A Perfect Obsession

by Heather Graham

  But she wasn’t due into work until Monday.

  That gave her Sunday to do a little investigating on her own.

  “What are you thinking?” Craig asked her.

  “Just pondering,” she murmured, fitting her key into the door.

  “Pondering what? Sounds dangerous,” he told her.

  Inside, she turned to him, slipping her arms around his neck. “Pondering how you keep that fantastic and entirely seductive bronze tan going when we live in New York and I’ve yet to see you at a tanning salon. Pondering how you manage to have the coolest kneecaps this side of the Mississippi. Pondering the length of your fingers, and the soap you use and—”

  “Kneecaps?” he asked.

  “Kneecaps,” she said solemnly.

  He started to laugh.

  “You are giving me such a pile of...rubbish, shall we say? Man, you are trying hard to suck up for lying to me.”

  “I didn’t lie. And I’m not sucking up.”

  “It’s okay. I think you should suck up.”

  She smiled. “I’m doing all right at it, then?”

  “Sure. Keep going.”

  “Toes! You have really fantastic toes. And you’re rugged, sensual, incredibly proportioned...”

  “Really excellent suck-up,” he told her.

  Her gaze turned serious then. “I’m pondering what it is about a specific person that is so incredible that you can’t bear being away from him, why his flesh is so amazing, why his touch is so erotic, why—”

  She kissed him.

  The kiss deepened. As they kissed, lips locked together warmly, they moved inside.

  In the bedroom, he managed to remove his Glock and set it on the nightstand, never breaking the kiss.

  They began to shed their clothing, trying to rid themselves of shirts and shoes and aid the other at the same time. Their clothing wound up tangled around them, then they strewed some in a pile on the floor.

  They’d never really fought so it wasn’t exactly make-up sex, but it was incredible sex.

  She lay next to him, touched him, felt his touch. Felt his lips. Felt liquid kisses and softness and hardness, tenderness and passion. And, running her fingers down his torso and over his abdomen and below, she wondered if it could always be like this, if she could want him so desperately, love him so much, feel such a climax each time they made love.

  Later, as they lay curled together and she was almost sleeping, he rolled over and came up on an elbow to speak with her.

  “This one makes me really nervous,” he told her.

  “I saw her in that coffin,” Kieran said. “I understand.”

  “You—”

  She stopped him with a finger to his lips. “I’ll be careful. Really careful. I promise. I won’t be alone.”

  He fell silent, holding her.

  And she meant to be careful. But the question of where Jeannette Gilbert might have lain right after she’d been killed was troubling her, and she needed to know more, so much more.

  She’d keep her word. She wouldn’t be alone.

  But she did have brothers. Declan would be at the pub. Kevin would be at the church, working with the choral group. Danny was a fantastic tour director, and he probably had tours scheduled. But tomorrow was Sunday. Sunday was a great day to go to church and then explore the city.

  And she knew she could make Danny accommodate her schedule.

  * * *

  Craig’s first order of business when he arrived at his office that Sunday morning was to follow through with every agency and find out if the police, the FBI or any of the informed law-enforcement agencies had discovered anything new regarding Sadie Miller.

  They had not.

  Sadie had walked out the door to Finnegan’s pub on Broadway and somehow walked into thin air, or so it seemed at the moment.

  That meant, Craig figured, that she’d walked out and—assuming she’d been taken by this individual—she’d walked right into the arms of her abductor.

  Detective McBride sounded down when Craig spoke to him. “I’ve had every patrolman in the city on the lookout. I’ve talked with Jersey. I’ve talked with counterparts upstate and into Connecticut. Everyone is looking for her.”

  “I’ll okay it with my director,” Craig told McBride, “and then I think we’ll get her picture out there on the news. You never know—someone might have seen her and we just haven’t hit that right someone yet. The longer she’s gone...”

  “Yeah. The bleaker it gets,” McBride agreed. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “Yeah,” Craig said, and hung up. McBride would be in when they interviewed Kevin.

  Mike tapped on his door and told him that they’d brought in Leo Holt, the fashion photographer.

  “How is he?” Craig asked him.

  Mike shrugged. “Amiable. And smart. He knows he’s not under arrest, and he has nothing against talking to us.”

  “What kind of a vibe are you getting?”

  Mike shrugged. “I don’t see this guy is the violent type. A little on the oily side, but he’s solid and not the kind who would have to troll for dates. Does he sleep with a lot of models? Probably. Would he kill? I don’t think so, but, hell, I’ve been fooled before.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk. You watch?”

  “It’s a plan,” Mike said. “Down the hall. He’s got coffee. We’re keeping it casual.” He hesitated, clearing his throat. “Kevin is coming in about noon?”

  Craig nodded. He’d already talked to both Richard Egan and Mike as well as Larry McBride about his conversation with Kieran’s brother. They were all eager to hear what Kevin had to say.

  Neither Mike nor Richard Egan had reacted much.

