It was Sunday morning, but Mike and Craig were back in the morgue.
The body of their Jane Doe lay before them. Andrews had a look on his face that clearly displayed the fact that they should understand—and be excited by—every word that he was saying.
“DNA—amazing,” Craig said enthusiastically, elbowing Mike. “The amount of cases it has solved—the amazing way it has helped not just in court, but on the streets. Not just helping to find the guilty, but showing us just as clearly who was innocent of a charge.”
“Not to mention telling curious people in America that they should be wearing kilts instead of lederhosen,” Andrews said, shaking his head. “The technology of DNA can be complex, but in this case, at the very least—and for whatever good it may do you—I’ve been able to find out exactly where this woman came from originally.”
“Exactly? I didn’t realize that markers could be so exact. I thought it was a broad strokes kind of thing.” Mike paused. “Okay, I know nothing. Just what I’ve seen in commercials for various ancestral DNA testing companies,” he added.
“Yes, because when we, mankind, began to move about in prehistoric times, country borders weren’t what they are today. As we all know, many of them have changed even during our lifetimes. But what can be done is narrowing it down to certain geographic areas,” Andrews explained.
“And are you planning to share the info about Jane Doe here with us?” Craig asked, his tone light.
Luckily, Andrews grinned. “So this poor woman hailed from Transylvania.”
“Transylvania? As in, vampires? That Transylvania?”
“You’ve done more than just a country,” Craig said curiously. “That’s a specific section of a country.”
Andrews nodded. “I’m good, right?”
“You’re good.”
“She does come from a country filled with lore and superstition, though whether that will help you any, I don’t know. Transylvanians are not vampires. Vampires are myth and legend and lore, helped along by novels such as Varney the Vampire, created by James Malcolm Rymer and Thomas Peckett Prest, and first published as a series of pamphlets between 1845 and 1847, and then published in book form in 1847 as a penny dreadful. Bram Stoker went on to perpetuate the legend with his 1897 novel, Dracula. Actually, 1897 was a big year for vampires—artist Philip Burne-Jones unveiled his painting The Vampire, displaying an evil and yet seductive woman over the prone body of a man. Others, like Rudyard Kipling—”
“You missed your calling!” Mike interrupted. “Doc, you should have been an English professor,” he added.
Craig shook his head. “We didn’t think she was a vampire, sir. She was a victim. Romania is a beautiful country. The thing is, Dr. Andrews—how do you know? How can you know so specifically where she came from?”
“Ah-ha! You law enforcers tease and taunt me cruelly,” Andrews said. “The fact that I am fascinated by world culture has given me what you need. I am—and God knows why, with what I do daily—a fan of myth and legend and even horror novels. In that vein, of course, I find many countries especially interesting. Romania happens to be one. We have a tendency to think of ourselves as the best educated, the most advanced population in the world. Well, we are ego prone.”
Mike looked at Craig a little helplessly.
Craig smiled. “Okay, so the Romanians are up on us in some kind of science?”
“Not exactly. But they—like many countries—have excellent scientists and doctors, who have specific ways of doing things. Gentlemen, with this woman—voilà—her teeth. She had some dental work done, probably at least thirty years ago, that wasn’t just specific to Romania, but to Transylvania. Once her initial DNA results had narrowed my search down to the rather broad spectrum of Eastern European, I went through my resources to find a more exact location.”
“Phenomenal,” Mike said.
“An incredible help, thank you,” Craig told him.
“My pleasure. I put a call in for Detective Kendall. I guess he takes his Sundays off,” Andrews said.
“Go figure,” Mike said drily, giving Craig an evil glare.
“Yep, go figure,” Craig agreed.
They thanked Dr. Andrews and left. When they were out of the morgue, Mike turned to Craig and said, “He couldn’t have done that with a phone call?”
“Maybe MEs get lonely and need some appreciation for their work.”
Mike made a grunting sound. “Yeah, he wants to feel a part of the footwork. Still—Detective Kendall will just call him and get the info in two minutes. We’re the ones who probably have the ongoing problem.”
“The ongoing problem—what’s that?” Craig asked.
“He likes you. Andrews really likes you.” Mike sighed. “As if we don’t already spend enough time at the morgue.”
* * *
Mary Kathleen was needed at the pub, so Kieran was solo at the soup kitchen. Kieran wasn’t worried—she was accustomed to doing things on her own, even if in situations like this, it was always more fun to be with a friend.
She had, however, acquired a number of friends the last time she’d worked there.
The chefs, cooks and people working in the kitchen were great; the volunteers on the soup line were equally nice.
She’d arrived at the soup kitchen at 10:00 a.m. Manual labor didn’t bother her a bit. Once when they’d been kids, one of her brothers had complained about helping unload supply boxes, and their father had reminded him to thank God that he was capable of moving boxes. Health and wellness were some of the most precious gifts in life and were to be cherished. Since her dad had said those words, she’d been happy to pick up any box. There were people in wheelchairs or otherwise disabled who could not.
