Flawless(52)

He shrugged. “We follow up on all leads,” he said.

“Of course. And it will be good, I guess....”

“Good to know someone is watching?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Don’t be ashamed of being afraid, Miss Finnegan. You’re not stupid, and only a stupid person wouldn’t be a little bit afraid. Come on. Let’s head out. I’ll drop you back at work,” Eagan said, then looked at his watch. “Nope. I won’t drop you back at work. Where would you like to go? Home, where you can lock the door and relax for the evening? I’ll make sure the cops keep an eye on your place.”

She nodded. “Thank you. But it’s Friday night. If you wouldn’t mind taking me to the pub, I’d appreciate it.”

“Great idea,” he said, smiling. “Friday night. Time for fish-and-chips.”

*

“Do you really think that the guys we’re looking for were all dressed up in their finest for some gala?” Craig asked Mike.

“Who knows?” Mike said. “Belvedere suggested another half a dozen places. And we need to get on Maria Antonescu’s friends and family here in the States. Between us and the NYPD, we’re following up on every possible lead, just in case someone working at one of those places saw something.”

Craig nodded. Mike was right. There was no way in hell the two of them could be everywhere themselves, and in fact, as soon as they finished up with their current interviews, he would be heading to Finnegan’s.

Their first stop was incredibly hard and painful. They had to speak with Maria’s aunt, a woman who looked to be about eighty, spoke English poorly and could barely stop crying long enough to talk to them. In the end, she wasn’t any help, either. Maria was a good girl. Maria had no friends and no lover. Maria worked.

They managed to make her feel just a little bit better, assuring her that Maria would receive a good Christian burial, thanks to Mr. Belvedere.

Craig asked her about computer access. She didn’t have one herself, but Maria had owned what sounded like some kind of tablet, and yes, she’d had a cell phone. She took both to work with her.

Craig and Mike looked at one another. Maria’s murderer had been smart enough to see to it that both her tablet and her cell phone disappeared.

“Probably at the bottom of the Hudson River,” Mike commented.

Craig thought that was about right.

Since she had been unable to give them any additional leads, their next visit was with Sylvia Mannerly, the CEO of Clean Cut Office Services.

Ms. Mannerly, Craig was certain, hadn’t cleaned anything herself in years.

Her nails were perfectly manicured, her hands soft—as soft as the limp handshake she gave each man before asking them to take a seat in her spotless office.

“I can’t tell you how devastating this loss is to all of us,” she said. “Maria was a dream employee. She was so hardworking. Her clients loved her.”

“I believe that,” Craig said.

“How can I help you?” Ms. Mannerly asked them, suddenly no-nonsense. She might have been devastated, but her manner said she was also a busy woman. She folded her hands on her desk and leaned toward them. “What can I do?”

“We need a list of every place she worked in the past month, no matter how briefly,” Mike said.

“And,” Craig added, “we need anything you can give us about her friends. Boyfriend’s name, if she had one. Anyone she might have been close to.”

Ms. Mannerly frowned. “Maria was the victim. Why are you investigating her?”

“We’re not suspicious of her, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Craig said evenly. “We’re just trying to find out if she saw anyone strange hanging around. Anyone who might have asked her to meet him after work.”

“She went home after work and went to bed,” Ms. Mannerly said icily.

“Everyone needs friends,” Mike said.

The woman might have continued to freeze them out—perhaps afraid for what an investigation might mean to her business—but suddenly the sound of a truly anguished wail came from the foyer.

Craig quickly stood and walked out to see what was going on, followed by Mike and Sylvia Mannerly.

A pretty woman of about thirty and of possible Hispanic or Middle Eastern heritage had crumpled to the floor in front of the receptionist’s desk, crying.

“Alicia, Alicia!” Sylvia Mannerly said quickly, stooping to draw the girl to her feet. “My poor dear, control yourself.”

“It’s true? Maria is dead?” Alicia asked, looking around with tear-filled eyes.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Craig said. “She was your friend?”

Alicia nodded. “The best. A good person.”

“I’ve told them that,” Ms. Mannerly said primly.

“What was she like outside of work?” Craig asked gently.

Alicia told them at length about just how good Maria had been—always happy to meet up with others at the end of their shifts, even pitching in if there was still work to be done. She loved café lattes and watching the ducks in the pond in Central Park.

“You see?” Ms. Mannerly said. “The girl was a saint.”

It was obvious to Craig that they weren’t going to get what they needed with Sylvia Mannerly standing there. “Ms. Mannerly,” he asked, “is there a place where we can speak quietly with Alicia—alone?”