He liked the way she moved, almost in rhythm with the music of the Dropkick Murphys playing in the background.
For a minute, he thought she was going to demand to know what he was doing in her bar and ask him to leave.
But she just looked at him, puzzled and uneasy.
“Agent Frasier,” she said after a long moment.
“Guilty as charged.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Eating.”
What did she think he was doing there? He would love to know.
“Oh,” she said. “Well. Um, I hope you’re enjoying your dinner.”
“I am. Very much.”
“It’s only pub food, nothing gourmet.”
“I love pub food,” he said blandly, curious to see where she would take their conversation. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Are you watching me for some reason?” she asked him.
Was he?
She was certainly a pleasure to watch, with her long, long legs, blue eyes and fiery hair. But he doubted that saying as much would please her any more than would giving voice to his suspicions that she was keeping something from him.
“Actually,” he heard himself say, “I wanted to talk to you again but figured I’d wait a bit. You seemed to be pretty busy when I came in, and I was hungry anyway.”
“Being busy is a good thing for—for a business,” she said.
He smiled. “Yes, of course. But I was wondering...” He paused, surprised that the right approach came to him so quickly. “The thing is, the prosecutor wants to charge the men from last night with murder, but I don’t think they’re the killers.”
“Yes, I know. I spent the morning studying video footage, remember?” she said, smiling for the first time since she’d come over to his table.
“I’d like to get you to Rikers so you can speak with the men. They were held in lockup last night, but they were arraigned on grand larceny today. The prosecutor wants to add homicide charges right away. I’d like to counter him with more than grainy video, toy guns and my own gut feeling. Would you come with me to talk to them?”
She seemed surprised—and relieved. And still uncomfortable.
“Um, sure.”
He saw the taller bartender heading in their direction. One of her brothers, but which one?
The question was quickly answered.
“Declan Finnegan,” the man said, holding out his hand.
There was a definite family resemblance, at least in height and coloring, Craig thought, rising to offer his hand. “I’m Craig Frasier. Special agent, FBI.”
“Pleased to meet you, and thank you for keeping Kieran safe and sending her back to us. Your meal is on the house. The least we can do,” he added, when Craig started to protest.
“Kieran did extremely well on her own. She’s quite competent in a tough situation,” Craig said. “And thank you, but I need a bill. We’re not allowed to accept gifts, not even a meal.”
Her brother shot Kieran a frown, but he didn’t object. “I’d love to hear more about what happened last night. If you’ve got some time, come on up to the bar when you’ve finished your dinner.”
“Will do,” Craig promised.
Kieran’s face grew a full shade paler. “Great,” she said, not quite managing a smile. Then she turned and walked away.
Her attitude made him even more certain that something was going on, whether at the pub or just with her, and he was going to find out what.
*
Things had gone from bad to really bad.
There was Craig Frasier sitting at the bar. And there were her brothers—all three of them—chatting with him as comfortably as if they’d known him all their lives.
Danny didn’t have the sense to realize that a federal agent might, at any moment, ask him questions he might not be prepared to answer. Honestly, her baby brother could be so oblivious.
She forced a smile each time she passed by them, determined not to be drawn into their conversation. But she couldn’t help overhearing, and she realized after a little while that they were talking about city politics, local sports, music and theater, and the newest exhibition at the Met.
By about eleven, the place was almost dead quiet. It was a Tuesday night, and only some regulars were hanging around along with a smattering of tourists, all nursing their last drinks before their night’s rest and the workday or the exertions of touring the city come morning. Both Debbie and Mary Kathleen had called it quits earlier; the chef and his staff were cleaning up the kitchen, and Kieran knew there was no reason for her not to join her brothers and Craig Frasier.
Declan slipped an arm around her when she walked over, studying her with pride in his eyes.
“We heard you kicked butt yesterday,” he said.
She shrugged and admitted, “I wouldn’t have had the chance if Agent Frasier hadn’t burst in the way that he did.”
“And you’re still helping with the investigation, huh?” Danny asked.
“Um, yeah. I guess so,” she said.
“Immeasurably,” Craig said. “She’s very observant about people.”
“Sounds like her,” Kevin said. “She was always psychoanalyzing us as kids. She had us pretty well nailed, too.”