A Perfect Obsession

by Heather Graham

  Yes, it seemed to be a Casablanca moment.

  Of all the old abandoned dug out holes in Manhattan, the damned catacombs just had to be close to Finnegan’s!

  Too close... This place was too close to where a young woman lay dead, where her body had been stashed with the bones of those long forgotten.

  Craig knew John Shaw, and Shaw knew him; they’d met at the pub several times when the professor had come for his professional meetings or get-togethers—or when he just wanted to sip one of his ultra-lite beers and chill.

  “Craig!” John said, looking up at him with surprise. “I—Oh, my. You’re coming to see me. So I guess it should be Special Agent Frasier. Not Craig. Look, I’m not sure what else I can say to anyone. All I know is that we opened that coffin and...and there she was.”

  Craig slid into the booth and smiled at him. “You must be pretty rattled.”

  “Yes. You’re here officially? The police told me not to say anything yet. They need to contact the poor girl’s family. I mean, that’s why you’re here—coming to me and not Kieran, right?”

  “Yes, John, this is official. The NYPD detectives are on the case, of course, but we’re taking part, as well. We’ve put together a task force. This as a very high-profile murder.”

  John nodded, his white hair—something of a strange mullet cut—flapping beside his ears. His glasses slid down his nose with his effort, and he pushed them back with his forefinger.

  “Of course. This needs to be solved fast,” John said. “But...” His expression grew even more perplexed. “I don’t know how I can help any more. I don’t know how I can help, period. Professor Digby—Aldous Digby, one of my associates—and I were there, and three grad students. Oh, and two of the construction guys. The guys were watching—waiting to get back to work. I didn’t let them touch the coffin. Nice guys, but, you know, that coffin might be two hundred years old and, well, you need to have a delicate touch. And Ms. Gilbert... The second I saw her... I have to admit I screamed. I was rattled, as you said. But I made sure everyone got out. We did and then went up to the church—the club area—to wait for the police.”

  “Right. So there were seven of you. I have the names,” Craig said. He was certain that the meticulous Detective McBride had sent his email.

  He’d also seen Jeannette Gilbert’s body at the site.

  He winced, the picture of her still so clear in his mind. Her lovely, pale, perfect face. The white dress. The red rose.

  John nodded. “Seven of us were in there—and seven of us got out quicker than a flash. And we were all interviewed.” He sighed loudly. “Hell of a thing for the owner of that place. They’ve barely been open what, a month or two? Then they have to stop work and close up because an engineer finds the coffins in the dirt and then the catacombs. They bring us in, and... Sad. So sad. By God, she was beautiful! Poor thing.”

  “Just to confirm, you were there yesterday, too?” Craig asked.

  “Of course. I was there as soon as the situation was reported.” He paused. “Did you know that the land where the Waldorf Astoria sits was once a potter’s field? Think of how old this city is. A number of the parks we enjoy today were originally cemeteries. I worked the old slave cemetery they discovered a few years back, so it was natural that I’d work on this one, too.”

  “You started on the church yesterday?”

  “Yes. I did. I was called yesterday morning, and I made arrangements to get there as fast as possible.”

  “And then?”

  “I assessed the location. I called in Digby and my assistant, Allie Benoit. You don’t pry apart ancient caskets willy-nilly. We researched church plans, but the original architect’s plan is long gone.” He shook his head. “You must be familiar with what happened. The church sold the property to the club people. There was an outcry, not that it made any difference. But the building is so historic. Everyone wants to shop Fifth Avenue, see a show, bank on Wall Street. They forget that Wall Street was a wall. Canal Street was a canal—or a cesspool, really. Those are all part of our city’s origins, and we need to preserve history!”

  Craig nodded, although he wasn’t convinced they’d needed to preserve the cesspool that had been Canal Street. He spoke quickly, not wanting the academic to bluster endlessly. “What time did you get in there yesterday?”

  “Let’s see... They called us right around ten in the morning. I was there within the hour.”

