Flawless (New York Confidential #1)(85)

“I really need to reach him,” she said.

“What is it? Can you tell me?” he asked. “I’m not Craig, but I am FBI.”

She hesitated, then told him what she’d found and how scared she was starting to feel. He nodded and pulled out his phone. The next thing she knew, she was talking to assistant director Eagan.

Eagan thanked her and told her to go home. “I’ll send men to that address, and we’ll see if anything is going on.”

“Better?” Marty asked her when she hung up and handed him back his phone.

“Much.”

“Give me a minute. I want to take a look at the street,” he said. “Stay inside. That’s a cop in the corner there. I’ll come back in for you in a minute or two.”

She agreed, and a minute later, as promised, Marty was back. He told her to follow him, then did his best to shield her with his own body as they went to the car.

He was equally careful when they got out in front of her apartment.

The minute they hit the sidewalk, the karaoke club bombarded them with an Adele number sung slightly too high.

He grinned at her. “Karaoke! I love it. What a cool place to live.”

“Thanks.”

He followed her into her apartment and watched as she secured both the bolts. She turned and asked him if he wanted anything.

He shook his head. “Get some sleep,” he told her. “I promise, I’m better than a German shepherd. I’ll be on the sofa, watching the door.”

In her room, Kieran donned her pajamas, though she knew she was never going to sleep.

But she would lie down.

And wait.

*

It was well past 1:00 a.m. when Craig was finally free of the red tape that came with any shooting and, pending final review, cleared of any charges, in large part because Eagan had stepped in and called on every friend he had. Luckily, there had also been a number of witnesses able to testify to the shooter’s rampant disregard for life.

While the engines to clear Craig of the shooting had revved into gear, the dead man had been taken to the morgue. An ID and a twenty-dollar bill had been found in his wallet.

The ID had been proved to be bogus. According to his fake driver’s license, he had been one David Thoreau.

As it turned out, his fingerprints told another story. He was really Dean Thiessen, an out-of-work computer expert. He lived alone in Hell’s Kitchen—or Clinton, as the area was now called—and had no known family. His prints were in the system because he’d once been arrested on a robbery charge, though the case had been dismissed for lack of evidence.

His gun was sent to the lab, where it proved to be the weapon that had killed Maria Antonescu.

Craig hadn’t been able to call Kieran or even Marty, though Eagan had let him know that Marty had filled Kieran in, and then that she’d asked Marty to pass along an address.

The NYPD had staked out the store, but nothing had happened.

Was that because one of the killers was now dead himself?

Craig had recognized the man because he’d seen him sitting in Finnegan’s, talking with Jimmy.

Just before Eagan had arrived to give him the all clear, he’d been sitting morosely in the quiet FBI offices when Mike walked in.

“What’s that face for?” Mike asked. “You saved my life tonight. Shouldn’t you be smiling?”

“Someone’s dead, Mike. And I killed him.”

“It was either him or me or you. I rather like the way it turned out.”

“But if I’d just winged him...”

“We shoot to kill when we’re being shot at. You know that,” Mike said.

Craig nodded.

“Idiot, thinking he could gun down two agents like that,” Mike said.

Craig looked at him with surprise. “What?”

“He came after us.”

Craig shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I think he came after Bailey Headley. I think he was trying to stop her from talking to us.”

“Could be,” Mike agreed thoughtfully. “Wonder if he knew she’d already told us everything she knew?”

“She have any protection assigned to her, do you know?” Craig asked.

Mike nodded. “Mr. Rowe brought her here as soon as the coast was clear, and an agent escorted her home. There are teams watching her apartment 24/7. I don’t know how long we’re going to be able to watch so many people,” he said with a sigh.

“We’re close—we’re so damned close. Do we have that sketch yet?” Craig asked Mike.

“Yes. And we were right.”

“Sylvia Mannerly. Who’d have thought it?” Craig asked.

Mike nodded. “The police went out to bring her in, but she’s not at home or the office. She’s implicated in this somehow, Craig. I just wish I knew how. Whether she’s been supplying information, setting people up—or committing the crimes herself—she’s guilty somehow.”

“And in the wind,” Craig said. “We need to put out an all-points bull—”

“It’s been taken care of,” Mike assured him. “We’re lead on this case, but we’re not the only ones working it. Mayo has cops out scouring the city for her.”

“So the shooter tried to save her ass,” Craig murmured.