He didn’t see a speck of dust in the handsome, well-kept room. The carpet showed signs of vacuuming, and the pillows on the sofa were plumped. The covers had been hand-knit—the yarn in colors that spelled out True Life.
“I came into the offices, you know. Your director, that nice Mr. Egan, asked me if I’d come in. I spoke with the psychiatrist—”
“Psychologist,” Mike corrected.
“Psychologist?” Amy repeated, and smiled. “Well, whatever, that lovely Miss Finnegan. Raoul had told me she’d visited him and talked with him. I can’t emphasize enough that my husband loved me. Loves me. He just wouldn’t involve me. I’m a wife, a mother—”
“We’ve met your sons, Mrs. Nicholson. They’re grown and gone,” Craig said.
She shook her head, smiling serenely. “They’ll come back, and they’ll need me, and my husband knows this. He won’t come near me. He won’t put me in any kind of jeopardy.”
Amy had consumed a cookie. Mike was living dangerously, trying one himself.
Craig leaned forward. “Amy, we need to know more about your church. I understand the men and women don’t mix.”
“We each have our roles in life,” Amy said. She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Oh, I hear all this talk about equality all the time. But there are just some facts that have to do with life. We’re built differently. We’re built to procreate, and the husband should be the breadwinner, and the wife the caregiver, the nurturer. That goes back to the dawn of humanity, when our higher power was arranging the great knowledge we would come into. Cavemen hunted. The women kept the home—or the cave, back then.” She paused and smiled, as if showing them she did have a sense of humor. Then she sighed. “It’s just so hard to make you people understand. You’re just not among the chosen. I feel bad that I don’t have Raoul’s talent in helping you see the truth.”
“Interesting,” Mike said. “Jim Jones claimed his people were the chosen, and over nine hundred of them died. Not to mention they killed a congressman and others who wanted to leave. Imagine—giving cyanide to children and babies.”
Craig nudged Mike’s foot with his own. Yes, the thought made anyone rational ill.
But they needed information from this woman.
“What did your husband like to do for fun, Amy?” Craig asked.
“Fun?” she queried.
“Didn’t the two of you ever have fun?” Mike prompted.
“Oh, I see what you mean. You had to have known him—”
“We did meet Raoul,” Craig reminded her.
“Yes, of course, but you don’t know him,” Amy said. “Fun. He was a happy man when we went to the post office with supplies for the lost and the hungry. He was happy when we sat here together, sipping tea, knowing we were...we were walking a true path.”
“Did you ever go anywhere on vacation?” Mike asked.
“Vacation?” She repeated the word as if she didn’t really understand it.
“Some people go to the mountains, a way to get out of the city,” Craig said. “Some like to head south to the beaches down in Florida. Some like to visit historic sites.”
She smiled. “Our world was right here,” she said.
“What can you tell us about the members of the church?”
“Nothing, and I know my legal rights,” she said sharply. “My beliefs are protected. This is America. You just want to persecute us. I will not help you persecute my husband’s flock.”
“Is the church still going?” Mike asked.
“Isn’t faith truly in the heart of the faithful?” Amy asked. She set her cup and saucer down abruptly and stood. “You may leave now. And you can have your judges throw me in jail, too, if you wish. I will not betray our church members. I’ll—I’ll sic Raoul’s lawyer on you, I will!” she said angrily.
Craig lowered his head. “I’m so sorry, Amy,” he said. “We’re not leaving just yet. We have a search warrant for these premises. I have officers waiting just outside. They’ll escort you to the street, or if you like, you may remain by the front door.”
“Search warrant!” she cried. “You’re searching for what?”
“Something that will give us your husband’s whereabouts,” Craig said. “Since you claim you love him but don’t seem to want to get him safely back into custody.”
She drew herself up to her full height, staring at them as if she were royalty about to go to the block. “You do your worst—just do your worst! You are nothing, do you understand? You are nothing, and my husband is a great man, and you will learn when the reckoning comes!”
“Let’s hope you do, too,” Mike told her.
Craig didn’t bother to speak; he headed to the door where agents and officers from the local precinct were waiting with the search warrant to hand over to Amy—and then look everywhere they could, seeking anything that might be a clue, if not an answer.
* * *
An.
The beginning of the word Annie’s?
Most probably. It was a place Nicholson loved. So she figured she’d stay downtown after dropping off her phone at the FBI offices. She could go over her notes for her afternoon appointment anywhere, since she had brought her laptop.
Annie’s was downtown.
Finnegan’s was downtown.
And her apartment wasn’t far.
Kieran loved her city—New York. Some hated it; some loved it. Many came for the shopping, others for the theater. To some, it was a financial mecca, and to many an immigrant, the entry into a new world, a new life.
But there was so much more to love. The city offered spectacular museums and libraries, and history that was fascinating. And while the city had a past that included various prejudices and injustices, on the whole, people of any ethnicity, color, sex, and so on could find the American dream in New York City. New York remained, in her mind, one of the greatest multicultural cities in the world.