  “So, who was there then?” Craig asked. “Besides you and the colleagues and workers you’ve mentioned.”

  “Oh, lots of people. Let’s see, the manager and owner, Roger Gleason. He’d been working down by the construction area. They stored their booze down there—in the old crypt they knew about, I mean, with the coffins and bodies all gone now. It’s a foundation, a basement. The basement—the crypts—were far more extensive than people realized. The wall had hidden some of the old coffins and shrouded corpses, so when some of the corpses were moved, the ‘second’ crypt was missed.”

  “Okay. Anyone else know what was going on?”

  “At least two construction workers and one of the barmaids-slash-dancers. Have you seen what they do in there? She was dressed up in a little black bra and skirt and wearing some wicked makeup. The girls dance on tables when they’re not handing out booze.”

  “So, employees, construction workers—anyone else?”

  “Oh, yeah, the rep from the historic preservation group. Henry Willoughby. Loves history. He’s not a scientist, but he’s a great hands-on guy, ready to protect the past and help out if he can. The man loves New York and studied history and architecture. His wife passed away a while back, and now he gives all his love to the city. He stayed long enough last night to check in with us, make sure we were ready to catalog the bodies and the artifacts we found. I would’ve brought in more crew, but—”

  “Who stayed, then? Who was actually there when you kept working?”

  “Me, Digby showed up, my grad students—plus a structural engineer and a construction worker, all to see that we didn’t bring down a wall, I assume.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, after I initially went in yesterday, the construction guys created a kind of door for us.”

  “How long were you there yesterday?”

  “It was almost midnight before I left. I didn’t touch or open anything. I stepped over the hole—where the wall broke when they were working on the foundations—into the crypt beyond. Digby and my grad students and I were there. We make drawings and assessments and plan before we start the actual work, so, yes, I’d say it was midnight. By then, of course, the vampire dancers were gone and all the club people had been told to go home. Once they made the find—the second crypt—they closed down, of course, but people were hanging around. It’s...it’s history being reclaimed! Roger Gleason, the owner, seems like a nice guy. He has a conscience and some perspective on what’s important. We didn’t have to get court orders or anything. He simply agreed to close for a few days. They had patrol officers covering the place, making sure that once the news about the crypt got out, some Goth freak or necrophilia-pursuing creep didn’t try to break in.”

  Craig nodded. He knew the answers to most of what he was asking; he just wanted it from Shaw and he wanted to ensure that their facts were straight.

  “Yesterday,” Shaw said, “you understand, was discovery day. I planned where to put some lights. I judged the space for people and decided on equipment. I did all the assessments, got my ducks in a row, you know what I mean?”

  Craig nodded again. “This morning when you arrived—were things exactly as you’d left them?”

  “What?”

  “Had anything you’d done been changed? Were tools missing, anything like that?”

  Shaw frowned. “I...I don’t think so. I don’t get it. I’d roped off different areas in the basement for my people. We had o
ur little brushes and chisels and...no, I’m positive that our work tables were the way we’d left them,” he said. He leaned forward. “Didn’t Ms. Gilbert disappear about two weeks ago? She didn’t look as if she’d just been killed. She...she was beautiful as she lay there, but decay had set in. I guess down there, with the cool temperature, natural decay wouldn’t be what it would up here.” He briefly closed his eyes. “If she was embalmed, she wasn’t embalmed well, but she was dressed up. As if she’d been prepared for a viewing. Seeing her gave me chills! Chills! And I work with the dead all the time. When did she die?”

  “The medical examiner is estimating her death to have been between one and two weeks ago. He’ll tell us more definitively when he’s done the autopsy.”

  “So, you think that—”

  “I don’t think anything yet,” Craig said. “We need more information from the experts before I can even speculate. Go on, please, tell me about this morning.”

  “Okay,” John said. “This morning.” He looked longingly at his scotch glass.

  It was empty.