  “Couldn’t see it myself, so, I’m not surprised,” Egan said. “I mean, a woman like Jeannette Gilbert with Westwood, even if he did have his heyday. And Kieran’s brother, well, he is a decent guy with looks to kill. Bad way to put it, I guess. But I just don’t see that, either. McBride might feel differently. We’ll see during the interview. Wish he’d come in sooner. He could give us something.”

  “I wonder if he was as shocked by Westwood’s press conference as the rest of us,” Craig said.

  “Could be.”

  Kevin’s interview was to come. For the moment, the concentration was going in a different direction.

  Leo Holt, Craig decided, had just the right look for his chosen profession.

  He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, lean and wiry, with a nicely sculpted face with clean, sharp features. He might have been cast as a Renaissance poet or a French aristocrat, and he was probably perfect in the New York fashion world.

  He sat in one of the interrogation rooms, fully aware that he’d been asked in because he was a suspect, or person of interest. But he appeared to be fine with the proceedings.

  “I knew I’d be called in,” he told Craig, his long fingers idly drumming the table. “I worked with Jeannette frequently. And, yes, we had a thing a few weeks back. She came in looking like holy hell, hadn’t slept the night before. I knew she was seeing someone. She was young and beautiful. She should have been seeing someone. I was happy for her because she seemed to be so happy. She was dating an actor—I knew that. Didn’t know it was that Brent Westwood, and I surely don’t see it! I mean, nothing wrong with the guy and older actors date younger women all the time. Guess they need it for their egos because that’s the thing with modeling or being an actor—there’s always a younger, more beautiful face, stronger, more perfect body, in the offing. But, in this instance, I still can’t see how Jeannette could have been so crazy about him. I mean, her eyes would glow when she talked about the guy she was secretly dating.”

  He shrugged and switched gears, back to the row in question. “Anyway, yeah, I yelled at her that day.
Yeah, she yelled back. And in the end, I made her promise that when she was working with me, whatever her schedule, she’d get sleep the night before. It shows. I mean, makeup is great. And hell, yeah, there’s no model out there who isn’t Photoshopped to some degree. When you take beauty and just improve it, well...you have improved beauty. I wish there was something that I could tell you. I honestly do.”

  “Your building is just a block down from hers,” Craig said. “You never saw her coming or going? You never saw her with Brent Westwood—or anyone else?”

  Holt glared at him. “Have you missed something? This is New York City. A million people pass you by every day.”

  “Yeah, but you usually notice the ones you know.”

  “I never saw her with a guy. I mean, yes, we were friends. I did a lot of work with her. She was my favorite model to shoot. But you got to remember—we worked for other people. I could ask for her when I thought she’d be perfect, but a lot of clothing and makeup lines have a specific model in mind, often a young, beautiful actress.”

  He fell silent, frowning. Then he shrugged.

  “What?” Craig asked.

  “I was just thinking. Jeannette knew she wasn’t much of an actress. She said that her mystery man—and that’s what she called him, by the way, her mystery man—was helping her. That he was good, and he understood all kinds of techniques and that she felt she was already on the way to being a better actress as well as model. She wanted to become a real actress. Not a movie star or a persona, but an actress. Jeannette was never a fool. She knew that beauty faded with age. And she wanted to stay on top.” He paused a moment. Then he shook his head. “I was just thinking... Funny, because I never really thought of Westwood as being a good actor. I mean, he’s good at action stuff, but he’s not really an actor, if you know what I mean.”

  Craig nodded.

  “And it wasn’t just acting,” Holt said. “She wanted the world. Not in the material sense, though she liked having money. Never had it as a kid. She was pleased at what she made, all right. But she felt that she lost out on more than money. She wanted to know things. She wanted to know about the world. Every time she traveled, she told me that she wished she knew more about people and places and things, what made people different, how they saw the world and felt about everything. Not just to become a better actress, but to become a better person. She was bright.” He fell silent again. “She was an amazing person, like a star—and she should have shined brightly so many more years.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Holt, have you had work in Virginia recently?”

  “Virginia? Yes, and Jeannette Gilbert was on that shoot. What does the state of Virginia have to do with any of this?” he asked.

  “There was a shoot down there, right? Whereabouts were you?”

  “Fredericksburg. We were shooting at one of the battlefields there for Misty Mystique. It’s a perfume. It was one of those things where the ghosts rose up to follow the woman, she was so sensual. Jeannette was beautiful, not just in a still. When she walked with that little smile of hers, she probably could have woken the dead.” He fell silent for a moment. “And now she is dead,” he said softly, shaking his head.

  “And when was that shoot?”

  “Six, seven weeks ago? I can have my assistant check the calendar and call you,” Holt said.

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Holt leaned forward. “I can’t tell you how many people weren’t just horrified because of the sensationalism. Jeannette was the real deal. She’d been through hell and still came out of it as a sweet girl. If I can do anything, I really will.”

  “Thank you. We’ll be in touch,” Craig said.

  Holt nodded grimly and rose to leave. Craig rose with him. He met with Mike behind the glass, from where he’d been watching. Egan was there, too.

  “Readily admits he was in Virginia,” Egan noted.

  “I don’t think that would be enough for a conviction,” Mike murmured.

