The Final Deception, Page 2

  “The voice told me, of course.” He leaned forward again. “You must watch out for evil people—the true murderers, true spawns of Satan. You see, I am afraid. Afraid for you. Not from the voice I hear. The voice likes you. It commanded me to be honest with you—but danger lurks from Satan. His minions foster evil.”

  Well, at least he thought she was good. And he was talking to her; more even than when he had been interviewed by her bosses.

  Back against the wall, Cliff Watkins sighed as if with great patience.

  “Mr. Nicholson, how did the voice, telling you to kill, come to you?”

  “Different ways. Sometimes in a crowd. I’d hear the whisper, but no one near was talking to me. Once, through my cell phone. Once, I saw the name in the paper, and I knew. And when I dreamed that night, the voice came to me in the dream, showing me what I must do.”

  He seemed so positive; so certain.

  She jotted down some notes. There were fine lines to be drawn between someone who was incompetent to stand trial, and someone who was legally insane.

  She was glad all she had to do was report on her findings, give her opinion on his mental state. “Thank you for talking to me, Mr. Nicholson,” she told him, and stood, nodding to the guard who stood by the cell door. He opened it for her; another guard waited to escort her out.

  Cliff Watkins followed. “He’s sick, can’t you see? We can take a deal on this and get him into a facility from which he can’t escape, where he’ll be given the help he needs. Please, I hope you see the truth of the man.”

  She smiled; she wasn’t sure what she saw yet. There was a lot of precedent for this kind of delusion.

  David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam killer, had heard voices ordering him to kill.

  And, in the 1970s, in Southern California, Herbert Mullin had killed because a voice told him that an earthquake was imminent if he didn’t offer blood sacrifices to the earth. Anthony Sowell, the Cleveland Strangler, had killed because a ghost had ordered him to do so. And there were so many more killers who had somehow justified their actions. Nicholson wanted her to see the truth.

  What was the truth?

  One way or the other, Nicholson would be locked up for a very long time.

  She exited the prison. Dr. Fuller was waiting for her, ready to head from Riker’s Island back to the mainland. They would have plenty of time to discuss their thoughts and findings as he drove over the Francis R. Buono Memorial Bridge to Queens, and from there, down to Lower Manhattan. It was a long trip in heavy traffic. At least it was spring, and there would be an occasional pretty sight on the way. People who lived in concrete jungles, as Kieran did, tended to care for every burst of green tree or bright flower.

  “I don’t think he’s lying. I think he believes every word he says,” Kieran told Dr. Fuller. “It’s hard to judge, but...” She pulled out her phone and the notes she had written after studying all she could about the man’s life. “He was an avid churchgoer, and his church, Unitarian, is truly fundamentalist. He never danced, celebrated a birthday, or did anything that was slightly fun—from what I can tell—much less indulge in drugs or alcohol or any other vices.”

  Kieran relayed all the details of her interview with the accused. They continued to talk, and the drive went more quickly than Kieran had imagined it might.

  “I just wish I could be sure,” Kieran said.

  Fuller cast a sideways glance and smiled. “Don’t we all? Why do you think Dr. Miro and I had you talk to him as well?” Fuller was an older man with classic Hollywood movie-star good looks, though he was one of the most humble people Kieran had ever met.

  They had made it all the way down to Lower Manhattan, Kieran realized. Dr. Fuller was going to pull over for her to get out soon, and they couldn’t tarry long on Broadway.

  “Write it all up for me, and we’ll give it to the prosecutors. They’ll have to make the decision on just how to proceed,” he told her. He stopped the car.

  “Did you want to park somewhere, grab something to eat?” she asked him. Her family owned Finnegan’s on Broadway, the pub where they had stopped.

  It was barely 4:00 p.m., early for dinner, but it was Friday evening, and the pub would soon be entering cocktail hour, a wildly busy time.

  “Thanks, but I have a romantic dinner tonight with the wife!” he told her, smiling. And then he frowned. “Oh, you should see the look you’re giving me!” he told her. “Kieran, shake it off. It’s the weekend. We deal with horrible things all the time. You’ll have to quit thinking about it. Nicholson is off the streets—that’s what is most important. Get in there. And enjoy your family, your beau, and your life!”

  She saluted him. “Yes, sir!” He grinned as she slid out of the car. She did have to shake off her time with Nicholson, and she knew it.

  Her “beau,” as Dr. Fuller had called him, was stepping out onto the sidewalk, obviously looking for her, just as she started for the door of Finnegan’s.

  “Hey!” she said cheerfully. Maybe too cheerfully.

  Craig took a stride toward her and pulled her firmly into his arms. It was good; the warmth of him, the strength of him, wrapping all around her.

  “Craig, I...” Her voice trailed off.

  “I know,” he said softly. “Don’t forget,” he added, his voice husky, “I was on the task force that brought him down.”

  For a moment they stood there, taking strength and comfort from each other, and then they went in.

  Kieran’s oldest brother, Declan Finnegan, had brought in a great Irish band, the Boys of Shannon. They were playing and the pub was in full swing. From behind the bar, Declan waved her way. There was a little concern in her brother’s eyes. She smiled and waved in turn.

