall and solidly built and really good-looking.

She flushed and looked away. Sex appeal wasn't something she should be thinking about right now.

Especially when people had been killed in a situation like the one she had survived.

“You should let them take you to the hospital,” he said, “and make sure you're all right. We were flying around pretty good back there.” He smiled again, and she was shocked by what it did to his face. His pin-striped suit was rumpled and his tie was askew, so he wasn't looking quite as ruggedly
GQ
as he might have, but his smile made him seem far too...attractive.

“I'm fine. Really. I have three brothers. I've been through much worse,” she told him. “Really, I just want to get to the pub.”

“I'll get an officer to drive you,” he said.

“It's all right. I can hop on the subway.”

“Not if you want to avoid the press—which I very much hope you'll want to do,” he told her.

“I do want to avoid them, but why do
you
want me to?”

“Police should handle the press spin, that's why,” he said. “Stay right there. I'll get an officer to drive you.” He pocketed the card she'd given him. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

She nodded as he turned and left, then watched as he went over to join two other men in suits who were deep in an animated discussion about something no doubt related to the events of the afternoon. His answer had been logical, but she felt as if he'd hesitated just a shade before answering her. Why?

Suddenly her view was blocked as a uniformed NYPD officer moved to stand in front of her.

“Miss Finnegan? I'm here to drive you home.”

She wasn't heading home, of course, but to the pub. She gave him the address and told him where it was. He smiled. “I love that place,” he said with a broad smile. As they drove, he told her that Finnegan's was a favorite watering hole for him and a number of his friends—when they were off duty, of course.

He stopped in front of the bar, and she thanked him as she got out. There was an employee entrance that led to the offices, but she knew it would be locked by now, so she walked in the front.

To her shock—and a bit of dismay—the pub was doing a booming business. Mary Kathleen had even come back in for the evening shift. On a Monday, it shouldn't have been so crazy, but it was.

And the first person to spot her was Declan.

Her older brother was handsome and charming and—in her opinion—the best host and barkeep in the world. He looked as if he'd stepped out of a movie as he worked the bar in his white shirt with rolled up sleeves and green brocade vest. But when he saw her, he folded his arms over his chest, a frown settling onto his face.

Danny bounced out to greet her, his eyes wide with warning. But it was too late. Declan was already coming around the bar to confront her. “Are you crazy?” he asked. His tone was furious. “And look at you! You look like you were competing in the mud-wrestling championships!”

She took a deep breath and was trying to figure out just how she was going to explain herself when he threw his arms wide and pulled her into a tight hug. “Thank God you're all right!”

Crushed against his chest, she felt her mind race.

What did he know? What did he think?

“She's here!” Bobby O'Leary cried. “The woman of the hour!”

“All hail our kick-ass hero!” Jimmy McManus, sitting down the bar from Bobby, lifted his beer glass.

The darker of the two men she'd seen with McManus was there with him. Thankfully, there was no sign of Gary Benton.

Kieran froze, then slowly emerged from Declan's embrace. Everyone in the place was looking at her and applauding.

“What, um, what...?” she muttered inarticulately.

“The television—check out the television,” Danny told her, hugging her tightly for a long moment.

Kevin, her twin, had emerged from behind the bar, too, and he also hugged her warmly, whispering, “I know you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but if you took chances... I came into this world with you, sis, and if you leave it before me, I won't be able to cope.”

“I love you, too,” she murmured, then finally got a glance at the TV. A reporter was in the middle of explaining that a brave hostage had helped the FBI take down the thieves. And she was clearly visible in the shot behind him, which showed her seated in the back of the ambulance, a blanket around her shoulders and a cup of coffee in her hand, as an EMT spoke to her. The reporter was still going on about her courage under fire.

Except there had been no courage. There had been no choice.

She smiled weakly, waved a hand and managed a soft thank-you, then dodged behind the bar and ran to the offices in back.

Declan was right behind her, closing the door to the office behind them. She noticed that he'd brought a clean wet bar rag with him and looked at him questioningly.

“You're still wearing a fair amount of dirt. You roll in an alley or something?” he asked.

He was watching her with his arms crossed over his chest again. Even so, she could tell that he was truly grateful to see her alive and well.