But Ruff moved on. He started sniffing around the whole floor. Craig ran after him and Mike did the same.
The floor space was sizable. Mike held up a hand and stood still. Only one of them needed to run in circles with the dog.
Ruff stopped and pawed at boxes filled with various cleaning products; mops and other housekeeping items poked out the top.
Craig looked at Mike and walked over to that pile. Together, they started pulling the boxes out of their positions by the walls, a hasty effort with Ruff barking and whining in the background.
Then, Craig froze, staring down.
Kieran instinctively ran over.
She gasped.
Ruff let out a horrible whine. It was just a pile of rags. But the rags were covered in something red, something that caused Ruff to next let out an, eerie, howling cry...
Blood.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“RUFF COULD STAY in the office. No one would need to see him,” Kieran told Craig. “Declan wouldn’t mind, and the dog wouldn’t actually be in the pub.”
Craig didn’t want her to go to Finnegan’s, and he was pretty sure she could guess why: he didn’t want to leave the dog, and therefore thought Kieran should just take the pup back to their apartment.
They’d bagged up the bloody rags and sent them on to the lab; thankfully, new procedures allowed for quick DNA testing. They’d have results by tomorrow, since it was easy enough to get DNA from Olav Blom’s toothbrush for comparison.
Craig was positive, though, they’d find the blood belonged to Blom.
And, somewhere out there, they’d find his body. He was now certain there was a way into and out of the building through the basement. They still had to find it.
“I guess I could bring him to our place,” Kieran said tentatively. “Or...”
“Wait. He doesn’t look like a bloodhound or tracker, but Mike, we should keep him. He did find our next lead,” Craig said.
“Loyal little bugger,” Mike said. “But we have to keep him on his leash. He might take off and we won’t be able to follow.”
To his surprise, Kieran was frowning. He hadn’t been entirely sure how she’d feel about him taking the dog. He just knew that something about the little pup had pulled at heartstrings he hadn’t even known he possessed. He just couldn’t give the mutt over to animal services.
“Bobby,” Mike said. He grinned at Craig. “Surely you heard about Greyfriars Bobby, the little Skye terrier who guarded his master’s grave in Edinburgh for fourteen years. There’s a statue in his honor—loyal little dog.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the statue,” Craig muttered, studying Ruff. He really did fall into the “so ugly he was cute” category with his spiky white fur with black and brown blotches here and there. He had great eyes, though, big and brown, in a terrier face. He wasn’t sure how many terrier breeds were mixed in the little dog’s makeup, but beyond a doubt, he was loyal—and smart. And bloodhound or not, he had found the rags.
“Poor thing has been really traumatized,” Kieran said. “Do you really think—”
“That we have to find out what happened and try to save lives? Yes.” Craig spoke quietly. “Look, he’s going to be okay. I have no intention of calling animal services,” he reminded her.
She nodded. “Okay.”
The dog was struggling in Kieran’s arms. She set him down and he bounced away from her, racing then toward the large machines that controlled the building’s cooling and heating.
Craig looked at Mike with raised eyebrows, and then the two of them walked after the dog. He’d disappeared behind what appeared to be a large, six-foot-high cylinder on its side, pressed straight back against the wall.
Craig caught hold of the cylinder; it was firmly in place, but he realized, by getting down on his hands and knees, he could follow the dog behind it along the floor, in the space between the wall and the curve of the equipment.
Ruff started barking wildly. With all the metal, the sound of his barks was amplified and seemed to echo sharply throughout the basement.
Behind the cylinder, Craig found a metal slide. It looked as if it had long rusted hard against the poured concrete of the building. At one time, he thought, ice had been delivered through that chute. More recently, it had been drywalled and plastered over.
No more. Someone had gotten behind the HVAC system, and had meticulously chipped away plaster and torn out drywall.
He pushed at the metal hatch.
And the chute opened, allowing plenty of space for an able-bodied person to crawl in—or out.
“Well, you knew what you were doing,” Egan said, his face peering around the edge of the cylinder.
Craig backed out of the space. “We’ll head up and around, join the troops looking for Olav Blom,” Craig told Egan. “We have a Saturday crew in, working the computers for information, trying to see if we can find any relationship between Raoul Nicholson and Charles Mayhew or this building. And Nicholson is somewhere. We will find him.”
“There are dozens of officers and agents searching,” Egan said. “For Nicholson. And we’ll get a likeness of Olav Blom out there now, but...” He broke off and pointed to the old ice door. “You may as well get started.”
Craig nodded. “He has to show up—every law enforcement officer in the city will have him on radar. No one can hide forever.” He looked to Mike. “Let’s head out.”
Craig pulled at the chute; plaster crumbled around him as he hiked himself up, lying flat once he reached the small space behind the building. He looked down at Mike.
“Uh, I’m taking the stairs. Meet you out there,” Mike said.
“We’ll inform Simon Wrigley that he has to get his people on this,” Egan said. “Kieran, shall we head out? We’re in the way now. Those two need to get moving. I can take you to Finnegan’s. To be honest, I’m really hungry.”