  “You want another?” Craig asked.

  “Yeah,” John said huskily. “Yeah. The long dead are one thing. Fresh corpses...or not so fresh corpses...”

  Craig knew what he meant.

  He had seen the body.

  He scanned the bar area but didn’t see Kieran. Declan Finnegan, however—looking like an old-time Irish bartender as he dried a glass, decked in a white apron tied around his waist—was behind the bar.

  Craig walked over to him. Declan, he knew, had been fully aware that Craig was in the pub and that he’d been talking to John Shaw.

  “You want another scotch for him?” Declan asked.

  Declan was the oldest of the Finnegans; he wore his sense of responsibility and dignity well. All the Finnegan family were attractive and charming people with different degrees of red in their hair, and they all had eyes in varying shades of blue. Even a casual observer had to note that they were related.

  Declan tended to be the most serious in demeanor. He didn’t ask questions, not of Craig; he knew he’d learn what was going on if and when it was appropriate.

  “Thanks,” Craig said. “Any idea where Kieran is?”

  “She and Kevin were helping out before. I’m not sure where they went.” He poured the scotch. “Anything for you?”

  “Soda water.”

  Declan quickly poured him a glass from the fountain, and Craig returned to the table. Where the hell had Kieran gone?

  She was helping out her brother today, which meant she was working here somewhere. If he was going to start worrying every time she wasn’t in sight, he’d need to get a psych evaluation himself.

  John Shaw took the scotch from him; it looked as if he was going to gulp it down. Craig set a hand on his. “Hey, that’s prime stuff, my friend. Sip it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course,” Shaw murmured.

  “Okay, so, you got in today—”

  “Early. Just after seven. This is an important true find. The historical value is immense.”

  “Of course. I understand,” Craig assured him. “So, today. You haven’t opened any of the other coffins in the catacomb, have you?”

  “No. Some of the coffins have disintegrated, and the remains are down to bones and dust and spiderwebs. Remnants of fabric...belt buckles, shoe buckles...” John rambled, studying the amber liquid in his glass.

  “But you found Ms. Gilbert in the first coffin?”

  Shaw nodded glumly.

  “What made you open that one first?” Craig asked.

  The question seemed to confuse Shaw for a minute. “It seemed to be the best preserved.” He paused, staring up at Craig. “Actually, it was at an odd angle on the shelf. As if it had been moved. Oh...that was obviously because someone had been there! They’d put her body in it!”

  “Do you remember it being that way the day before?”

  “No! That must’ve been it. There was something different!” John Shaw said. “I didn’t realize it immediately. It was such a...subtle difference. The thing is, I thought I’d start with the best preserved, but so did—” He frowned at Craig. “It was definitely the best preserved. And someone else knew that, too. Her killer.”

  Jeannette had been dead at least a week, possibly two. But she’d been placed in that coffin in a forgotten crypt much more recently than that.

  The killer had learned about the historical find, and he’d made use of it for his own designs.

  “Excuse me,” Craig said abruptly. “I’ll be right back.”

  He wanted to see where Kieran was; it suddenly seemed important.

  She wasn’t at the bar. She wasn’t on the floor.

  He hurried down the hallway to the office, not bothering to knock.

  Kieran was there, and Craig let out a sigh of relief.

  But then he saw that she wasn’t alone. She was sitting there, on the sofa in front of the desk, talking earnestly with her twin brother, Kevin.

  They both looked up at him, startled—and their expressions could only be described as guilty.

  * * *

  Kieran jumped up, looking at Craig and then Kevin.

  “Hey,” she said, talking to her brother first. “You’ve got that audition—you better get going!”

  “Yep, right,” Kevin said, rising quickly. “Definitely. Craig, are you involved in the situation over at the old church? No one is supposed to know anything yet, but I think that everyone everywhere knows that the body of Jeannette Gilbert was found in an old coffin. I think someone tweeted it. So much for the ‘please keep silent’ request. I’m sorry. Sounds terrible. But, what is the FBI doing in on it?”