By 11:00 a.m., she was on the line.
As guests came through, some people were talkative. She saw an older man again whom she’d seen the other day; he was excited and ready to talk to her. He’d come from the Gaza Strip; he spoke fluent Arabic and fluent Hebrew. He’d been hired the day before as a tutor for a businessman in the garment district. Kieran told him how happy for him she was. He assured her that he was on his way. He was going to become a citizen of America—in his opinion, the greatest country on earth.
On a break, Kieran spoke with a major-league attorney with a large maritime firm in New York; on the side, he worked with immigrants pro bono. Andy was in his early thirties and good-looking, and the younger women in the soup kitchen flocked to him.
“My father was a rich man when I was born—a high-priced criminal attorney,” Andy told her. “My mom was a Polish immigrant, and the way for her and members of her family wasn’t at all easy. That’s why I do this.”
“People love you,” Kieran assured him.
He flashed her a smile. “Yeah, I like that part, too. Doesn’t always matter what kind of an attorney you are—people have a tendency to think of us as walking sharks. Not that maritime law tends to be so terrible, but...anyway, I’m happy to be here. My pro bono clients all know that I won’t take them for everything they have—and that every step I take will be within the law. Having had a family member who lived the experience, it just means a little more.”
“I understand,” Kieran told him. She realized that no member of her family had ever had a problem when immigrating—but then, the Finnegans had always been helped along, sponsored and supported by others already in the States.
By 1:00 p.m., she was wondering if Sister Teresa wasn’t one of the most cunning nuns out there, luring her to work with the promise of information. She acknowledged Kieran with a small nod and knowing smile, but didn’t say anything else.
But Kieran didn’t mind being of service. She enjoyed interacting with the people who came through.
Some were lonely. Or they came in couples, or sometimes in families.
Going through a rough patch or battling homelessness could
happen to anyone.
One girl let Kieran practice Spanish on her.
A man complimented her—her French accent wasn’t entirely horrible.
People came and went.
But no shy girl. No one with anything to say about a murdered woman and a beautiful infant.
It was nearly 2:00 p.m. when Sister Teresa—while chiding a man for not speaking up that he’d missed out on a great piece of cheese bread—stopped mid-rant and elbowed Kieran in the ribs. “Eleven o’clock,” she announced, as if they were in the military. “Yes, over there. Somebody, please give this good man a piece of Chef Rosello’s cheese bread.”
Kieran looked across the large central room, trying to determine just where eleven o’clock to Sister Teresa might be.
She thought she honed in on the right person.
The woman was tiny—perhaps five feet even and ninety pounds. Her hair wasn’t just blond, but rather like a soft and shimmering platinum. Her face was lovely, a little gamine face with wide cheekbones, a pursed red bow for lips and giant eyes. She was chatting with another woman, and yet it seemed that she looked around nervously as she did so.
She suddenly looked directly at Kieran, staring.
And then she turned and walked away—toward the rear exit of the facility. Kieran was holding a soup ladle. She wasn’t sure just how rude and uncouth it would be to drop the ladle and take off after the stranger.
The petite blonde paused at the exit. She stared pointedly at Kieran again.
At her side, Kieran felt Sister Teresa reach for her ladle. “What? Did you need an engraved invitation? Go on. I’ve got this. She’s the one you want to talk to. And she’s also the one who was here with a very pregnant woman... I’d say that was just about four or five months ago. Get going. She’ll be out of here—afraid of who else may follow her.”
Kieran released the ladle without a word.
The young woman was out the door.
Kieran ripped off her apron and followed just as quickly as she could.
* * *
Detective Lance Kendall arrived at the FBI offices almost at the same time that Mike and Craig made it back from the downtown morgue.
Craig was pleased to see that he was with McBride, a detective he had worked with on the case when he’d first met Kieran.
Kieran would be happy.
“McBride,” he said, and Mike echoed his enthusiasm.
“Yeah, my fed friends, it’s me. Lance was told he had to partner up on this. He asked our lieutenant about me, and I said, those feds are a pain in the ass, but, hey, I know how to work with them. Sure, use me!”
“It’s good to see you—seriously,” Craig told him, and he looked over at Lance Kendall.
Kendall shrugged. “I thought you guys might like me better if I pulled in an old friend.”
“I liked you just fine,” Mike said. “My partner here, Frasier—he’s an ass sometimes.”
“Kieran was involved,” McBride said, and Craig nodded.
“Egan got us a conference room. Let’s head up,” Craig said.
In the office, a large board held the information they had acquired thus far: pictures of the dead woman, and of the baby. Beneath those, the police report from the responding officer, and then the notes Lance Kendall had taken.
There were four folders at seats around the table—each was filled with information on known criminal activities involving immigration, both legal and illegal.
Mike droned out loud about a few of the investigations that the NYC office of the FBI had handled.
Twenty women from mainland Mexico, smuggled across the border in a meat truck, intending to work in an underground sweatshop for a clothing manufacturer.
