LITMIR.BIZ

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to be of different nationalities—two of the women appeared to be East Indian, three were black, and two were blue-eyed blondes, possibly of Nordic descent. Or Russian. She was friends with some really beautiful light-haired and light-eyed Russian women. Then, of course, the world was a wonderfully mixed-up place, so anyone could be from just about anywhere and have any combination of features: light hair, dark hair, skin, and so on.

      She walked by, and then became curious, hurrying back to find them.

      At first, she couldn’t see them at all. The group had dispersed.

      And then she saw one woman moving through a crowd, but turning back now and then to see what was behind her.

      Yes, it was one of the women who had been in the group—and now she was watching rather warily for just where Kieran might be.

      Kieran was certain then that they had realized she’d noticed them as they had been watching her.

      The woman stood still for a moment; she was tall, ebony and regal in her bearing. She made eye contact with Kieran, and then turned away quickly.

      “Hey!”

      Kieran raced after her, but the woman slipped into the crowd. As Kieran made her way through people, excusing herself, she simply disappeared.

      “What the heck?” she murmured.

      “Kieran!”

      She turned around quickly, aware that Mary Kathleen was calling to her.

      “The soup—did you get the soup?”

      “No! I’m so sorry. I—”

      “They call it a soup kitchen because we hand out soup. Rich, delicious soup, full of beef and vegetables and good things to help people make it through the day.”

      “Yes, yes, I know! I will get it, right away. Honestly. Mary Kathleen, do you know that group of young women who were over there?”

      “What group?”

      “The group that was standing over there.”

      “Where are they now?” Mary Kathleen asked. “And you didn’t get the soup because a group of women was standing over there?”

      Mary Kathleen was looking at her with perplexity.

      “Sorry, sorry, I told you, I promise—I’ll get the soup. Mary Kathleen, I need to know who they were. They were staring at me.”

      Mary Kathleen looked at Kieran, and then looked down. She was silent for a minute before she met Kieran’s eyes again. “Kieran, I’m not meaning to be cruel or rude with these words, but...it’s just not always about you.”

      Kieran let out a sigh. “No, no...they were really looking at me, talking about me.”

      “But you don’t know where they are now?”

      “They scattered.”

      “Maybe they just left,” Mary Kathleen said softly. “Maybe they actually managed to have some soup—and then they left. It’s what people do. We have showers here, but no beds. It’s not a hostel. People come, dine, sometimes bathe—and then leave.”

      “But...”

      Kieran’s voice trailed. Mary Kathleen was staring at her sorrowfully—and worriedly.

      “Oh, Kieran!” Mary Kathleen said softly. “Aye, indeed, that woman last night came to you—used your name. But that does not mean that the rest of the world is watching you or whispering about you. You have to know that, right?”

      Mary Kathleen was not going to believe her—no matter what she said. And now her almost-sister-in-law was worried about her. And she would tell Declan that she was worried about her. Declan would tell Craig. Craig would try very hard to keep her out of everything.

      She let out an inward growl of absolute aggravation.

      But she smiled at Mary Kathleen.

      “Yeah, you must be right. Crazy, huh?” Kieran assured her.

      And maybe she had imagined that she was being watched. Maybe the women had just moved on.

      “I’ll get the soup,” she told Mary Kathleen.

      She turned to head into the kitchen and almost plowed into a man.

      He was about six foot two in height, sturdy in build. His eyes were almost like coal; his facial hair was dark, as well, though his head was shaved clean.

      He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. She was certain that he would speak to her in a foreign language.

      He did not. When he spoke, his English was perfect. Unaccented.

      “I’m so sorry. I believe I nearly knocked you over.”

      “No, my fault,” she said quickly. “Excuse me. I have to get more soup.”

      “Of course,” he said.

      She hadn’t seen him working the food bank—but neither did he seem like someone who would be in the food line.

      But she’d seen other people there today who had come to see about hiring help for restaurants or other venues. There was some job placement support through the organization, who vetted possible employers so that no one was hired illegally or put in a position where they might find themselves deported.

      Maybe this guy had a swanky restaurant somewhere and was looking for servers, cooks, busboys or -girls, and dishwashers.

      There were all kinds of agencies to check up on what people were really doing, and they were ready, willing and able to connect people. But at the soup kitchen they only stepped in if their help was requested, since if they asked questions about the hungry men and women who visited, they might be scared off—and then not feel comfortable enough to come back.

      Kieran headed into the kitchen, smiling at the mustached chef from a SoHo Italian restaurant, who offered her another big pot of the soup.

      They chatted for a minute, then she turned to bring the soup out to be served.

      The dark-haired man was watching her. He didn’t look away. He smiled, and it wasn’t an entirely nice smile. Then he headed out of the facility.

      Kieran felt a shiver race through her.

      Who the hell was that man? And who were the women? Had they really been whispering about her, watching her?

      Should she trust her gut that something was not quite right? Or did she just need to get over herself?

       CHAPTER FOUR

      The Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, or OCME, for New York City handled thousands of cases a year. Between Manhattan and the other four boroughs of the city, the population was massive, sitting at about eight and a half million, and in a population that size, quite a lot of people died.

      Bodies weren’t brought in just because of murder; anyone who’d died alone was brought to the OCME, as were those who passed from accidental death or suicide. There were thirty-plus full-time medical examiners working for the OCME, along with another sixty-plus assistants and a multitude of support staff, such as forensic pathology, photography, criminology, lab work, tech, clerical and more.

      With that kind of personnel, Craig hadn’t been expecting that the ME working the case would be someone he knew well. To his surprise, Dr. Anthony Andrews walked into the reception area to meet with them.

      He, Mike and Detective Larry McBride had recently worked together during the “perfect” killings that had gripped the city. Young, energetic, detailed—Dr. Andrews was damned good at his job. Though Craig didn’t think there was much that the ME could say that would help catch the killer, he was still glad that this particular doctor was on the job.

      “No

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