  “Wiseass,” Egan said, shooting him a look. Then he turned back to Craig. “Let’s grab some coffee, and then you can tell me everything you know and everything you think. And, yes, after we talk to Kevin Finnegan today, I’ll arrange for a press conference. We need to get Sadie Miller’s face out there, and we need other young women in the city to be on the lookout. In fact, we need to make sure it all goes national.”

  “Yes, sir,” Craig said.

  He headed down to the conference room where he had his board with facts and faces set up, and as he stared at it, he found himself worried again.

  Perfect. The women were perfect.

  And, in his mind, there was another woman who was certainly perfect, too.

  Kieran.

  He dialed her number. He was almost surprised when she answered in a whisper.

  “Kieran? You okay? Where are you?”

  “Church,” she told him.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m with Danny. I’ll be with him, and I’ll be at the pub. And...”

  “And?”

  “Take care of Kevin for me when he’s in, okay?”

  “Will do,” he said.

  He hung up.

  And he turned to stare at his board.

  As he did so, he hoped that all those who studied the human mind were right, that they could let go of the blowhards and braggarts and assholes.

  Because this killer wouldn’t have such a manner. He’d be finicky and refined.

  That’s what Dr. Fuller thought; that’s what Kieran believed, as well.

  And still, they needed to narrow down the field.

  He started to scratch out notes to himself.

  Refined.

  Not step-uncle. Not crazy mugger off the street. Someone smart and savvy, respectable, with something to offer that lured the women in.

  That could well be Leo Holt. Or Roger Gleason, billionaire owner of the club where Jeannette had been found. Or...

  A man of science? John Shaw, Aldous Digby, Henry Willoughby, one of the students?

  As he pondered the question, Egan walked into the room.

  “Kevin is here early. Let’s head straight to the conference room. McBride is already on his way.”

  * * *

  As long as she could remember, Kieran had loved Trinity Church, and, down the street, Saint Paul’s Chapel. There was something that spoke so keenly of history at both of them, down to the near past when Saint Paul’s had been covered in the wreckage and soot of the Twin Towers after 9/11.

  She coerced Danny into attending services at Trinity. They’d been brought up Roman Catholic, but Kieran had always loved her father’s view on religion: “It’s mostly all good stuff. It’s what men do with religions that can be very, very bad.”

  She felt perfectly comfortable attending the service, and the music was beautiful.

  It wasn’t until after that Danny demanded to know why they’d gone to church at Trinity.

  “Well, it’s old,” Kieran said.

  They stood outside, in the old graveyard.

  Danny looked at her suspiciously. “Um, yes. The original Trinity Church—circa 1698—was destroyed in the Great New York City fire of 1776. It was a major blaze that swept across the city, destroying about five hundred buildings. But, with the British coming in to occupy the city after a few Continental losses, much of the congregation headed north—in the footsteps of Washington, who had fled to save what he had left of a ragtag army. Head up to Saint Paul’s Chapel, of course, and you can see right where Washington worshipped!”

  “Yeah, I know that much,” Kieran said.

  Danny grinned. “In 1788, construction began on a new Trinity, consecrated in 1790, but snows weakened what was, I assume, not the best construction. The church standing here now was begun in 183
9 and finished in 1846.” He pointed north and continued, “Saint Paul’s Chapel—just up the street—was built in 1766 to accommodate the Episcopal congregation living north of what was the main city at the time, and it still contains something like eight hundred gravestones and thirty or so vaults in the graveyard and under the chapel. Alexander Hamilton is buried at Trinity. The famed actor George Frederick Cooke is buried in the Saint Paul’s Chapel graveyard. There’s a story out there that George Cooke’s skull was stolen from his grave and used by Edwin Booth during his production of Hamlet. Whether that’s true or not, no one really knows, and I don’t believe that the city or the powers that be at Trinity will allow anyone to go digging to find out if the skull is indeed in the grave or not.”

  “Creepy,” Kieran said.

  “Seems like things are only creepy when we know about them. Every day people walk over graves they know nothing about.”

  “True.” Kieran nodded. “Tell me more.”

  “Happy to oblige!” Danny told her. He was just her junior by a year, and, as the youngest, he’d had a habit of getting into the most trouble. But Danny had found his calling as a tour guide. He loved stories—so much the better when those stories were the truth.

  Kieran remembered a trip to Ireland when they’d all kissed the Blarney Stone. Seemed Danny had taken the gift of gab to heart.

  “So,” he continued, “in the early 1800s, laws were passed that forbade burials south of Canal Street. And, with everyone running out of space, the dead had to be buried up and away, so Trinity Cemetery was designed up in Washington Heights. Good thing, you know. Yellow fever, typhoid, cholera—best to get the bodies away.”

  “So, there’s a graveyard here at Trinity, a graveyard at Saint Paul’s and another graveyard up at Washington Heights...”

  “Ah, yes. And there was Old Saint John’s Burial Ground, which is now James J. Walker Park, between Leroy, Hudson and Clarkson streets. Only one stone remains—a memorial to firefighters from about a hundred and fifty years ago. Anyway, the stones themselves were pretty much buried, and very few of the dead were reinterred.”