Astonished, Kieran stared after her. She frowned, wondering why the woman had come—and why she had turned away.
Danny was coming out of the office and heading toward the bar—probably looking for a friend with whom to chat a bit. Danny, realizing that he made one of the most garrulous and charming guides in New York City—if not simply the best, as he assured her he was striving to be—loved to find old-timers at the bar and talk a bit and then listen to all that they had to say.
She couldn’t let him get chummy and find a bar chair.
Swinging around the end of the bar—and nearly hopping over the little gate—she hurried to catch him. “I need you—some food coming out, drinks good for now, Brian probably ready for his coffee soon, doesn’t need cream!”
She didn’t give her baby brother a chance to protest.
She shoved him back, handing him the bar rag as she did so, and raced for the door. Bursting out onto the sidewalk, she was ready to run.
She didn’t need to. Sister Teresa—in her complete “penguin” outfit, as they had always called the nuns’ traditional habits—was waiting for her, studying the list of fresh smoothies on the menu of the fruit stand just a few feet away.
“What took you?” she asked Kieran.
Kieran’s brows shot up in surprise. “I’m sorry! I...you... I didn’t expect to see you. I’m so sorry. I guess you would have been uncomfortable coming in? The pub is quite nice—we have religious groups meet here now and then. Even a few rabbis!”
“Oh, honey, I have no problem going into a pub. Sometimes, when people see us, they get uncomfortable. I didn’t want to distress any of your customers, child, that’s all. Then again, it’s best to talk in private sometimes, too,” Sister Teresa told her. “And not be terribly conspicuous.”
“Yes, certainly,” Kieran said, curious—and anxious. She had felt that there was something going on at the soup kitchen. Sister Teresa’s presence here now seemed to solidify what she’d believed.
“And yes, sometimes it’s good to speak in private,” Kieran agreed. But, just how inconspicuous they could be—herself and a fully draped nun in front of the pub door—she wasn’t certain.
Sister Teresa waved a hand in the air as if reading her mind. “Never mind—I just don’t want people walking out on your lovely place of business. So, anyway, here’s the thing—are you going to be coming back to the soup kitchen?”
“Oh, yes. I was very impressed,” Kieran told her.
“We are impressive,” Sister Teresa said flatly. “But, may I suggest that you return sooner than next Saturday? You are employed Monday through Friday—Mary Kathleen filled me in on you, so I know—but we are open tomorrow, as well.”
“And I would come back because...?” Kieran asked.
“You have a way with a soup ladle?” Sister Teresa retorted sarcastically. “My dear Miss Finnegan! One of our young ladies—a very shy one at that!—asked if I knew you. If you would be back. I assured her that you would be. It is not at all nice to make a liar out of a nun. I am assuming she wishes to speak with you. And—since Mary Kathleen did fill me in on quite a bit—I believe this young woman might be looking to you for assistance, and help in what may be a criminal matter having to do with a beautiful baby girl.”
Kieran stared at her and blinked. “Sister Teresa, if you can tell me—”
“I can’t tell you anything. I am only suggesting that you come to the facility at about ten tomorrow. We open after the early masses—services and such for some of our partners of other persuasions—and we work until three or four. I’m also going to suggest that you be incredibly discreet—as I said, this young lady is very shy.”
“Of course,” Kieran said.
Discreet! Like standing with a nun on Broadway!
“Don’t dillydally,” Sister Teresa said, and for a moment, she felt as if she was dealing with Mary Poppins—had Mary Poppins decided to join a convent. “Get yourself in there early. It’s not like anyone has given me a timetable or anything.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what, young woman?”
“Of course, yes, I’ll be there, Sister Teresa!” Kieran promised.
“Excellent.”
The nun nodded sagely, turned and fluttered her way down Broadway.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Hey, what do you think? Maybe we should have gotten some surfboards, eh?” Mike asked Craig.
There were a few boards leaning against the wall in the Cranky Crab. The place was something of a tiki hut, large and sprawling, up on wooden pilings, and actually on the beach. It was large, with a seating capacity of about four hundred.
“Maybe we should have,” Craig said.
“I was being a wiseass.”
“So was I.”
The clientele of the restaurant was intriguing and included young women with cover-ups over scanty bikinis that didn’t really cover up much accompanying muscle-bound young males, all the way up to older folks, some of the men with traditional Hasidic locks and facial hair and some of the women in wigs or scarves and long black dresses that concealed them almost entirely. And there was every mode of apparel in between, as well. And still, the place advertised very importantly that it was completely kosher.
Mike was glad that the two of them hadn’t gotten carried away. They were in board shorts and T-shirts, just a couple of guys out to catch one of the first days of nice warm spring sun. It was that time of year when the weather could come and go quickly...winter not so far past that it didn’t whisper now and then about a return to cold and ice. They ordered light beers and a house specialty—borscht—and kept their conversation to sports. How about those Jets? And what was going on with the Yankees and the Mets? Of course, then, well, hell, they could talk about the Giants...
Mike went passionately into hockey as their food arrived. It was about then that Craig saw Jacob bussing a table and knew Jacob had seen them, as well. He headed over to their table, clearly ready to join the passionate hockey discussion. If they were noted by others in the restaurant, they were quickly dismissed.