  “There’s a similarity to another murder, down in Virginia,” Craig said. “We may be looking at a serial killer.”

  “Oh?” Kevin said. “So...” His gaze fell on Kieran, and his voice sounded a little sick. “You’re going to be involved with the investigation?”

  Craig nodded. “Lead for the FBI.”

  “Better get going, Kevin,” Kieran said. “This is truly so horrible, but we all have to keep working.”

  “Yeah. I’ll see you all later tonight,” Kevin said, and headed out of the office.

  When he was gone, Kieran looked at Craig.

  “What was that all about?” he asked her.

  “That—what?” she asked.

  “I sometimes wonder how your brother manages to be an actor. He’s a horrible liar.”

  “What did he lie about?”

  “What are you lying about?”

  She arched her brows, wishing she’d met and fallen in love with an auto mechanic, a taxi driver—anyone but an FBI agent.

  “Since I haven’t said anything, I haven’t lied about anything, either!” she protested. He wouldn’t let it be, she thought. Hell, he was an investigator. It was what he did. But what could she say? Betray a confidence?

  “It’s about Kevin’s love life,” she said. There. That was the truth. “And I’m just not—Well, you know, you can’t talk to me sometimes and I can’t talk to you.”

  It was the semitruth, but he probably wouldn’t have let it go at that. Except that her cell phone started ringing and she pulled it from her jeans pocket. Caller ID quickly informed her that it was one of her two psychiatrist bosses, Dr. Fuller.

  “Hey,” she said, answering the phone gratefully. “Is everything all right? We did decide to close today, right?”

  “We did—until about an hour ago,” Dr. Fuller said, his tone regretful. “I was actually planning a day of tennis.”

  The man was very good at what he did; beyond being a gifted psychiatrist, he had an unbelievable wealth of knowledge in all things related to his field—his pharmaceutical awareness was nearly uncanny. He could
rattle off the names of dozens of drugs, what they did for what, and who should and shouldn’t take them with greater ease than most people could recite the alphabet. He could offer empathy that would crack the hardest core, and be staunch and unwavering when needed.

  He also looked bizarrely like a pinup underwear model and loved his wife and the game of tennis with absolute passion.

  “Oh?” Kieran said, looking over at Craig and wondering if he could or couldn’t hear her employer’s words as well, since he was standing so close to her.

  “We’ve gotten a call from Assistant Director Richard Egan—Craig’s boss,” Fuller said.

  “Oh?” she repeated, certain now from his wary expression that Craig could hear the conversation. But this was not unusual; her bosses were frequently called in as consultants by the NYPD, the FBI and other local law-enforcement agencies. As the doctors’ psychologist, Kieran often worked on evaluations for those perps in custody, and with the doctors on identifying the personality type of those still at large.

  “He wants us in on the old church murder. They’ll have someone up from Quantico, he told me, but, for the moment, he wants us in. I’m on my way, but I’m up in Connecticut. I was thinking you might go over—it’s right by Finnegan’s.”

  “I’m at the bar now.”

  “Can you go over right away? I’m not sure how long they’ll keep the body in situ, and I want our own photos, notes of everything you see. Can you go?”

  She glanced at Craig. He was wearing a very hard expression.

  “Of course,” Kieran said. “Special Agent Frasier is right in front of me. He’ll be happy to see that I’m accompanied over.”

  “Great. I’ll see you as soon as traffic allows,” Dr. Fuller said.

  Craig groaned aloud. “I don’t like this one,” he said softly. “I don’t like it at all. I really wish that you weren’t involved.”

  “Craig—”

  He lifted a hand to stop her. “I know. It’s what you do. I just wish that it wasn’t what you did on this particular case.”

  Because of Kevin, she’d wind up involved one way or the other. Better that she’d been asked to go in; better that she could see the victim and the surroundings before trying to understand the psyche of the person who could do such things.