Kieran nodded.
“Hand Ruff up to me, first,” Craig said.
“Hey, maybe the dog wants to take the stairs, too,” Mike said, but he grinned and collected the dog.
Kieran was watching Craig. He gave her a grave smile.
“I’ll watch out for Ruff,” he said.
“And yourself,” she said quietly.
“And myself,” he promised. “And, of course, the dog and I will both watch out for Mike.”
“Funny,” Mike said, lifting Ruff to hand him over through the opening to Craig.
Craig collected Ruff, making sure he had a good hold on the leash before setting him down. Then he stood, looking around at his environs.
There wasn’t exactly an alley behind the building, but neither had the newer building to the side been built flush against it. The narrow strip of space led toward Central Park West in one direction, and to a small courtyard in the other, where two buildings had been erected about twenty feet apart, allowing for something rare in the city—outdoor space. He looked toward the courtyard and then toward Central Park West.
Central Park—one of the city’s most amazing assets. Stretching from Fifty-Ninth Street to 110th Street, between Fifth Avenue and Central Park West. Over eight hundred acres of ball fields, picnic space, event locations, jogging paths and more—places where, in the dark, the unwary just might become prey...
He looked up. The sun was beginning its downward slant. The day remained bright, however, just a few puffy white clouds hovering between the blue.
Mike joined him, sauntering around the corner of the little alley. “Which way?” he asked.
Ruff barked. He strained against the leash.
“I was thinking toward the park,” Craig replied.
“To the park,” Mike said. And added dryly, “I guess he’s walking us.”
* * *
Saturday afternoons at the pub tended to be filled with families.
Kieran knew that, once u
pon a time, men had filled the main room by the bar, and ladies and children had been escorted to the side. Now, while they were downtown—a bit of a trip for anyone who lived up past midtown—Finnegan’s was still a popular destination, especially for those who enjoyed the casual tone of the place and easy atmosphere for children.
The pathway to the bar from the front double-doors, which were handsomely attired with cut glass on the upper half, was lined with small curved wooden booths, making cozy tables for duos or small groups.
Kieran recognized several of the families taking up the larger tables in the dining room. Brent Dunne and his two teenaged sons and ten-year-old daughter were at one table with his dad, a native of County Cork. Another group consisted of the Murphy cousins. The grandparents often brought whichever of their fourteen grandchildren happened to be with them that day.
Of course, it wasn’t just the American Irish who came. Another table consisted of the D’Onofrio tribe, a family of Italian descent who also enjoyed the Saturday shepherd’s pie special. The Alonso clan, who were regulars, originally immigrated from Ecuador. Kieran smiled, thinking she was proud of the welcoming way her parents had managed the pub—and equally proud of the way Declan had carried on the tradition.
Egan took a seat in one of the enclaves near the bar while Kieran went to check with Declan and see how his day was going.
He wasn’t behind the bar; Mary Kathleen was working there and greeted Kieran with a friendly smile.
“Busy?” Kieran asked.
“The usual, and everyone showed up to work bright and early. We’re doing fine. Declan is back in the office—apparently,” she added with a grin. “I’ve been deemed competent to man the bar on my own.”
Kieran laughed softly. Mary Kathleen had worked on the floor for several years, then risen to the status of daytime bartender. And then she had become part of the family: she and Declan had been married last year. Now she filled in wherever she was needed.
Kieran loved Mary Kathleen; she was the best sister-in-law one could ever hope to have.
Declan, being Declan, usually backed up the bartender, no matter who it was. But he wasn’t there with Mary Kathleen.
“Congrats on being so competent!” Kieran told her with a smile. “Craig’s boss is over there, if you’ll make sure someone checks on him soon. I think he’s come for the shepherd’s pie.”
“No Craig?” Mary Kathleen asked her.
“I think he’ll show up—eventually. I’ll go say hi to Declan,” Kieran said.
“Soda with lime?” Mary Kathleen asked her.
“You got it.”
Kieran left her and headed down the hallway to her brother’s office. The door stood ajar and she pressed it forward, peeking in. Declan looked up at her; he’d been intently studying something on his computer.
“Hey! Accounting?” she asked, stepping in.
He sat back, arching his brows, and then he flushed.
Kieran frowned, curious—Declan didn’t hide things.
“Porn?” she asked.
He laughed. “No.” His expression was sheepish. “I, uh, I was looking up all kinds of things. I’m trying not to micromanage. Mary Kathleen knows what she’s doing, and...my chefs are doing well and the floor is covered nicely, as well. So, I’m trying not to look over shoulders.”
“You could take a day off.”
“I do take days off,” he said defensively.
“Okay, sure. So what were you doing?”
He let out a long sigh. “Looking up everything I can find out about Raoul Nicholson.”
“Oh!” she said, surprised. She wasn’t even sure why Declan’s activity should surprise her so much. There had been times when the pub and every one of her brothers had become involved in various cases. One case concerned the deconsecrated church behind the pub, which had been connected through an underground system, something that none of them had had the least bit of knowledge or even suspicion about.