During their drives that day, she and Milo talked about New York. He was a native of Brooklyn, and enthusiastic about the city, as well. “I couldn’t afford to see Hamilton when it came out. I finally got tickets through the lottery,” Milo told her. “But my friends always reminded me I could go to Trinity Churchyard and visit the real thing—or the grave of the real thing anytime I wanted.”
“My brother arranged for tickets for me,” Kieran admitted. “Pays to have a theater guy for a twin.”
“I look up so often people think I’m a tourist. Love the old buildings, the work you see on the exteriors.”
He found legitimate parking in a lot about a block down from Annie’s, and within easy access of Finnegan’s and Kieran’s apartment. As they walked to Annie’s, he remarked that Wall Street had been a wall, and that Broad Street had been, of course, broad.
“The downtown area is to me so amazing. Traces of what went on hundreds of years ago, along with the fact the city is now millions and millions of people, and high-rises are here, there, and anywhere, right along with some really old buildings,” he said.
He pointed to the modern frontage of the coffee shop as they approached it. “Wonder what happened around here? So many buildings went up flush against each other, and then you have weird alleys, sometimes barely wide enough for a human body. Well, I guess bodies fit.”
When they entered, Annie was behind the cash register.
“That’s Annie?” Milo whispered.
“It is.”
“She looks a little like you. Well, with paler hair. A little shorter, but she is a blue-eyed redhead. Of course, she doesn’t quite have your bone structure. Whoops, don’t tell Special Agent Frasier I said that. Don’t want him to think I’m horning in.”
“I don’t think you have any worries,” Kieran assured him.
The lunch crowd was thinning out. By the time they had brought the phone up to Craig’s office and turned it over to Egan, g
otten back in the car and found parking, it was past two.
“Annie, is this one all right?” Kieran asked, pointing to a booth near the register.
“Of course—and welcome!” Annie smiled at Milo, who smiled back.
He’d apparently failed to note Annie was probably a few years younger than she was, too, maybe in her midtwenties, where Kieran had now reached—and just slightly passed—the grand old age of thirty.
“She’s very cute,” Milo said.
Kieran smiled, leading him to the table. “Yes, she is. I’m sorry to say I don’t know her well enough to tell you if she’s dating or not. We’ve only met once before. Anyway, take a look at the menu. It’s extensive. The place is almost as good as Finnegan’s,” she said lightly.
He picked up his menu. She glanced idly out the window.
And that’s when she saw him.
Raoul Nicholson.
He was in a trench coat, with a brimmed hat pulled low over his head. He had grown something of a scruffy mustache and short beard in the few days he’d been on the loose, altering his appearance.
He looked at her desperately through the glass, and then looked at Milo, shaking his head with dismay.
He turned away, heading toward the rear of the building.
She didn’t think; she was just certain he had been telling her the truth, and she had to see him.
Alone, so that he didn’t run off. Nicholson himself might be their best chance of catching a copycat killer.
She jumped up. “Ladies’ room!” she announced, giving Milo no chance to react, and took off, hopefully slipping out the door without him seeing her.
She burst outside and looked up and down the street. She didn’t see Nicholson. Then she realized there was a tiny opening—barely wide enough for two people to walk through—to the side of the building. It had not been built flush against its neighbor.
She moved along the street to that narrow alleyway.
And she turned, knowing he would be there.
He was, but he wasn’t alone. He was far down the length of the building. For a minute she couldn’t see what he was doing. He appeared to be with another man.
But the other man...
She began to scream, calling for help, calling for anyone...
Wishing desperately now she’d let Milo know what she was doing.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CRAIG AND MIKE joined the team searching through the Nicholson apartment.
The man had kept an office, obviously taken over by his wife in his absence. The tech team had already bagged the computer. Whatever files Nicholson had kept would be on it. He had no file cabinets and seemed to keep no files—not even bills—with a physical paper record.
Nicholson had, however, kept a notepad by his computer, but it was blank. Craig picked it up and walked to the window, playing with the light, trying to see if any written impressions were on it.
With gloved hands, Mike was going through the little wicker trash basket next to the desk. The NYPD had sent officers as part of the task team force—and it was a good thing, because it turned out they were needed to watch over Amy Nicholson, who had to be restrained from attacking the agents and tech team as they went through the apartment. For such a devout woman, Amy had a lot of venom to spew at them as they went through her apartment.
“I will have my husband’s attorney sue the NYPD and the FBI, and you will be sorry! My husband broke your laws, but I did nothing! You have no right!” she had told them.
Craig wondered if she had spoken with Nicholson’s long-suffering attorney. She had made a phone call, just one, after they’d informed her of the upcoming search, and since she didn’t want to involve her husband’s “flock,” he could only assume she had called the attorney.
He didn’t arrive right away, but that didn’t surprise either Craig or Mike. They knew Cliff Watkins, Esquire, still wondered how he’d had the bad luck to draw this client when the firm had decided to take him on pro bono.