Before Jacob walked away—after vociferously agreeing with every word Mike had to say about hockey, but quietly imparting plans—they knew to meet in an hour in a safe house about two blocks away.
They rose to leave; Craig thanked their pleasant waitress.
“Spasiba,” Mike said. “Do svidaniya.”
He actually sounded damned good. Almost as if he had an edge on the accent.
She smiled and returned his words.
“Thank you and goodbye,” Craig said. “A little Russian, huh?”
“It never pays to give away everything you know—haven’t I taught you that, kid?” Mike teased.
“A good lesson to remember,” Craig assured him.
They wandered the streets for a bit, and as they did so, Craig thought about the city and realized that he was a New Yorker through and through—passionate about his home. Prejudice had probably existed since Homo sapiens had first met another tribe of Homo sapiens. And it had seldom been easy for the different nationalities that had poured into New York, nor was it easy now. So many different nationalities and ethnicities came, and they often came in great waves. At the moment, one of the largest influxes comprised various Asian countries, but that didn’t mean that many others weren’t coming at tremendous rates, including those from Eastern Europe and many war-ravaged areas of the Middle East.
“Land of dreams and nightmares,” Craig murmured under his breath.
“Pardon?” Mike said.
“I keep thinking—I love this city. I love our country. We’re a work in progress, always, and we’re where you come to escape poverty, war, persecution, and so on. But I have friends working down in the Florida area who in their work have witnessed the tragedy of refugees drowning in the Florida Straits trying to get to the States on rafts ma
de out of anything they can find. Other friends in Texas tell me about Mexicans and other Central Americans and South Americans who are taken for everything they’ve got by scammers charging impossible fees to get them into the country—and then deserting them.
“And then there are those who manage other rackets—as in selling beautiful brides to American men. Some of the guys are just desperate dudes. Some of them are sick as shit and happy to take in a foreign bride with no papers so that if something bad happens to her, well, she never existed.”
“Yeah,” Craig agreed. “There’s that.”
“Life—and dreams—for sale.”
“Okay, is it possible that we’re dealing with something that has to do with immigration, and God knows, maybe human trafficking or illegal adoption? No one has come forward,” Craig pointed out. “What happened has been in the news, on every screen in the city. A woman is dead—and a beautiful baby girl has just been abandoned.”
“So people are afraid to speak out. I think that we’re on the right track,” Mike agreed.
“Okay. So going with that, here’s a theory. Someone is trafficking young women. God knows—probably more than one ‘someone’ in a city the size of New York. Maybe they discovered the baby market on the side. Even good people—desperate for a child—might be willing to go the illegal adoption route.”
“But, no one has come for the baby,” Craig said.
“Well, not yet, anyway,” Mike agreed. “They can’t—if they try to claim the baby, there are a million questions. You think the mother is dead?”
“Possibly. I think that the woman who handed the baby to Kieran was trying to save it—and maybe because she believed she could somehow save the mother, as well? I don’t know. Maybe it was her way to stop everything that was going on. Hopefully our friend Jacob knows something that can help,” Craig said.
Mike shrugged. “I guess we have to start somewhere. But there are a lot of factors to consider, you know.”
“As you just said, we have to start somewhere,” Craig said. “And Jacob is damned good at his job—he’s taken down members of the Russian mob repeatedly without ever being caught. He has his eye on anything coming from Eastern Europe. And—through other contacts—he seems to have a handle on Asian crime and Central and South America, as well. He’s definitely our best help for some kind of help on this.”
Craig’s phone was ringing. He pulled it from his pocket and winced. Kieran. He hadn’t talked to her yet. “Hey,” he said into the phone.
Mike waved a hand at him dismissively and walked a few steps ahead.
“Sorry—I couldn’t wait anymore. I have to know—you’re at least on it, right?”
“We’re in,” Craig said. “I just...well, at this moment, we’ve still got nothing. No, not nothing. The autopsy did give us information. The dental records suggested that the woman grew up in Eastern Europe, probably the former Soviet Union.”
“See! That’s something already.”
“Yes, it gives us a direction, but we need to move along carefully with open minds. Theories are great. But we can’t put on blinders to other ideas—we need a great deal more.”
“That’s fine. You’re in. That’s the most major step.”
“Yes, so...what are you doing? Not going crazy? Not obsessing?”
“Not at all. I promise. I helped Mary Kathleen out at her soup kitchen, ran some lines with Kevin, and then worked the bar for a while. I’m heading home, though. I’ll see you there, okay?”
He didn’t answer her right away; she sounded far too easy with what was going on.
“Craig? See you at home—that okay with you? Oh, if you and Mike are working...did you want me to hang out at the pub and wait for you?” she asked.
“No, no, that’s fine. We ate. I’ll see you later.”
“Great. You...really don’t have anything, huh?”
“No, but we are working, Kieran. You know that—”
“Cases can take weeks, months, years—and sometimes, they’re never solved. I know. But you and Mike won’t let that happen.”
“Mike and I try not to let it happen. Anyway...”
