The Final Deception Read online

  But it was the pub that made her want to sincerely thank them that day. The place her parents had created was an amazing legacy, but more so in that it kept Kieran’s world grounded. They had so many regulars. It had become a place where people came in good times and also times of trouble. When they wanted to share good news, or just wanted to share the day-to-day ebb and flow of their lives.

  That Sunday morning, brunch was hopping. Kevin and Danny were both in, helping to rearrange tables to fit small groups, families, and duos. Servers were running ragged, and busboys and bus-girls were picking up just as fast as their hands would work and their legs would carry them.

  It felt natural for Kieran to pitch in—good to hear Mrs. Mullaly, a spry octogenarian, would have her six children and fourteen grandchildren all visiting that summer to celebrate her eighty-fifth birthday with her.

  The Smiths—newlyweds—were happy to announce that they’d be bringing a new little Smith into the world, a little boy.

  Harry Rogers stopped to give Kieran a kiss on the cheek and tell her he’d gotten a promotion.

  Of course, customers were also talking about the news among themselves. While many of them knew Craig, they didn’t know Kieran’s bosses had been involved in the psychiatric evaluation of a serial killer or that she had been asked to interview Nicholson herself.

  Harry didn’t mention a thing about the news to her; he just chatted about his new job from his seat at the bar with Julie Oslo, who was listening to Harry and also talking about the fact she was getting ready to head off on a Caribbean cruise.

  Life.

  Life going on, and today, in the pub at least, going on well.

  Kieran ran hard until 2:00 p.m., when the Sunday brunch hours were over. A lull followed, and she took a break, sitting at one of the little enclave-like tables with her brother Danny—the baby—one year younger than she and Kevin.

  “So, how are you holding up, sister mine?” Danny asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Yep, I’m sure you’re fine. When you snap at me for a casual question.”

  “There was nothing casual about it.”

  Danny swept an arm around the room. “Oh, come on, Kieran, every New Yorker is talking about it. In between work, Little League games, sports events, baby showers...it’s happening.”

  “Yeah.”

  A serial killer was on the loose in New York. The entire city was on edge. “So, truthfully, what’s up? We’re your brothers. It’s our job to worry about you.”

  “I’m holding up fine—just tired of hearing about it, the same questions over and over again.”

  “Sorry. Um, I could tell you about my latest research into the original inhabitants of the island of Manhattan? Talk about the weather? Or, how about those Yankees this season?”

  Kieran cast him a dire look and he smiled.

  “Sorry,” he said, leaning close to her. “But it is the topic today.”

  “It’s just rehashed and rehashed. And...”

  “And?”

  “It’s driving me crazy because I think I’m right, but I don’t know I’m right, and it just seems to get worse and worse.”

  “You mean the body found in the dumpster? It wasn’t burned but may still be a victim of that killer?”

  She nodded.

  “But you believe it is a different killer. That Nicholson had nothing to do with Mayhew or Mr. Olav Blom.”

  She nodded.

  “Nicholson is still dangerous and on the loose,” he reminded her.

  She nodded. “Of course. The police are watching his family and friends...members of his church.”

  “It is pretty interesting. Man’s got a wife, kids, spends lots of time with his strange sect or whatever. Makes me think of what Dad used to say.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, that most religions are good. They teach us to be kind to one another, to respect life, to be simply good people. He respected everyone’s beliefs—unless they were fanatics. Like he said, it’s what men can do with religion that can be bad. And I can’t really begin to understand what Nicholson swears he believed, but that’s sure one of those twists Dad meant.”

  “But that is what’s driving me crazy,” Kieran said. “Nicholson believed he was ridding the world of witches, those who would hurt others. And—” She broke off, aware the knowledge she had was not for the general public.

  “You know I’d never say anything, share with anyone,” Danny prompted.

  She trusted Danny completely. “Okay, Nicholson’s first victim was HIV positive. That was never made public. When he talked to me, Nicholson said he knew his victims would kill others. Now, she had stopped practicing the trade, but being a sex worker with HIV...she might have infected others. That can mean death. But she didn’t act with malice.”

  “What about the other woman?”

  “I don’t know. But what perceived danger could there be from a stellar college student, a fashion designer, and an accountant?”

  “Say there was something. Does that make a difference? The man committed murder. Because of a voice he heard in his head. How would the voice know something like that about a very diverse group of people?”

  “Maybe that’s what we need to discover...

  “The whole thing...it’s frustrating. The other thing we’re having a hard time with is the killer’s movements with regards to Olav Blom. From what I understand through Craig and Richard Egan, the blood in the basement was...plentiful.”

  “And they know it’s the victim’s blood.”

  “They do. But we’re almost positive it was the killer who walked back through the lobby with the dog. Oh!” she said suddenly. “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “The killer knew there was an old ice chute in the basement, covered up with drywall and plaster. What if he initially got in that way, somehow got Blom to the basement and killed him for his key, then the killer pretended to be Blom so that he could get up to see Charles Mayhew. He escaped the way he got in—through the chute.”