Amy continued shouting, calling the officers many things Craig hadn’t heard in any kind of religious group—ever.
“I’ve got something!” Mike said, smoothing out a paper.
“Yeah?” Craig slipped the notepad he’d taken into an evidence bag and hunkered down by Mike. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. What do you think this means?” Mike asked.
The piece of paper he’d drawn from the trash had been written on hard—so hard the paper had nearly torn. Mike held it carefully.
Whoever had written on it had been angry—very angry. They had written down one biblical line, with a bit of an addition.
Suffer not a witch...not evil asses!
“Interesting. Not so...perfectly holy, I’m thinking,” Mike said.
Craig studied the handwriting.
“We have examples of Nicholson’s writing at the offices,” Mike said. “And if he wrote this...well, I’m wondering now just how pure his motives were. Witches—and asses. Maybe it’s against Nicholson’s higher power just to be a jerk.”
“Maybe. And maybe his wife wrote it. She’s hard to read. All her protesting may be too much. Maybe she wants out and a normal life like her sons,” Craig mused. “Except...”
“Yeah?”
“Nicholson had a lieutenant—a right-hand man. If she wanted out so badly, wouldn’t she just tell us who he is and get us questioning him?”
“Think she’s afraid?”
“Could be. Though, if you listen to her now, she’s the scary one.” Craig grinned. “She’s thrown out a few words I think I’ve only heard a handful of times in my life.”
One of the special agents from tech paused at the doorway to the office. “We’ve been through the bedrooms—nothing but clothing. And it doesn’t appear anyone male has been here anytime recently. No men’s clothing, except for clean suits, etcetera, hung up in the closet. And neatly folded underwear, T-shirts, and so on in the drawers. It doesn’t appear there are any pieces of men’s clothing in a laundry basket anywhere. No papers of any kind in any of the rooms.” He hesitated. “You know what’s weird that we haven’t found?”
“What?” Craig asked.
“A Bible, or any other kind of religious text.”
“He paraphrases the Bible when he chooses, but maybe his higher power is different from anything we consider the norm,” Craig said. “What about the kitchen, dining room and so on?”
“Everything clean, except for the tea service in the parlor area. Everything is put away.”
“I guess cleanliness is next to godliness,” Mike murmured. “Or higher power-ness, whatever.”
“Are we done here?” the tech asked.
“Yeah,” Craig said, handing him the bagged notepad and the little piece of paper. “We need to know if that is Nicholson’s writing, or his wife’s.”
“We have Amy’s writing?”
“She had to sign in when she came to the offices,” Craig said. “Yes, we have samples from both. If Amy wrote them, well, we know she is one angry person. But if that anger is really against us, or the life she was forced to lead and the notoriety she’ll now bear all her life, I’m not sure. If Nicholson wrote them, then there is a possibility he came here, and we can bring Amy back in with a subpoena.”
They heard a commotion from the front hall and headed out.
Cliff Watkins had arrived at last, looking harried—and frustrated. He was speaking with Amy, trying to calm her down.
“Amy, yes, they have a right to do this. They have a search warrant, a legal document signed by a judge, allowing them to search,” Watkins explained.
“They’re getting their filthy hands all over my things! This isn’t right—I didn’t do anything.”
“Amy, they’re all wearing gloves,” Watkins said. “Their ‘filthy’ hands really aren’t filthy, and a ju
dge signed that warrant. It’s legal. And, please, just calm down. It’s natural. They’re trying to find Raoul. You’re his wife. This was his home.”
Amy let out a breath and seemed to give up.
“May I sit?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” Cliff said. “Make yourself comfortable in the parlor, and the officer will just stand there. They won’t touch you.” He sighed deeply, looking over at Craig and Mike with weary eyes. “Are you almost done here? Was it necessary to upset her so?”
“We didn’t do anything upsetting other than show her the warrant,” Mike said.
“And we are almost done here,” Craig assured her. He felt his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. Looking at it, he saw that Egan was on the line.
“Get over to Annie’s Sunrise,” Egan told him. “There’s been—an attack.”
* * *
Sirens filled the air. Police and medical personnel crammed against each other in the small alley.
Kieran was still there, next to Milo, who told the EMTs what measures he had taken while the man on the street was carefully lifted onto a gurney.
The victim was breathing.
Kieran’s screams had alerted everyone on the busy street. She didn’t know who had dialed 911, but she had to believe Milo DeLuca would one day be a very good agent. He had been there so quickly.
When Nicholson had seen her, he’d disappeared.
He’d been holding the man on the ground in his arms. At the sound of her scream, he had stood, looked down the length of the narrow alley right at her, then turned and run.
As the EMTs picked up the gurney and shouted for space to move, Kieran leaned against the wall, trying to make sense of what she had seen and what had happened.
First... Nicholson had looked into the window, shaking his head at Milo, then moving on. He’d worn a coat and a hat, but he hadn’t been carrying anything—certainly not a container of gasoline.
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