A Dangerous Game

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 she lived a hard life before she was murdered. And she was trying to do the right thing by that baby.”

“I believe she was. Sir, there’s still the baby. The logical assumption is—even if for a good reason, such as saving the child’s life—that the child was abducted. And since—”

“Give it up, Craig. Yes, abduction. We can muscle our way in.”

“Sir, you know that I don’t like to let anything in my personal life—”

“Craig, Kieran Finnegan is your personal life. The woman attracts trouble of the most unusual variety. We work with her employers on a regular basis, though this is hardly the same as most instances. I’ve already made the calls to set up a joint task force. I’ve called Mike Dalton. He’s glad he had some vacation time lately—he’ll be in within the next hour. And what the hell did you think I was doing here today?” Egan shook his head. “It’s Saturday. Feel free to say ‘thank you’ anytime.” Egan pushed a folder across his desk toward Craig. “There’s what I’ve got. Joint investigation. Autopsy today—be there by two this afternoon. Obviously, the usual is happening—fingerprints, dental work, and so on. If anything has been discovered about the woman, I don’t know it as of yet. We will know more once there’s an autopsy, but even that...” Egan ended with a shrug. “Ethnicity, maybe. You’d think that in a city of millions of people there would be someone out there who did know something.”

“There must be—but they aren’t coming forward.”

“They don’t want knives in their backs,” Egan said flatly. “Anyway...there’s your case. The FBI and the NYPD are pulling information from every source we have—someone has to be missing a baby. And the woman...well, we might be looking at someone in the country illegally. That would explain the lack of any ID, driver’s license, bank card, anything. Anyway, you’re on it.”