  “Left a pool of blood and dragged or carried the body to the dumpster? Across a busy street. In the middle of Manhattan.”

  “Can you figure anything else?”

  “No. Not from evidence,” Danny said thoughtfully. He hesitated. “Maybe there were two killers.”

  “Only one man came through the lobby.”

  “Yes, but now you know about the old ice chute. It’s how he got out. What’s to say someone else didn’t come in that way?”

  “I’ll call Craig, tell him what we think,” Kieran said. Her phone was in her jacket pocket and she started to pull it out.

  She paused, frowning as a man who seemed to be in a hurry walked past them. He had a gleaming, clean-shaven head and moved with confident purpose, focused on the bar.

  “What is it?” Danny asked her.

  “The man who just came in...who just walked past us... I know him.”

  “We know lots of people here, Kieran. It’s our pub.”

  “No, he’s—he’s Nicholson’s attorney,” she said. “Cliff Watkins.”

  “You met him? I mean, I guess his name has been in the papers—is still in the papers. Of course, a zillion outlets tried to interview him after Nicholson’s escape, but he sent out a statement saying he was as eager as everyone else to have his client back in custody.”

  “He was with Nicholson when I interviewed him,” Kieran said. She stood up. “I think I’ll see how he’s doing.”

  “Or what he’s doing. He’s not a regular. And if you’re not a regular and you haven’t got business in the neighborhood or aren’t out for a fantastic Irish brunch, what would you be doing this far downtown?”

  Kieran wove through the tables to the bar.

  Watkins had already been served. A whiskey, neat.

  She slid int
o the space next to him. “Mr. Watkins.”

  He turned to her. “Ah, Miss Finnegan!” He studied her for a minute and then smiled and shook his head. “I was about to say, how interesting, seeing you here. But your family owns the place, of course. I wasn’t thinking when I came in. Finnegan. Finnegan’s.”

  “Yes, we do own the pub,” Kieran said. She cast her head lightly to the side. “I was surprised to see you here. I don’t believe you’ve been before?”

  “Oh, I have, once or twice. My firm isn’t that far away. We’re just over on Church Street. I’m not usually around on a Sunday, but...”

  “With everything going on?” she asked.

  He nodded grimly. “I’m sure you know my firm took this case on pro bono. I was given one of the most lucrative cases we had this year, and, to be fair, I was given this, as well. I had no idea it would turn into more murders and a manhunt.” He swallowed his drink and shook his head. “I was doing my job—to get the best possible outcome for my client. Thank goodness he never wanted to enter an innocent plea, but I was begging him to go with an insanity plea. There is no question, really. You’ve interviewed him. I’ve never seen a better candidate for that kind of defense. Now...well, it seems he fooled all of us, used all of us...and I can’t get off the damned case.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “And, of course, for you. I understand you’re engaged to the agent who brought him in—and you interviewed Nicholson yourself.”

  She nodded.

  “No sign of him, eh?”

  “None I’ve heard about. You?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  He looked gloomily at his empty glass. “I’ll take care of that for you—on the house,” Kieran said, slipping behind the bar to give the man another shot.

  He nodded his thanks. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work. This has...well, it’s made a major change in all the tons of paperwork we’ve been doing. Nice to see you, Kieran. Thanks again,” he said, swallowing half of the second shot. He winced, offering her a grim smile.

  “Of course,” she said, and before he could move away, she asked, “He really did play both of us, didn’t he? I think of all the work I’ve done and the studies and... I just had no idea whatsoever he intended to escape. I feel like a fool.”

  He nodded. She thought he would agree with her.

  He just pursed his lips. “Paperwork!” he said, shaking his head. “My firm just had to take this on...such a high profile case, an obviously very sick man, and what could a good defense attorney do except try to ensure he received psychiatric help. Lord, the trade-off wasn’t worth it.”

  He finished his drink and set his glass down.

  “Mr. Watkins, you would bring Nicholson right in—if you were to find him?”

  He grinned. “I’m basically a coward. Client or not, I would call the cops immediately if I were to see him. After getting myself a safe distance away.”

  “Mr. Watkins—”

  “Please. Just call me Cliff. We’re not in a courtroom here. We’re in a family-run pub, right? All friends and at ease here.”

  “Cliff,” she said. Despite his appearance, his clean-shaven pate didn’t exactly make him look like a tough biker, but he was tall, well-built, and confident in his manner. Right now, though, he appeared worn down and extremely weary. Nicholson’s escape was taking its toll on the attorney.

  “Cliff,” she repeated. “You know Amy, of course, and the boys—”

  “I met both of his sons just once, and not with their mother,” he said. “They weren’t concerned about whether their father went to a psychiatric institute for help or to a prison filled with hard-boiled criminals. They both think their father is crazy, and while they say they love their parents, they’re both somehow—well, God help us all with the term—normal. Feel free to call them and talk to them. Maybe you can get an insight from them that I couldn’t. And I suppose I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know what you uncover.”

