She sighed. “They’re still arguing over the charges Raoul Nicholson is going to face. Dr. Fuller has interviewed him, and Dr. Miro has interviewed him. Probably a few police psychiatrists, too. They asked me to speak with him today.”
“So, that’s why you’re here, hmm?” he asked quietly.
“Hey, I’m here all the time!” Kieran protested.
Declan nodded, studying her. “Yeah, but...you could have had a nice, relaxing night alone in your great new apartment. That creep got under your skin. There’s something about the way he doesn’t look crazy that is even more disturbing, like his evil is hidden, devious...anyway...”
“Yeah, you feel like you need a shower.”
“I would think just walking into the facility at Rikers would make you feel like you need a shower.”
“Hey, eighty-five percent of the people there are awaiting arraignment or trial—they’ve yet to be proven guilty. For that matter, Nicholson is still waiting for his trial date.”
“So much for speedy justice.”
“His is an unusual case. He’s confessed to the murders, but his mental state and his ability to aid in his own trial are under question. And we try, but statistically, about one hundred thousand people enter Rikers on a yearly basis—that’s a lot of people.”
“Well, we are on an island of millions,” Declan said. “Let’s get off the criminals. So what does Craig say?”
“About what?” Kieran asked with a frown.
“The wedding!”
“Oh, he says we should do whatever I want—except, he knows the reception has to be here.”
“Of course,” Declan said.
“Declan!” a customer called, and Declan excused himself.
Kieran hadn’t heard from Craig recently and was about to call him when she felt someone coming close behind her; instinctively, she whirled around on her stool.
“Woah!”
It was Kevin, her twin brother. He was tall like Declan, with slightly lighter hair. She looked up into eyes a blue-green shade like her own.
“Your show over?” she asked, trying to offer him a big smile. He was currently in a new musical that had been running about a month called A Bite of the Apple, a play on the history of New York City.
He glanced at his watch. “Yeah, it’s late!”
“How was the night?”
“Sold out—a Friday night in New York. And a great audience. You know, I wouldn’t be against a role in a big-time drama or sitcom that paid megabills for years and years, but I do love live audiences. So, how was your day?” he asked, sliding around her to lean against the bar.
“Uh...well...”
“She interviewed Raoul Nicholson today,” she heard Declan say. He’d delivered an ale to a man just around the corner from them and returned to eye them both.
“Wow. How’d that go—first time you’ve met him, right?”
“Yes, it was the first time I saw him. Miro and Fuller wanted me to talk to him. They didn’t tell me anything about their reports. They wanted my unbiased take on him.”
“And your take was...?” Kevin asked.
She looked at Declan and shrugged. “Disturbed—in a very different way. He doesn’t appear to have any other signs of mental illness, but he believes the people he killed were witches. He feels they would have done some terrible evil to others—if he hadn’t stopped them. He understands the laws of the state, and that in the eyes of the state, he’s guilty. And he isn’t remorseful. He did what he had to do as long as he could do it. Or not.”
“Or not?” Kevin asked.
She shrugged. “I’m not even sure if he was making it all up—except he hasn’t asked for an insanity plea. His attorney wants to go for it.”
“And the prosecution?”
“Is still playing around with the exact charges they’ll bring into court. He has been charged with murder—but how they’ll amend the charges before trial depends on what the prosecution believes they’ll be able to prove.”
“There’s irrefutable evidence against him, and he confessed,” Declan said.
“Yes, but his sentencing and the trial will hinge on whether he is or isn’t sane. They’d have him executed, I believe, if they could. He has said outright that he would kill again. The thing is, they don’t want him getting out, and if a slew of medical experts declare him unfit to stand trial...”
“And that hinges on whether he’s telling the truth?” Kevin asked.
“Hey, Declan!” someone called. “Turn up the television. I don’t believe this! He’s out—that bastard Fireman guy. He’s out!”
CHAPTER THREE
CRAIG STARED AT MIKE, incredulous. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket. There wasn’t a valid reason he should be worried about Kieran—except she had interviewed a killer that afternoon, just before he had somehow escaped. But Nicholson killed those he thought to be witches, and it was doubtful he could think of Kieran as a witch.
Then again, what criteria had the man used to determine who was or wasn’t a witch?
Only the voice in his head.
How the hell had the man gotten out? Craig needed to know; they needed to be back on the hunt.
But not until he had spoken with Kieran.
She answered his call on the first ring.
“Where are you?” he asked her.
“The pub—I came right back in after you left, and I’m fine,” she told him.
“You know he’s out.”
“It’s all over the news. But keep at whatever you’re doing. I’m the last person you need to worry about—Nicholson does not think I’m a witch.”
“Yes, but he knows you.”
“Craig, he knows hundreds of people, I’m sure. Trust me—he doesn’t believe I’m a witch. He told me as much. Craig,” she added softly, “we can’t do this all the time.”
“We don’t do it all the time,” he said defensively. “Just when there’s a credible threat to your safety. You’re forgetting other cases.”