  Then she saw that her other brothers, Danny and Kevin, were running around helping. They were apparently short on staff this night.

  “Looks like I’d better pitch in for a few minutes,” she told Craig.

  “Sure.”

  She served Guinness and Smithwick’s and all the pub’s specialties: shepherd’s pies, corned beef and cabbage, pot pies, and more. And the music touched her—guitars, drums, violin, and keyboard. The night went on. She chatted and laughed. Danny and Kevin wound up sitting with Craig while she ran a bit ragged. Then she announced they were leaving. It wasn’t even eight, but her brothers could take over; she’d done her bit.

  “You’re going to miss the band coming back on,” her brother Danny—one time bad boy, petty-thief-turned-historian and New York City tour guide—called to her, grinning.

  “Maybe we’ll come back. I need a breather after work. And more work!” she said, reminding him she’d been the one waiting tables.

  “Hey, I have a tour first thing in the morning!” Danny cried.

  She shrugged, taking Craig’s arm and leading him out.

  Grimacing, Danny stood, assuring one of their regulars he’d be happy to get him another soda with lime.

  “Do come back later!” her twin, Kevin, called. “Be social!”

  “Sure!”

  The pub would still be open for hours—until 2:00 a.m. on a Friday night—but she wanted time with Craig. Though her fiancé had a Bureau car, they walked from the pub. It was merely six blocks to their newest home. They’d moved a lot in the last few years—his place, her place, a place together—but now they were in a new condo and she loved it. Loved that it was theirs and they had chosen it together.

  Upstairs, she showered quickly, loving as well that while the previous owner had kept the architectural integrity of the place, he’d installed a new master bathroom with a seriously fine shower nozzle. It seemed to wash the feeling of the day away. Maybe she made it do so in her mind. She stepped out of the bathroom in a thick terry robe, walked over to the windows, and peeked out into the night. The apartment stretched from side to side of the building, so from the living area with its high cei
lings they could look out at the skyline, just as they could from their bedroom, which was in an open loft space up a flight of stairs.

  Stars were visible, and they were beautiful in the night sky. She heard Craig come in, and she smiled. It was Friday night; it was early. They had hours together here in the new home they loved like a pair of children excited over a new tree house.

  She nearly said something about Nicholson but she didn’t.

  Until he touched her, she hadn’t realized Craig was right behind her.

  She didn’t speak. He lifted her hair, kissing the nape of her neck. She turned to him and the kiss came to her lips, and his hands were on her, teasing on the tie of the terry robe.

  Soon it was gone, and his clothing was strewn everywhere. His lips were liquid and afire on her flesh, they became a tangle of limbs on the bed, and they made love.

  They lay comfortably together. And for a very long time, they still didn’t speak. But then the day began to gnaw at the back of her mind. She was hesitant; she knew Craig had been on the case and he’d seen the results of the killer’s work.

  “What?” he asked her. “Come on—something is weighing on your mind.”

  “Talking to Raoul Nicholson today,” she said.

  She felt him stiffen. “I don’t understand why Fuller and Miro asked you to interview someone like Nicholson.”

  “They both spoke with him. Then they asked me to, as well.”

  “He has to be a madman.”

  “Or speaking the truth—just as he sees it. Or he’s creating an unbelievably good con.”

  He rose on an elbow and looked down at her. “And?”

  She shivered slightly; he held her closer. “I don’t know—there’s something about him. I’ve heard no one had any idea he was a killer, no one believed the Fireman might have been him—not his wife, coworkers...casual friends at the coffee shop he stopped by each morning. And yet...”

  “And yet?”

  “There’s something about him. He doesn’t seem delusional on the surface. But the way he speaks is...too passionate. The voice made him do it. The voice of God, in his mind. And those he killed were diseased—or about to kill the innocent. Well, you know his story. I guess the world knows his story. He’s been written up in every major media outlet in the country, if not the world. The Fireman—apprehended.” She grimaced at him. “At least you made the Bureau look great.”

  “Yeah—because he immediately admitted his guilt, and they finally managed to match a fingerprint at a crime scene,” Craig said. “Otherwise... I’m not sure how my opening the door to his home would stand up.”

  “You said the door was open.”

  “It was,” Craig said with a shrug. “Anyway, what will you say at trial?”

  “That he needs to be locked up—and never let out.”

  “But is he competent to sit at trial?”

  “Yes, I believe he’s cognizant to what’s going on around him. He’s just living in an alternate world, or as I said, it’s possible he’s creating the best crazed persona possible to get into a hospital rather than a maximum-security prison, where he would be held without a chance for parole.”

  “It will be a while before we get to it,” Craig said. He remained on his elbow, observing her carefully. He added quietly, “Life—and crime—will go on. But, aside from all that, we’ve got to...”

  “To what?” she asked. They were personally involved with several cases. She knew people led normal lives by stepping back when they weren’t working, but she and Craig had met because of a string of diamond heists in the city when they’d both wound up a little too personally involved. They didn’t ask each other to forget friends, family—or even the problems of those who frequented Finnegan’s on Broadway.

  This one though...

