Flawless(70)

She looked nervous.

“We can drive you to work,” Craig said.

“You don’t have to do that. It’s only a few blocks away. And if Joe was somehow involved, it’s not like I’ve ever seen him. Oh, God! Do you think that’s possible? Maybe he got her to disarm the alarm so he could come in and wait for her, when really he was planning to...to...”

“We’ve considered that as a possibility, yes,” Craig told her. “Come on, we’ll drop you off.”

“No, thanks. I’d rather not be seen with the FBI. Just in case anyone’s watching, you know?” she told them.

“As you wish,” Craig said.

When she was gone, Mike said, “Damn. This means dealing with Mannerly again.”

“We have to find out why she never mentioned the phone,” Craig said. He drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t like this at all. I think Bobby O’Leary was attacked because someone thought he knew something. I’m afraid for this girl, for Alicia Rodriguez, and everyone we talk to now because our killers could think they know something, too. Mike, I think that means we’re getting close to something.”

“Yeah. Too bad we still don’t see what it is.”

Craig agreed with that. “Joe,” he said thoughtfully.

“Yeah, what a great clue. A tall, dark-haired guy named Joe running around New York City,” Mike said glumly.

“We have more than that,” Craig said.

“We do? What’s that?”

“A tall, dark-haired guy named Joe running around New York City—and possibly frequenting a pub called Finnegan’s on Broadway,” Craig said. “It’s only an assumption, but with Bobby being attacked and everything else that’s been going on, it’s a fair one, I would say.”

*

By three o’clock in the afternoon, Kieran felt that she was going stir-crazy.

She’d actually managed to doze on and off for several hours and she felt rested, but also as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof, as the saying went.

She tried to make herself look at things logically. To utilize every bit of training she’d had since she’d decided to go into psychology.

Not to mention calling on all her time in the field—more or less—as a bartender.

She didn’t want to die. She liked living. She loved her brothers and wasn’t sure they would actually make it to old age without her.

But it was also ridiculous to think that she couldn’t go down a flight of stairs to a busy street and hail a cab to go somewhere.

She was surprised, in the midst of her argument with herself, to receive a call.

It was Dr. Fuller, and he sounded impatient. He must have been called off the tennis court, she thought.

“Kieran, it’s Sunday, and I’m sorry as hell to bother you,” he said.

“It’s all right. I’m not doing anything important,” she said. “What is it?”

“Dr. Miro actually tried to deal with this, but...it’s a woman you were doing an assessment on for us. She’s at Rikers.”

“Oh?”

“Tanya Lee Hampton. You know. The one who cut off her husband’s penis,” Fuller said flatly.

“Yes? Is something wrong?” Kieran asked worriedly. Had she made a poor assessment? Had the woman knifed someone in the cafeteria?

“She wants to see you and only you.”

“She does?”

“Her attorney called me. She’s very upset, and she won’t tell anyone why. Only you.”

“All right. What do I do?”

“Nothing. I’m sending a car for you. The driver—William Buell, he drives for us all the time—will call when he gets there. Mrs. Hampton’s attorney will be waiting for you when you arrive.”

Reprieve! She could go out and no one could fault her for it. She was being picked up at her door and going to a place where dozens of officers would be keeping watch.

“I’ll be ready,” she said.

In twenty minutes she received the call from William Buell. She’d seen him before, though he’d never actually driven her.

Along with working with the police, her bosses often worked alongside defense attorneys representing the very rich, enabling them to be very rich themselves. Buell, she was pretty sure, was Dr. Fuller’s private driver.

He was on the sidewalk waiting for her when she came down. “Miss Finnegan, good afternoon. Lovely day for a drive. Too bad we’re going to Rikers.”

“Not to mention we’re both working on a Sunday.”

He laughed and let her into the car.

He was a talkative man and entertained her with stories about his son’s Little League games as they drove.

As Dr. Fuller had said, she was met by Tanya Lee Hampton’s public defender, Joan Terry, a dark-haired young woman with a harried expression and frizzy hair who reminded Kieran of a schnauzer. But she turned out to be highly professional and dedicated to her often thankless job.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” she told Kieran, as they jumped through the metaphorical hoops involved in entering the facility. “She was insistent that we reach you. I kept telling her that I’m the one who’ll be defending her in court, so she has to tell me anything that can affect her case, but she begged me to get hold of you. I’ve read your report, and you will help us, won’t you?”