“Thank God you’re all right,” he said.
She extricated herself from Dr. Miro’s hug and stepped back, smiling. “You two deal with some of the most hardened criminals in the NYC system. I managed—with the help of an FBI agent—to escape squirt-gun-toting thieves. Thank you so much for caring. I truly appreciate your concern.”
“Of course, of course,” Dr. Fuller said. “And you need to go. I came to tell you that your car and escort are here.”
“Oh, yes, sorry. I didn’t have a chance yet to ask you if I could take the time—”
“You know how much we value our relationship with law enforcement. Take all the time you need,” Dr. Miro said.
“Thank you. I’ll be back as soon as—” She broke off. She’d been about to say as soon as possible. She restructured her reply. “As soon as I’ve done everything I can possibly do to help.”
But what that was, she really didn’t know.
Dr. Fuller shooed her out of the office to where her “man in black” was waiting in reception. Jake, the receptionist, wasn’t so much as looking at the agent. He was making every effort to look busy. The agent just stood there with his expression impassive and his hands folded behind his back.
He escorted her out, and she saw that his car was double-parked; apparently, for him, that was legal.
He opened the door for her and she stepped in. He was polite without showing the least emotion; she felt as if she had stepped into a movie about alien pod people.
The drive was silent, which made it feel even longer than she’d known it would be.
When they finally arrived, she discovered that no matter who you were, you went through the security screening. As she stood in line she realized that a lot of very normal people worked in the building. Three women in line in front of her were holding their Starbucks cups and chatting as they waited to go through the metal detector; behind her, two men were arguing over the virtues of an iPhone versus an Android phone.
Once through security, she was whisked up an elevator. The doors slid open, and she exited directly into a clean and sparse reception area where a young woman, who had apparently been waiting for her, greeted her then led her down a hall to a small office with a table that held a computer and several sheets of photos.
“I’m Millie,” the young woman told her, shuddering slightly. “Sounds ancient, doesn’t it? Short for Millicent. I don’t know what my parents were thinking. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? A soda or a bottle of water?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Kieran murmured.
Just then Craig Frasier stepped through the still-open door and said, “Morning, Millie. I’d love some coffee. Miss Finnegan, won’t you join me?”
“I’ll be right back,” Millie said cheerfully.
“Thank you,” Kieran said, as the other woman left.
Agent Frasier was wearing a suit very much like the one her escort had worn, though he had left off the sunglasses—inside, at least. She was struck again by the man’s rugged good looks and masculine appeal. She had seen several men down in the lobby who were tall, honed like steel and handsome. She was starting to think that it was an agency requirement. Or perhaps the job just called for people in good enough shape to jump over fences and coordinated enough to run through a traffic jam.
Agent Frasier smiled at her. “Thank you for coming in,” he said.
Did I have a choice? she wondered.
“Of course,” she said. “My employers understand my need to be here—they are frequently called in to work with law enforcement. They do psychological profiling, decide whether a defendant is fit to stand trial, that sort of thing.”
“Yes, I know,” he told her, but he didn’t elaborate on how he knew. She wondered if he’d worked with either of her bosses or if he’d run a background check on her.
“There are three pictures in front of you,” he told her, all business. “I’d like you to look at them.”
She nodded, sat down and glanced at the photos. They were of the thieves, and they were dressed completely in black—right down to their ski masks.
She looked over at him. “They’re in ski masks.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’m not sure why I’m doing this. You’ve already caught the thieves who took me hostage.”
He smiled. “Lift that top sheet. There are four mug shots underneath. Those are pictures of the men we caught last night, minus the ski masks. What I’d like you to do is take the shots from the jewelry store last night—from their security tapes—and line them up with the mug shots. Then I’d like you to compare them with some other pictures I have of a different robbery.” He hesitated and then said, “I don’t mean to lead the witness, but I don’t believe they’re the same men.”
Millie returned just then with a tray that held a coffeepot, two cups, cream and sugar. Agent Frasier thanked her and asked Kieran how she liked her coffee. She said, “Just cream.”
He poured her a cup, added cream and handed it to her. Then he sat opposite her and sipped his own coffee. The room grew very quiet.
At first Kieran felt unnerved. He sat there in silence, leaving her to study the photos, but there was no way for Agent Frasier to be in a room and not be noticeable.
She tried to give her attention to the pictures. The sooner she did what he’d asked of her, the sooner she could leave.
To her surprise, she quickly found herself deeply involved in what she was doing. According to their mug shots, the men who had been arrested the night before were Sam Banner, Robert Stella, Lenny Wiener and Mark O’Malley. She glanced at their faces and the stats on their mug shots, and then at the security stills, comparing carefully. Finally she went through them, pointing. “Mark O’Malley was driving the van, obviously. Looking at height and build, I think Sam Banner was the one who dragged me through the store and down the alley.”
Agent Frasier nodded. “All right. Now I want you to compare them to the men from the other robbery.”
He got up and moved to stand behind her, then pulled another sheet of photos from the bottom of the stack. “I realize it’s difficult, but do you recognize the men from yesterday in any of these other photos? The way they stood? Something else? I can show you some video, too.”
She was acutely aware of him behind her. The fabric of his suit, the heat of his body, the scent of his aftershave.
“Uh, video would be great.”
He reached over to tap the keyboard. His nails were neatly clipped. His fingers were long, and she was certain that his hands would be powerful.
She swallowed and tried to concentrate.
After a minute, she miraculously managed to do so. She took control of the keyboard herself, running the footage and stopping it when something struck her.
“There,” she said, pointing. “That’s Sam Banner. You can tell by the way he’s standing and by his height.”
“All right,” Frasier said, “what about this footage?”
He reached over again and cued up a new video.
“No, no, I don’t think that’s Sam Banner. They stand completely differently. Sam keeps his legs apart. He’s angled, almost as if he’s casual about what he’s doing. This man, he stands straighter, and he’s visibly tense. Watch his head move. He’s jerky. He looks—”
“As if he’s nervous and liable to pull the trigger any second?”