“Yes, well, real guns or not, there are laws—” Smith began.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Eagan protested, raising a hand. “Smith, give my men time to work this. You’re going to want all available evidence and witnesses concurring about the facts, aren’t you?”
Smith finally left in a huff after agreeing to give them more time. “But not too much,” he’d said threateningly.
It was nearly seven o’clock after a damned long night and day.
Mike was heading to the hospital for a checkup. One of the perks of being FBI was that doctors bent their schedules to see you after hours. Craig offered to tag along, seeing as he had no plans for the night.
“Hell, no,” Mike told him. “Leave me alone. Let me be grouchy and crotchety tonight, go in, go home and then hit a bottle of Scotch and my bed. You should go do something fun. Shake off this job for a few hours.”
But when he left the building at last, Craig wasn’t ready to go home.
And he wasn’t sure why, but he found himself heading for Finnegan’s on Broadway.
Maybe he did know why. Kieran Finnegan intrigued him. She’d been helpful, pointing out body language he might not have noticed himself.
But she’d also been nervous. Nervous just because she’d been in an FBI office?
He doubted that.
He had a feeling she was still hiding something. So what the hell was it?
Had she somehow been in league with the thieves?
He relived the previous night in his mind. It didn’t seem likely, though he couldn’t say it wasn’t possible.
It certainly seemed like a coincidence that she’d even been there. She had a day job, and though he doubted she worked two jobs every day of her life, she’d been slated to work at the bar that night. He knew from the NYPD report he’d read through that she had her own apartment near St. Marks Place. Not right next to the pub, but not much of a subway trip, either. On a beautiful day and with a little time, she could even walk it easily enough.
But if she was involved, what was his plan? Come right out and ask her what the hell she was acting so guilty about in the hope she would confess?
She would hardly admit to being guilty, so that wouldn’t do anything except raise her suspicions and make it even harder for him to figure out what was going on.
He would have to take a more indirect approach. Luckily for him, Finnegan’s was known for its food as well as its hospitality and selection of beers on tap.
Couldn’t hurt to get some dinner.
Old double wooden doors with frosted, etched glass faced Broadway, the sidewalk in front protected by a green-striped canopy overhead. Inside there were a number of booths to the right and a few more to the left, tables filling the rest of the room, and a long bar lined with taps at the rear. The place was busy with the dinner crowd and a number of cocktail-hour stragglers. He quickly saw that Kieran Finnegan was there, standing behind the bar and talking to a waitress. A tall man with dark red hair was also working behind the bar—one of her brothers, he was certain.
He started to head that way, then chose a booth that gave him an unimpeded view of the bar instead. He watched the action for a while. Another tall man, this one with lighter red hair, was working the floor along with two young women.
Before long one of the women headed to his table. He didn’t think that she was a Finnegan. She was petite and blonde, with lively blue eyes and a quick smile. “Hello. Welcome to Finnegan’s. What can I get you?”
He was in an Irish pub, so he figured why not order Guinness on draft? He asked for a menu, as well.
“Special tonight is fish-and-chips. Really good,” she told him.
“Then forget the menu. I’ll have fish-and-chips.”
She brought his beer quickly. He thanked her and sipped it as he continued to people watch. A group of young women seemed to be holding a baby shower. Business executives filled several of the tables. An older couple sat and ate a quiet dinner; the bar stools were mostly filled.
When his food came, he thanked the waitress again. “So this is a family business, huh?” he asked.
“Yup, and the Finnegans are all working tonight. That’s Danny on the floor there, Declan and Kevin behind the bar—and Kieran is back there, too.”
“Are you related, too?” he asked her.
She laughed. “Actually, I’m the only one—well, besides the kitchen staff—who isn’t a Finnegan or almost one. That’s Mary Kathleen O’Shaunnessy over there,” she said, pointing. “She’s Declan’s fiancée. And I,” she told him brightly, “am Debbie Buenger, an old family friend. I went to school with Kevin and Kieran—who are twins, by the way. Anyhow, enjoy the fish. Our food is great, so if you haven’t been in here before, you’re in for a treat.”
“I don’t think I’ve been in before—and I’m pretty sure I’d remember. I have a lot of friends who love this place, though.”
She gave him another of her charming smiles. “What’s not to love?” she asked, and moved on.
The fish was delicious.
At least at first glance, Finnegan’s seemed to be everything a pub was supposed to be. He couldn’t help but allow his mind to consider the possibility that there was something going on beneath the surface, though, since there had definitely been something off about Kieran Finnegan both last night and today. Were they laundering money? Raising funds for the Irish Republican Army? He doubted that. The violence seemed to have dropped substantially in Ireland since just about the time the Twin Towers had been hit.
What, then? Was there an illegal poker game in the back?
He’d nearly finished his meal when he paused, taking a sip of his beer, to stare at the bar again. Kieran happened to look up at just that moment and see him. She was visibly startled.
She also looked guilty—again.
She stared at him so long that Debbie—waiting in front of her with a tray of shot glasses—had to say something to stop her from pouring as whiskey started sloshing over the rim of the glass she was filling.
Kieran looked away quickly, flushing, and reached a bar rag. She said something to Debbie, who smiled and replied cheerfully.
Within a few minutes Kieran came around from behind the bar and walked over to his table.
He liked the way she moved, almost in rhythm with the music of the Dropkick Murphys playing in the background.
For a minute, he thought she was going to demand to know what he was doing in her bar and ask him to leave.
But she just looked at him, puzzled and uneasy.
“Agent Frasier,” she said after a long moment.
“Guilty as charged.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Eating.”
What did she think he was doing there? He would love to know.
“Oh,” she said. “Well. Um, I hope you’re enjoying your dinner.”
“I am. Very much.”
“It’s only pub food, nothing gourmet.”
“I love pub food,” he said blandly, curious to see where she would take their conversation. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Are you watching me for some reason?” she asked him.
Was he?
She was certainly a pleasure to watch, with her long, long legs, blue eyes