  “I don’t actually call the shots,” Kieran said. “I work for two of the best people in the field. And I’m sure if Nicholson isn’t apprehended by tomorrow, there will be a new round of questioning and interviews with anyone and everyone close to the man.”

  “I’m sure. And I’d be happy to help you, but I’m not sure where to start.” He shook his head sadly, looking at her.

  “I can see how hard it’s been on you. I appreciate you talking about it.”

  He nodded and stood off his barstool. “Anytime. Thank you again for the drink. You have my card, right, from the other day?”

  “I do.” He lifted a hand to her, turned, and left the pub, moving with as much assurance as when he had entered.

  Danny was waiting for Kieran to return to the table.

  “Must be a bitch to be him,” he said.

  “I guess. He really is in a thankless position,” Kieran said.

  Danny shrugged and turned to her. “You know, I’ve looked up everything I can about witchcraft cases in the United States, back to when we were colonies. But I can’t find a single incident of someone being accused of witchcraft here—not in the colonies, not in the US—and being burned.”

  “But people were burned all over Europe and other places,” Kieran said.

  Danny nodded. “Witchcraft most often went along went heresy in Europe. Heretics burned. Thousands in one day, more than once, if history counts correctly.”

  “But we’re not in Europe.”

  Danny shrugged and took a swig of his coffee. “I’d say, if you believe your man does hear voices, he is a purist—he didn’t kill the other guy. The man who was just stabbed.”

  “That’s what I say. And explain this to me. How did Nicholson break out at the same time these other murders occurred?”

  “How, or why?” Danny asked her.

  She stared at him, then suddenly leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “What was that for?”

  “Not a what or a how—but a why!” she said. She jumped up, ready to run back to the apartment, her computer, and her notes—just as quickly as possible.

  “Hold on,” Danny said, and she stopped. “I’ll walk you to your place.”

  She smiled at him. “No argument.”

  “My sister, Kieran Finnegan, being agreeable?”

  “Let’s get going. Tell Declan we’re heading out,” Kieran said.

  “All right. You’re really going to stand there and wait?”

  “I really am.”

  She watched as Danny went back to their older brother’s office. She waited for him near the door and grinned when he returned. His features were puckered into a wary frown, as if he’d been suspicious he would find she’d gone off without him.

  “You waited for me,” he said.

  “I did. I’m not causing a bit of trouble,” she promised him. When he still looked surprised, she said, “Look, I know you all worry. I intend to toe the line, okay? But right now, I really have to get back to my notes. I was thinking at first that...”

  “That?”

  “I was thinking Nicholson might have somehow been helped to escape by an apprentice, by someone who believed in him, who wanted to help him, who maybe even wanted to be him.”

  “That would make sense.”

  “Yes, except for the death of Mr. Blom.”

  “Oh...”

  “There’s another possibility. The killer is not someone who likes or admires Nicholson, rather, it’s someone who despises him—and wants only to use him!”

  Danny looked at her, an odd smile on his lips while he gave her a perplexed look at the same time. “Okay. There’s someone out there who wanted to murder Mayhew and blame it on Nicholson. But that means the same person helped figure out Nicholson’s escape, how to get into a secure apartment building, and commit a doub
le murder?”

  “Someone could have had a goal that we’re not seeing.”

  “As in someone specifically wanted Mayhew dead, but also wanted Nicholson blamed.”

  “Yes.”

  “How does that explain Blom?”

  “A means to an end,” Kieran said.

  “So, who did it?”

  “I haven’t the least idea. Hey, do you feel like pie?”

  “Pie?” Danny demanded, shaking his head, clearly taken aback by the question.

  “Often comes in apple, blueberry, pecan?”

  “We just left an excellent pub with excellent food, including pie!” Danny said.

  “Yes, but we need different pie.”

  He groaned. “Where are we going and why?”

  “Annie’s Sunrise!” Kieran said. “Raoul Nicholson’s breakfast location of choice.”

  Danny let out a sigh. “Sure. I love pie. I take it you know the way?”

  “Just pulled it up on my GPS. Walking, four minutes from where we stand now. Cheer up. It’s a one of a kind. Not a chain. Could be our new place for pie.”

  “I didn’t know we had an old place for pie.”

  “So there you go—we need a place for pie!”

  Danny groaned and started walking. Kieran led the way.

  * * *

  There were no surprises to be found in the autopsy results on Mr. Olav Blom.

  Craig had been to too many autopsies. It was often better for an officer to use the time to search out friends, family, and witnesses of the deceased and then later study the medical examiner’s report. But Mike had suggested that with Blom, it was going to be important to find out every factor regarding his death.

  They stood by while Dr. Layton went through the routine of the steps of the autopsy as the body was photographed.

  Right at the beginning they learned something: there were no bruises or any signs that Blom had been involved in a struggle for his life, that he had fought off his killer, or that he had been restrained in any way.