“Craig, I’m good. And I’m at the pub and—”
He heard her protest as her phone was taken from her.
“She’s not leaving here alone,” Kevin interrupted. “And it’s not just her. You should listen to the people in here. The media got wind of it quickly, and no one is going home alone. There’s a group from Wall Street that meets here all the time, and they’re divvying up who is going with who to make sure everyone gets home okay. I’ll go with Kieran, and I’ll stay at your place until you get back.”
Craig heard Kieran chastise her brother. “You have a matinee tomorrow!”
“Right, well—”
“We have the guest room all set up,” Craig reminded him.
“So I’ll sleep at your place,” Kevin continued.
Mike was watching Craig. He slowly lifted an eyebrow.
“Thanks, Kevin,” Craig said, and hung up.
“So, seems the media has wind of what we didn’t know,” he said to Mike.
His partner nodded grimly. “I don’t know how word got out so fast,” he said. “But here’s the story—Nicholson is out. He didn’t kill anyone during his escape. Apparently he had an interview this afternoon and then complained of violent pain in his stomach. He got himself to the infirmary and drugged a pack of people. But how he got out from there, no one knows. Dressed up as a guard—that’s what they’re suspecting at the moment. But...yeah, he’s gone. He’s out.”
“When did all this happen?” Craig demanded.
“Approximately four hours ago.”
“Barely enough time to get from Rikers Island to here, find a way up and kill and set a fire to the body and then somehow escape.”
“Barely enough...but possible?”
“Possible, but...just barely.”
“You think someone is setting up a killer—as
a killer?”
“If you wanted to kill someone and get away with it, what better way than to set it up on a confessed murderer?” Craig asked.
“But the timing...” Mike said, shaking his head.
“Yeah, tough to think that timing works,” Craig agreed. “And then again, strangling, the same, tongue cut out, the same, eyes gouged, the same, set afire with gasoline...the same. And a man who could make his way out of Rikers...well, it’s not that far-fetched to think he might have made his way up here.” He shrugged. “I want to speak with the doorman.”
“We might want to start in the morning,” Mike said. “Craig, it’s nearly midnight.”
“And no better time to strike, right? Midnight. The ‘witching’ hour,” Craig said dryly.
“Okay then,” Mike said wearily. “Let’s interview the security guard. Officers have been pounding on doors and waking the neighbors...and the news is out that Raoul Nicholson has escaped. By morning, the world is going to know about another murder.”
“And then we have to go out to Rikers,” Craig said.
“Sure, yeah, we’ll sleep when we’re dead. And partnering with you, my friend, I always figure that might come sooner rather than later.”
* * *
Kieran and Kevin sat in the apartment on Reed Street. She had wanted to walk—it was an easy enough distance to cover on foot. But she had been overruled; no easy strolls that night. Taking the path of least resistance, Kieran had allowed one of the regulars, Mitch Beattie—who had moved to Brooklyn, but still chose to come to Finnegan’s on Friday nights, switching his drink from Guinness to the Guinness nonalcoholic beer, Kaliber—to drive them to the apartment complex. Once there, Kieran had put water on to boil for a pot of tea, and hoped Craig would walk in any minute.
She’d known Kevin was working on writing his own play, and so she tried to draw him out on it. Her questions seemed to be working. Kevin was a fine actor, she thought, and the perfect leading-man type. But he really loved the theater, and would often take a project when he thought the writing was excellent—even if he didn’t think it would prove to be a blockbuster.
“It’s historical, and I’m going from the beginning of New York—Dutch settlement, all that.” He grimaced. “‘No Irish Need Apply,’” he said, quoting signs that had been displayed in the mid-1800s throughout the city. “It’s about the country really, and the incredible melting pot that is New York, and how different ethnic groups found their place. By the way, there was no killing of witches here. Salem—as we know—wasn’t the first or only place in the colonies women were persecuted, but seriously, most cases were in the Massachusetts Bay Colony—Connecticut and Massachusetts. Makes you wonder how Raoul Nicholson got started on his killing spree. I know he’s a fundamentalist, but I do have friends who are fundamentalists, and they’re horrified by what happened. It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with any recognized religion. He’s on his own private mission.”
“I think we should talk about the theater,” Kieran said.
“I think we should talk about Raoul Nicholson. He’s on the streets again.”
“Maybe far from New York.”
“Madman or liar?” he asked her.
“Either way, your concern for me is just about as crazy—not that I don’t love you for it. The man doesn’t think I’m a witch. Honest. And you need a key and a code to get into this building. And our windows and our one and only door are connected to a state-of-the-art security system. I’m safe,” she added softly. “So, New York City history—from the Dutch settlement to today. That’s a lot to handle!”
She realized he wasn’t really listening. He was looking past her to the television; she left him watching the news while she brewed the tea.
The sound was low; Kevin found the remote control and raised the volume.
“We know Nicholson is out,” Kieran protested, thinking that watching the same news over and over again wasn’t going to get them anywhere. “Kevin—”
“I know where Craig is,” he said. “He did it already—Nicholson has killed again!” Kevin said.
