Heather Graham - A Dangerous Game

“That means you have to give her the baby,” Craig said, but she thought he understood, too, somehow.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Kieran murmured.

She managed to make herself move, and she handed over the baby.

It was so damned hard to do!

“Miss Cleveland, can you tell me about how old she is?” Kieran asked.

“I think about six weeks based on her motor function. And, please, just call me Sandy,” the woman told her. “Her eyes are following you—and when you speak, that’s a real smile. It’s usually between about six weeks and three months when they really smile, and I think this is a lovely, smart girl. Don’t worry! I’ll get a smile from her, too, I promise.”

The baby did seem to be settling down in Sandy Cleveland’s arms.

Craig set an arm around Kieran’s shoulders.

“Sandy, I’m with the FBI. Craig Frasier. You won’t mind if we check in on this little one?”

“Of course not!” Sandy assured them. She shook her head sadly. “I hear that the woman who handed her to you was murdered. There’s no ID on her. I’m just hoping we can find out who this little one is. She’s in good shape, though. Someone has been caring for her. Yes! You’re so sweet!” She said the last words to the baby, wrinkling her nose and making a face—and drawing a sound that wasn’t quite laughter, but darned close to it. “Hopefully, she has a mom or other relatives somewhere. And if not...” She hesitated, studying Kieran and Craig. “Well, if not—a precious little infant like this? People will be jockeying to adopt her. Anyway, let me get her out of here and away from...from what happened.” She held the baby adeptly while using her left hand to dig into her pocket and produce her business card. “Call me anytime,” she told them. “I may not answer, but I will get back to you if you leave me a message.”

Then she was gone. The cop who had been watching over Kieran went outside.

She and Craig were alone.

Kieran still felt shell-shocked.

“Kieran, hey!” Craig hunkered down by her again as she sank down into one of the comfortably upholstered chairs in the waiting room. He looked at her worriedly. “The cops are good—you know that.”

“Craig, you have to be in on this. That detective—”

“Lance. Lance Kendall. Kieran, really, he’s all right. He’s doing all the right things.”

“Yeah! All the right things—grilling me!”

“Okay, I will speak with Egan about it tomorrow, how’s that?”

She nodded. “Thank you. Get one of your joint task forces going—at least maybe you can participate?”

“Sure.” He hesitated. “I guess...um, well.”

There was a tap at the door. They both looked up. Craig stood.

A man walked in. It wasn’t the first officer who had arrived at the scene—it was the detective who had arrived while others were setting up crime scene tape, handling the rush hour crowd around the body, and urging her to get the baby back up to her offices and out of the street.

Detective Kendall was a well-built African American man. About six feet even, short brown hair, light brown eyes, and features put together pleasantly. He was around forty-five, she thought. He wasn’t warm and cuddly, but neither was he rude.

“Detective,” Craig said. “Have you wrapped up at the scene for the evening?”

“Yes—a few techs are still down there, but there’s nothing more I can accomplish here. Unless you can help, Miss Frasier? You can’t think of anything?”

“I have no idea why this lady chose me,” Kieran said. “None.”

“And you’ve never seen the woman before?” Kendall asked.

“Never.”

“Nor the baby?”

What? Did he think that the infant paid social calls on people, hung out at the pub, or requested help from psychiatrists or a psychologist?

“No,” she managed evenly. “I’ve never seen the infant before. I’ve never seen the woman before.”

“All right, then.” He suddenly softened a little. “You must be really shaken. I understand that, and I’m sorry. For now... I don’t have anything else. But I’m sure you know we may need to question you again.”

“I’m not leaving town,” she said drily.

He wasn’t amused.

Kieran continued. “I’ve spoken with Dr. Fuller and Dr. Miro. I’ve told them all that I could, and they will be trying to ascertain if they can think of any reason—other than who they are and what they do—that the woman might have come here.”

“I’ve spoken with the doctors, too,” Detective Kendall told her grimly. “And I’m sure we’ll speak again.”

“I’m sure,” Kieran muttered.

“Good night, Special Agent Frasier—Miss Finnegan,” the detective said. “You’re both, uh, free to go.”

He left them. Craig pulled Kieran around and into his arms, looking down into her eyes. “We are free. There’s nothing else to do tonight. You want to go home?”

“I know that we both really wanted to see the band play tonight,” she told him. “I’m sorry.”

“Kieran, it’s not your fault. I’m sure you didn’t plan for a woman to abandon a baby in your arms and then run downstairs and find herself stabbed to death.”

“It’s driving me crazy, Craig! We don’t know who she was. We don’t have a name for her. We don’t know about the baby. I think she was too old to be the mom, but I’m not really sure. And if not...she was trying to save the baby, not hurt it. But who would hurt a baby?”

“I don’t know. Let’s get going, shall we?”

“We can still go to the pub. Maybe catch the last of the Danny Boys?” she said.

“You know you don’t want to go anywhere.”

Kieran hesitated. “Not true. I do want to go somewhere. I’m starving—and I’m not sure what we’ve got to eat at the apartment.”

“Yep. We’ve been staying at yours—if there is food at mine, I’m certain we don’t want to eat it.”

“Then we’ll go to the pub,” she said quietly.

Kieran hadn’t realized just how late it had grown until she and Craig walked out of the building. New York City policemen were still busy on the street, many of them just managing the crowd. The body was gone, but crime scene workers were still putting the pieces together of what might and might not be a clue on the busy street.

It was Midtown, and giant conglomerates mixed with smaller boutiques and shops. Most of the shops were closed and the hour too late for business, but people still walked quickly along the sidewalks, slowing down to watch the police and curious to see what had happened.

Kieran looked up while Craig spoke with a young policewoman for a moment. Her brother had once warned her that she looked up too often—that she looked like a tourist. But she loved the rooftops, the skyline. Old skyscrapers with ornate moldings at the roof sat alongside new giants that towered above them in glass, chrome and steel. And then again, right in the midst of the twentieth-and twenty-first-century buildings, there would be a charming throwback to the 1800s.

From a nearby Chinese restaurant, a tempting aroma laced the air.

Even over murder.

The cops generally knew Craig; he was polite to all of them. They nodded an acknowledgment to Kieran. She’d worked with the police often enough herself.

“Is Detective McBride going to be on the case?” Kieran asked hopefully. They’d worked with Larry McBride before, not even a year ago, and he had been an amazing ally.

Drs. Fuller and Miro worked with city detectives regularly, and nine times out of ten, they were great. Every once in a while, as in any job, there was a total jerk in the mix. Mainly they were professionals, and good at their work, and Kieran knew it. Some were more personable than others. Homicide detectives could be very cut-and-dried. McBride had told her once that Homicide, while horrible, was also easier than dealing with other crimes. The victims couldn’t complain about the way he was working. Of course, the victims had relatives. That was hard.