“I’m good. Honestly,” Kieran promised.
“I’m checking in with an old friend who works a cop beat. Hopefully, if we put out enough feelers in enough places, someone will pick up on someone. Even in this city, people have neighbors. And sometimes, people are even decent enough to report what they see.”
“Yep,” she said cheerfully. Too cheerfully. “We’ll count on it,” she added. “See you soon, huh?”
“Few hours, at least, I think. Lock up, you know, when you’re home.”
“I will,” she promised.
They hung up. Mike walked back over. “What’s wrong?” he asked Craig.
“Nothing,” Craig said. “Kieran said that she kept busy all afternoon. Everything is fine.”
“Yeah, right. And that’s what worries you, huh?”
“Exactly.”
* * *
Kieran sat at her computer again, going through her current client files.
She just couldn’t find anything that would lead to someone handing her a baby. At least, nothing that she could figure out.
“Forest for the trees?” she asked herself aloud. Was there something she should be seeing that was so obviously right in front of her face?
There was a faint pounding sound. She smiled—the nightly karaoke was starting up at the restaurant downstairs. Not all the music came through. Someone was singing Aerosmith. One of the top ten songs people picked.
On a whim, she shut the computer and left the apartment, making sure that she did lock her door behind her. She walked downstairs, then slipped into the restaurant, heading for the sushi bar.
Lee Chan—one of the sushi chefs—was a friend of hers. They had a lot in common. His family owned and operated the restaurant. His great-grandparents had been born in China, but every generation since had been born in the USA.
His wife’s grandparents, who were Japanese, still remembered being in an internment camp—in the States—during World War II. They’d both been teenagers and they’d suffered a great deal of prejudice, but they had apparently never held it against anyone. Sung Chan—Lee’s grandfather, a man who still worked as a waiter in the family business—waved at Kieran as she entered.
Every now and then, he liked to belt out a Sinatra number—with a fine voice and pretty good Ol’ Blue Eyes inflection to his lyrics.
“What? You’re on your own? Where’s tall, dark and lethal?” Lee teased Kieran, handing her a menu, but then lifting it away before she actually touched it. “Wait, you have the menu memorized. What can I get you?”
Actually, sushi did sound good. She’d been too busy at the soup kitchen to eat, and she’d barely touched her food when she’d been helping Kevin.
“How about a sashimi boat—mostly tuna and salmon?” she asked.
“Whatever you want.” He winced suddenly as someone screeched out a few notes in an attempt to emulate Whitney Houston. “Except,” he added in a whisper, “I’m not allowed to get a hook to pull singers offstage. Thought about it once. My dad shut me down.”
Kieran laughed. “Hey, I always say, if you want to go for a Whitney Houston number, go for it.”
“So you really came just to eat?” he asked her, passing her order over to one of his fellow chefs and leaning on the counter.
“I think so. I don’t know.”
“Did you hear about that murder that happened right on the street in broad daylight? You know, the city gets a bad rap, muggings and pickpockets and that sort of thing. But that murder—I think it happened right by where you work,” Lee said. She didn’t have to answer. “Oh, you know all about it!” he said.
“I don’t know all about it—but I do know that it took place.”
�
��You were there!”
“I was. And here’s the thing, Lee—the woman had no identification on her. No one knows who she was. She didn’t have much of an accent, but I thought she was foreign.”
“This is New York,” he noted drily.
“Right. And the medical examiner told Craig that her dental work suggested Eastern Europe. I don’t know where she was born, but I can’t help wondering if her situation has something to do with her being an immigrant. An illegal immigrant, I think.”
“We do get illegals asking for work—my dad has given out lots of food and money,” Lee told her. “But we don’t do business under the table, you know.”
“Of course not!”
“Anyway, you’re looking for newcomers. But not Irish?”
“Correct...this woman wasn’t Irish.”
“Or Japanese, I take it,” Lee said.
“Or Japanese,” Kieran said, smiling at his gentle stab.
Lee laughed. “I think my family has been in the country longer than yours, though that bar has been around since right before or after the Civil War, from what I understand. But wasn’t your grandfather on your dad’s side born in Ireland? I thought I read that when the paper did a little write-up on old city pubs.”
“Grandfather and grandmother,” Kieran added. “Somehow, American Finnegans and Irish Finnegans have stayed in touch. The pub came into the family after the Civil War. The Irish-American who’d actually inherited when they came to the States had been a bachelor and he was glad to see it go to his cousins who were coming in from ‘across the pond.’”
Lee grinned. “So I’m more American than you are. And still sometimes people speak to me slowly, hoping that I understand English.”
“Well, not everyone learns English to come here. I bet you can get by okay without it in a city like New York.”
“Still, it’s a foolish assumption. Reveals prejudice.” He shrugged. “The American experience isn’t always a good one, you know. I have seen good people caught up in bad stuff.” He hesitated. “Karaoke can be an intimate experience—I mean, people open up, start talking. And you hear a lot of stories. Too many women come here all starry-eyed and end up falling into strip clubs, and from there into the drug trade or prostitution.” He shrugged again. “I guess too many men become criminals.”
A Dangerous Game Page 7