But Declan was usually inadvertently roped in to these kinds of things.
“Oh,” she said again.
“He’s on the loose. And there has been another murder. I watched Egan’s press conference.” Declan sat back, his blue-gray eyes zeroed in hard on her. “And,” he added softly, “no big surprise, but you are right in the middle of this.”
She didn’t dispute it or try to wave his words aside.
“And what did you find out? The man does belong in an institution. If he were out, and believed he was told to kill another ‘witch,’ he would. Without hesitation or remorse. He should never be let out—except he got out. And he planned an escape so well-executed it’s almost impossible to believe he did it on his own.”
“What about the murder of Mayhew?”
“At this moment, your guess is as good as mine.”
“And after all those years in college!” Declan ribbed her.
“Hey!”
“Sorry—I know you’re good at what you do.”
“Well, what have you learned?”
“You know about his church, right?”
“The Church of True Life?”
Declan nodded grimly. “It isn’t a recognized church. It’s so fundamentalist that the fundamentalists want nothing to do with it.”
“Yes, I do know that.”
“Did you know that the membership is secret? The members are not known except to one another. It exists nowhere else on earth—Raoul Nicholson was the head of the church.”
“I wonder who has taken over in his stead.”
“That’s what I was looking for. But I couldn’t find anything. I’ll bet it’s on the dark web.”
“Could be. I can ask Craig if any of his guys can check for us. They might already be on it. In fact, I would almost bet with the Mayhew murder, they’re already trying to find out if Nicholson was grooming anyone to take over his position.”
Declan leaned forward. “What if it was one of his sons?”
“I never met the sons, though they have been interviewed by Fuller and Miro. It must have been rough for them growing up. No parties, no sports, no—no anything! Both Fuller and Miro believe the boys knew nothing about their father’s activities, and now they want to lead more normal lives. There are other restrictive religions, I know, but this ‘True Life’ thing appears to frown on anything but hard work.”
“Could be a sham,” Declan said.
“Yes, it could be. You mean, they’re pretending to embrace wine, women, song, and fraternities while secretly planning to take over for the dad?”
Declan shrugged. “Just a layman’s theory.”
“Anything is possible at this moment. Someone may have just wanted Mayhew dead and used Nicholson’s method of killing to get away with murder. Or Nicholson did manage an almost impossible escape. Maybe he managed this, too.”
Declan stood. “Okay.”
“Okay...what?”
“Enough of this. I’ve kept myself from micromanaging long enough. I’ve got to check on the pub, and you have to go out and be social and nice, and try to forget about Raoul Nicholson and his homicidal craziness for a while.”
They joined Richard Egan at his table, and Mary Kathleen wandered over to see if they needed anything.
They chatted for a while, Egan asking Mary Kathleen and Declan how they were doing. Egan had been at the ceremony when Mary Kathleen had wed Declan in a beautiful ceremony at St. Grace just a few months back. She’d originally come from Ireland and had been at Finnegan’s ever since, falling in love with Declan while working as their head server.
Married life was amazing, Declan assured him. And he was so happy to have his wife working with him. It was a family pub, family owned, and family operated, and she was amazing now as a comanager, bartender, cook, and bottle washer—as they all were.
Kieran made a face at Egan behind
her brother’s back. Egan smiled. It was obvious Declan had been the perfect Finnegan to take over when their dad had passed on.
As the two kept on about the state-of-affairs in the city, Kieran found herself looking idly around the pub.
An odd feeling swept over her, and she turned toward the door. A man was slipping into a trench coat, ready to leave.
There was something vaguely familiar about him—something disturbing—though she wasn’t sure what. She could only see the back of his head. He had dark hair—a lot of it. He was straight-backed and moved with the ease and dexterity of a young man.
He’d obviously been in the pub, but she hadn’t noticed him before at any of the tables. She hadn’t seen any lone diners in the restaurant area. It didn’t even seem that anyone at the bar had come in alone.
But he had to have been in there—because he was now leaving.
She glanced quickly back at the dining room.
Families ate, laughed, and chatted.
Who had he been with? Someone, certainly. She hadn’t studied everyone at every table when they’d come in—she’d just noted a few of their weekend regulars.
He adjusted the trench coat, opened the door, and stepped outside.
Kieran excused herself and slid from the booth, heading for the door. She moved quickly out onto the sidewalk.
For once, Broadway was not particularly busy. This close to the financial district and Wall Street, it was a zoo by weekday and nicely quieter on the weekends. Glancing right and left, she caught sight of the man moving around the north corner. She hurried after him, wondering what she was going to say if she caught up with him. Something like, Hey, why did seeing you disturb me? Are you a criminal of some kind?
No, she could just say she thought he’d left something at the pub...
And then hope he hadn’t actually lost whatever item she might invent.
Better yet, she could say she thought he was a friend of Danny’s or Kevin’s, and she was just mistaken and so sorry.
None of her excuses mattered; when she reached the corner and turned, he was gone. Just gone. The street wasn’t crowded; there weren’t even many cars. The offices were closed.
The Final Deception Page 10