He wouldn’t receive any more of them. His wife had shot him while they were up on the roof. She hadn’t been familiar with the gun and the kickback had sent her over the roof—and down thirty-five floors.
A lot of the people on the street that day had needed therapy, too.
Oddly and sadly, there were many such cases. They were also working on one case in particular now in which a man had snapped—and killed his wife. An all too common occurrence. As it turned out in depositions from neighbors and his own children, his wife had physically and mentally abused him for years, striking him constantly in the head. Apparently, for a few decades, he—like poor Harold—had just taken it.
His lawyers were still trying to plea bargain his case. Was it self-defense? He had finally slugged her back. He was a big guy; she’d fallen hard across the room, struck the edge of a credenza and dropped dead.
The reports issued by Kieran’s office would be incredibly important in what kind of punitive measures the man would face. He had killed his wife, and the prosecution was arguing it hadn’t been self-defense, not by the legal definitions that usually set someone free in a courtroom. And women and children were far more often victims of this kind of violence.
Her cases were often very sad, and frustrating. Kieran could usually work really hard and with tremendous empathy and still go home at night. But this thing with the baby...
None of the cases in their office at the moment seemed to have anything to do with an infant.
Ah. What about Melanie and Milton Deering?
At the offices of Fuller and Miro, they were also working with a scary pair—a murderer and his bride. The question was just how much the bride knew about the murder—and if she had participated.
Yes, looking at it all, Kieran felt a bit overwhelmed by the number of bad cases on the books right then.
But nothing that might have to do with a baby.
Her newest case was Besa Goga. Her crime had been biting. She’d bitten the cable man. At the rate cable men actually showed up in the city of New York, it might be unusual that more people didn’t strike out in one way or another.
How had the woman known about their office?
“Who were you?” Kieran wondered aloud. “Why me?”
And then she wondered how the baby was doing.
Fine! The baby was going to be fine!
She looked at her computer again and then emailed Drs. Fuller and Miro, asking them if they could think of anything at all that might help figure this out.
Of course, maybe it wasn’t that much of a dilemma. People knew about Fuller and Miro—they were rock stars in their chosen field. Not that being celebrated by your peers meant anything to the general public, but the doctors were known for their talents and the way they helped law enforcement. Word of mouth. In the same way, people knew about Kieran. She had managed to get her name in the paper a few times—she felt lucky the police had helped her avoid the media last night.
The thing was, they weren’t out there in the same way as true stars or personalities—actors, musicians, artists, performers—but neither were they any kind of secret.
So what did that mean? Had that woman just known that getting the baby to someone in that office would guarantee police—and help?
Why not just head to a police station?
Kieran yawned.
It was Saturday. She could go back to sleep.
She headed to her room and crawled into her bed.
Two minutes later, she was up again.
She showered and dressed. She was tempted to call Craig, but she absolutely refused to allow herself to do so. No sense driving him crazy at this point, too.
She had the thought that it was too bad that—at this moment—the apartment was almost spotlessly clean. She might start cleaning spotlessly again. No, she would find something else to do.
But it was Saturday. For many places in the downtown area, it was a slow day.
But, Finnegan’s was a popular pub, the kind of place people were willing to take the subway or cab to reach, even on a weekend.
Perfect.
She would go to work!
She headed into the bedroom for her jacket and purse and then paused. She’d left the television on.
And she was staring at a reporter who was talking about the murder. And the baby. And she suddenly found herself sitting at the foot of the bed.
Watching.
Even though there was nothing the reporter could say that she didn’t already know.
* * *
Craig headed into his own office, determined that he’d call his director, Richard Egan, the minute it hit nine o’clock—even though he doubted that Egan ever slept that late, Saturday or no. But nine seemed a respectable hour.
He didn’t have to wait, however. Marty Kim—Craig’s favorite “kid” in the technical assistance division, stopped by his office, looking in. “Hey!”
“Hey, yourself. Working Saturday?”
“I am. Running some facial recognition programs and the like. I’m not surprised to see you.”
“You’re not?”
“Nope. Egan just said you’d be in.”
“He did, did he?”
Marty grinned. He was tall and thin with a great boyish face. Marty had no desire to be a field agent, but he loved analysis and could coax amazing information from any database.
“He’s waiting for you.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
The supervising field director was in his desk chair, swiveled around to study the flat-screen television set up on the wall of his office.
It was tuned to the news. And they were rehashing the story over and over again, as they tended to do. A reporter was standing on the street in front of Kieran’s office building in Midtown, telling her audience that as of yet, the police had no identification on either the woman or the infant.
Egan looked at Craig. “It’s not a major election year. This poor woman’s murder and the abandoned baby have become a media obsession.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.”
Egan nodded, then shook his head.
“Kieran is involved. Then again, Craig, she’s not. The baby was handed to her, but that’s where it ends. Child Services has the baby. She’s out of it now.”
“But she’s not. The press doesn’t have this, and I hope that they don’t wind up with it, but when the murdered woman gave Kieran the baby, she asked for Kieran by name. This woman went up to the offices of Fuller and Miro at a time when she knew they were closing down. And she knew Kieran by name, and possibly knew she was usually the last one out.”
Egan turned his attention back to the television. The anchor was showing pictures of the baby, and a sketch that had been done of the dead woman by the NYPD composite artists, showing her as she might have looked in life. Craig figured it was a good idea—getting the picture out there might be their best way and only hope for an identification.
“What do you think? Late forties?” Egan asked. “I don’t think she was old—I think she looked older than her years. Poor woman. I’d be willing to bet