Kieran spun around to see the wide-screen TV.
A reporter was standing alongside Central Park on the Upper East Side. She was grave as she spoke. The street was filled with vehicles, cop cars, dark sedans, FBI standard issue, she thought, and vehicles that were labeled as belonging to crime scene forensics units.
There was also an ambulance.
“The police have informed us that multimillionaire Charles Mayhew was murdered tonight in his guarded apartment here on the Upper East Side. Mr. Mayhew is well-known to New Yorkers for his many philanthropic works. The police are giving us all ‘no comment’ remarks when we question them regarding the situation. The media, however, was alerted by an anonymous source—someone, we believe, within the building. We know the police can’t give out much information on an ongoing investigation, but we can’t help but speculate on this murder on the very eve the heinous ‘Fireman’ has escaped his prison on Rikers Island.”
“Lord!” Kevin breathed. “He is out there...out here. He’s killed again. Already. He escaped what, four hours ago, something like that?”
“Kevin, it would be nice to think Nicholson is the only man in New York who proved to be a killer. Nice, but that’s hardly true. Anything could have happened. Mayhew was richer than Croesus. He might have made all kinds of enemies to get that way,” Kieran said. “We don’t know what—”
“Craig knows,” Kevin interrupted. “Call him.”
“I’m not calling him—he’s working. And,” she told him, “you’re going to go to sleep, and so am I. You have a matinee, and you’re going to be brilliant and shine.”
“Kieran...”
“And you’re welcome for the tea—the least I can do, with you insisting on staying with me,” she said.
“I didn’t—”
“Good night, Kevin. I love you. Guest room is all set up.”
She walked to him, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and turned to head up the stairs to the loft.
She didn’t know if he went into the guest room or not. She really hoped he did. The weekends were hard work; his show offered matinees on both Saturday and Sunday, and then again on Wednesdays, as well.
She loved her twin very much. But she didn’t want him harping on about the case. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep; she hoped Kevin could.
Though she wouldn’t admit it, she was as suspicious as he was that Nicholson might be at it again.
But...how? How had he gotten from Rikers Island and up to a posh apartment on the East Side in such a short amount of time?
She pulled out her computer, keying in words, trying to find anything regarding modern-day witchcraft, biblical witchcraft, or anything else that might have started Raoul Nicholson on the belief that people walking the streets of New York might be witches.
She was stunned to read an article reporting human rights agencies within the United Nations were working desperately to counter a rising number of persecutions across the globe in the twenty-first century; as recently as 2013, in Papua New Guinea, a twenty-year-old mother had been burned alive—suspected of sorcery. There were dozens more reports from various African countries, and the researchers believe the modern persecutions reached well into the developed Western world.
She leaned back on her pillow.
Not here, she thought. Not in New York City!
Was Nicholson just one of many?
She began looking back into the history of executions in the United States, the first on record being that of Alse or Alice Young of Windsor, Connecticut. The woman was hanged in May of 1647. In 1648, Mary Johnson confessed to practicing witchcraft—or “familiarity with the devil.” The confession came after a series of beatings, and God alone knew what else. Because Mary was pregnant, she was allowed to live until her child was born. She w
asn’t executed until 1650. In all, between the years 1647 and 1697, records showed that thirty-five people were accused of witchcraft. Eleven were executed.
“Unbelievable,” Kieran muttered to herself, searching for another article. The author of her next reference suggested that harsh New England winters, the fear of attacks from the native population, and the ravages often left by disease had the settlers looking for a scapegoat.
Not to mention that back in Europe, mass executions were occurring.
An estimated forty thousand to sixty thousand people had been executed in Europe between the 1400s and early 1700s.
But that barbaric practice had stopped.
She wanted to keep searching, studying the past to try to determine how a man could believe, in today’s world, strangers were in league with the devil. But her efforts were to no avail.
She fell asleep with the computer still on her lap.
* * *
Joey Catalano seemed to be a decent enough guy. He was about twenty-five, clean-cut, with serious brown eyes, a six-foot frame, and a solid middleweight’s body. He was polite, but he also carried a gun. Licensed, he’d assured Craig and Mike right away—possibly because the police had already asked that question.
They met with him in the guard’s tiny office in the lobby, next to the elevator. He’d brought in his boss, a middle-aged man, thin and austere, with steel-gray eyes and hair and that matched his demeanor. He was introduced as Simon Wrigley.
He was the Wrigley, apparently, of Wrigley Security Systems, the company contracted by the building, and was ready to help with any answers Joey Catalano couldn’t give.
Another man in the security service had been called in to work the door.
Simon Wrigley was probably there, too, because Joey Catalano—despite the fact that he made a great “security” presence with his build and his height—seemed to be unnerved by what had happened. His fingers shook.
Of course, a grisly murder had happened on his watch.
By the fierce way Wrigley looked at him, Joey was probably unnerved by his boss, as well.
The Final Deception Page 4