A Russian bride, basically sold into sexual slavery.
A Latvian woman rescued—along with many others—from a “gentlemen’s” club.
An Eastern European cartel broken; the women brought in had not just been intended for use in high-priced brothels—they’d been used as mules and carried in bags of cocaine. Swallowed so that they wouldn’t be caught with it on them.
And there were more.
Despite any politics from 1776 on, the American dream remained strong.
“Because no matter what, they believe they’ll be better off here than in the poverty and oppression they face elsewhere,” Craig murmured. He was studying his folder. “Here!” he said, looking up at the others. “In 2012, the Brooklyn police arrested a man named Michel Marcus. He was suspected of being a broker in an illegal adoption operation. A woman was found bleeding to death in an alley in the Vinegar Hill area of Brooklyn. She named Marcus and whispered Baggatella—which turned out to be the name of a restaurant—before dying. The medical examiner found that she had given birth just hours before and her death was caused by a severe hemorrhage. Had she just been in a hospital, it would have been stopped in time. The baby was never found, but...” He paused and looked up at the others. “Michel Marcus was found, right where the woman said—in the restaurant.”
“What happened to Marcus? He couldn’t have been working alone,” McBride asked.
“Right—but nothing happened. Because he killed himself in his cell before ever going to trial,” Craig told them. “Police at the time staked out the restaurant, searched, questioned and kept a task force going for a year. They never found another thing—not another baby, nothing. And because legal adoptions are so protected, it can be a very difficult maneuver to look for illegal adoptions.”
“It’s something,” Kendall said.
“It’s more than anything else,” Mike agreed.
“Hell, this has to be it. Michel Marcus couldn’t have been acting alone. That poor woman escaped the house, apartment, abandoned warehouse—wherever she gave birth—in order to stop them. I’m sure she hoped to get her baby back. I doubt if she intended to die, but maybe she was willing to die to stop them.”
“According to the records, though,” Mike said, flipping through his folder, “she only ever gave one name—that of Michel Marcus—and one place, the restaurant. The cops never even knew the name of the deceased woman—no one came forward to claim her body and no one ever found the baby.”
“The restaurant looks like it’s along the lines of a diner—breakfast, lunch and dinner. A pancake place,” Mike said.
Craig stood. “How should we do this? McBride, Kendall? You want to try the restaurant? We’ll talk to the cops who worked the case before. That way it’s the FBI and not Major Crimes asking if they missed something.”
“Oh, great—the feds horning in!” McBride said. “But, yeah, let’s start that way. We can swoop in as sympathetic saviors if you come off as asses!” He grinned and turned to Kendall. “Guess we’re all heading on out to Brooklyn.”
“I’ll let Egan know what we’re doing,” Craig said.
“Text him. The man isn’t a fool—it’s Sunday, so he’s not in his office. I did get a message from him about keeping in touch,” Mike said.
“We’ll all keep in touch,” McBride said grimly. “You want a ride over?”
“We’ll take our own transport—we may be moving around,” Craig said.
Kendall and McBride preceded them out of the office.
Mike collected the folders and told Craig, “Got another message from Egan, too.”
“Yeah?”
“He said to watch you—personal involvements can be dangerous.”
“We’re just going to see some cops. Nothing dangerous about that,” Craig assured him.
“I think he might have been referring to you being dangerous,” Mike said. “So watch the pounding on the guys, huh?”
“I’ll be as good as gold,” Craig promised.
“Oh, yeah. That’s a long shot. Just don’t be an asshole, okay?”
* * *
Kieran rushed to the back
entrance—if it could be called rushing. She wove through the crowded room, excusing herself as she pushed by.
When she reached the door, the young woman was gone. For a moment Kieran stood there, frustrated.
And then she thought she saw the woman heading toward Church Street. She raced after her.
She reached the end of the block and paused, inhaling hard to catch her breath. Again, she thought she saw the woman just turning a corner up ahead, except that it seemed the corner was in the middle of the block, and when Kieran reached it, she realized that the young woman had disappeared down an alley.
She hesitated.
It was broad daylight, of course. The alley wasn’t shadowed—there was no reason to believe that dark characters might be lurking there.
But Kieran knew that she needed to be careful. In this case, a woman had been murdered—in broad daylight in the midst of a crowd.
Only an idiot would go down that alley.
Kieran liked to think she wasn’t an idiot.
She had a true feeling—gut intuition—that she was being approached because someone wanted help. They didn’t plan to hurt her.
They needed her to help them.
Of course, Craig would kill her. Not literally—he’d just be disgusted with her lack of common sense and restraint. But she couldn’t worry about that now.
She stepped into the alley.
The old buildings were close together. One was an office building that had probably been erected in the 1890s. The one on the other side had been a residence of some kind. It had been built circa the Civil War, she thought, either right before or right after.
A true treasure—a beautiful little building. Overtaken now by T-shirt shops and possibly apartments, it had a Victorian facade that was absolutely charming and probably seldom noticed.
A Dangerous Game Page 9