  “Step back,” he told her.

  Yeah, she needed to step back.

  She couldn’t help but wonder, though, if his thought hadn’t been for them both. She’d seen pictures of the victims. He’d seen the real deal.

  “We have a wedding we keep putting off planning. People to see, places to go,” he reminded her. He was right. “We’ve been together years. Your brothers are starting to look at me as if they question my intentions.”

  Kieran grinned and ran a teasing finger down his chest. “I’m sure many a night when we leave the pub, they’re well aware of our intentions.”

  He smiled at that, drawing her closer. “So, the wedding.”

  “Want to run away to Vegas?”

  “I’m not into being hated the rest of my life.”

  “Well, your intentions will have been honorable at the very least!”

  “Seriously, it is absolutely foolish to even consider having the reception anywhere but the pub,” Craig said, rolling on an elbow to smile at Kieran. “You would break your brothers’ hearts—not to mention those of your regulars, who must, of course, be invited.” He grinned. “We should head back over tonight, let them know we still haven’t figured out a date, but there’s no question about the reception. Make them happy. And Danny can give us his latest historical discovery, and we can see what Kevin is up to—it is a Friday night, and it’s still early. We should be free and clear.”

  “Sounds good. Maybe. Maybe not—let me mull on that.”

  Kieran stretched and rose and walked to the window, just slightly opening the drapes. Their loft was on Reed Street, once part of an industrial complex, a massive tailoring shop, converted to apartments, and now apartment/condos. There were large plate-glass windows that looked over the street. Downstairs, the living area offered high ceilings and more intricate little architectural details. The apartment was perfect. She liked their neighbors. New York was amazing, and while she had traveled to many places, she still found her native city to be one of the most diverse, historical, and fascinating places she had ever seen. The view out the window was always intriguing. They had something of a neighborhood; she saw the same people in the little deli down the street all the time.

  Life is good. Forget Nicholson.

  She was determined to do so. The night itself commanded she do so—it was beautiful. She turned to look back at Craig, and a real smile came to her lips.

  Even after several years and many a strange adventure along the way, she still adored Craig. Her smile became a grin as she observed him with a trace of amusement as he lay stretched out on the bed.

  “What?” he demanded, brows becoming an arch.

  “You look like a pullout poster.”

  “What?” he demanded indignantly, starting to rise.

  “Not an insult, you look...great,” she said, and her smile became a laugh. “You just look like a pullout, a pinup, you know? All you need is a come-hither look on your face.”

  He was long and wire-muscled and bronze against the sheets—and still naked. Of course, part of his physique was demanded by his job. She knew enough of his friends and coworkers to know that FBI agents did tend to come in athletic and fit—very fit. Naturally, they had to go through the Academy and keep up for their work.

  “You want a come-hither look?” he teased. He wiggled his eyebrows. She wasn’t sure the look was really all that come-hither, but, then again, the way he was stretched out...

  Come-hither enough.

  She paused to adjust the drapes, and as she did so, she noticed that in seconds, the weather had changed. Dark clouds covered what had been a striking starlit sky. She shivered suddenly; it felt ridiculously like an omen or a foreboding.

  It was just rain.

  She made sure the drapes were back in place and turned toward the bed. She flew at it, flinging herself on his naked body.

  He gasped, groaned, caught her, held her above himself, and laughed.

  “My come-hither was okay then?”

  “No, it sucked!”

  “Ah, I see. But
you’re coming to me anyway, right?”

  “As you pointed out, it’s Friday night, and neither of us have work, and I already helped out at the pub, so we can head over when we feel like it—or not—and so we have a chance here for sex, which since we live together we should be having far more often, while we’re both physically here and awake. The come-hither look we’ll have to work on.”

  “I’m crushed.”

  “You are not. You’re overconfident, if anything. You’re certain your look is completely seductive and compelling.”

  “I don’t know about that. Crushed. I am crushed. You’re lying on top of me, crushing me.”

  She grinned and didn’t budge for a minute, then she pushed up against his chest and straddled him. “The big, bad agent-guy can’t handle it, huh?”

  “Oh, he can handle it, all right.” Calmly he folded his arms behind his head. “Part of any investigation is to see just how far and where the other party is willing to go.”

  “Far!” she warned. She eased herself around in a slow and sinuous motion, and then eased slowly back down on his arousal, drawing a groan and tremor from him.

  She began to move.

  He caught her arms, pulling her down to him, not losing a beat. “Big, bad agent, eh?” And, with a fluid motion, he rolled the two of them together, drawing her beneath him, and then their eyes locked, and their bodies moved.

  They lost themselves in each other for a while.

  Replete at last, they lay together, damp and shimmering, holding each other still.

  Craig’s phone rang.

  Kieran groaned softly.

  Craig hesitated; on the fourth ring, he rolled over, found his phone on the bedside table, and answered it.

  He listened; she watched the tension come into his face.

  “What is it?” Kieran asked.

  “Um, not sure yet. Just a crime scene that I must get to. Kieran, I’m sorry—”

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she told him, and reminded him, “Sometimes it’s me. You put up with my crazy family and an entire Irish pub. And still...”