A Perfect Obsession

by Heather Graham

  The bold and the beautiful of the city were out en masse.

  Many were posing for the famed photographer Leo Holt.

  And then, of course, there were the nerds. Gleason had graciously provided for those working most closely on the crypt to come. Willoughby, of course, looked fine. He was accustomed to public appearances.

  Digby kept working at his tie.

  John Shaw was gaping.

  The grad students were enjoying the open bar.

  “I feel great that we found Sadie,” Craig said. “But I still don’t like it. I don’t like tonight. I have an uncomfortable feeling about something very bad that we’re missing.”

  “Egan headed out to find a judge after Gleason left,” Mike reminded him. “There will be a thorough search of this place and his home.”

  “The killer doesn’t work in his home, Mike. He works underground somewhere. Another old crypt, a deserted subway platform, hell, I don’t know where. But not in his home.”

  “He’d still have to have some kind of blood-soaked clothing, something on a pair of shoes or boots... Craig, there’s always something. And...”

  “And what?”

  “It might not be Gleason. He has the property, the access, the everything, but it may not be Gleason. And I don’t think you believe that Gleason is the killer.”

  Craig hesitated, looking at his partner. “Everything does point to him,” he said.

  But Mike was right. Craig wasn’t convinced. Smooth, suave—slimy—Gleason still had an amazing business prowess that seemed to be formed on blunt honesty. He wasn’t a nice guy; he seemed to be a this-is-what-it-is guy. He hadn’t closed the club to honor the ages or Jeannette Gilbert. He hadn’t even closed it to appease the police. He had done it because if he didn’t, he’d be condemned in the media. Bad for business.

  Being seen as perfectly cooperative and helpful in a murder investigation was a good thing. Reopening—with care taken that a historical find was safeguarded—made him look great in the media, too.

  He was smart.

  “Hey! Wow!”

  Mike nudged Craig, and he turned and looked to the door. Kieran had just arrived with Dr. Fuller—and another man.

  Kevin was at her side, in a tux, looking like the hero from an action flick.

  Dr. Fuller, of course, looked like he’d walked off a magazine page.

  But they paled in comparison to Kieran in a little black dress.

  It might not have come from Chic-er-elli, but it looked like a million bucks. No, she looked like a million bucks. The sleeveless dress fell just short of her knees and hugged every curve. Her hair fell around her shoulders in a rich auburn wave; the color was picked up by the lights in the club and seemed to shimmer like dancing fire.

  Craig wasn’t surprised when he saw a surge toward the Gothic entry of the club, photographers, all snapping away, thinking they were catching unknown performing sensations.

  “You are one lucky guy,” Mike said. “You should take care not to forget it.”

  “I don’t forget it.”

  “Not that you’re chopped liver yourself,” Mike told him.

  Craig grinned. “It’s all right. You don’t need to wax so eloquently for my ego,” he assured his partner.

  “Want to go say hi?” Mike asked him. “Maybe show people she’s really with you?”

  “No. I want to watch who else wants to go say hi,” Craig told him. He realized that his level of tension had grown since Kieran had walked in.

  But why? He was right here.

  She had come in with her employer, a man Craig knew well and trusted, and her brother, a man who would die before he let anything happen to her.

  But the level of tension he felt rose even higher when he saw Roger Gleason head toward the door to greet the beautiful—perfect—trio.

  * * *

  The place was actually dazzling. Kieran was delighted that she’d called Gleason to ask him if Kevin might accompany them. This was the kind of event that Kevin needed to attend. All kinds of “the right” people for an actor to meet were here tonight. Not that Kieran knew who they were, but Kevin would.

  Except that he seemed as stiff as a board when they entered.

  Because, she realized now, that there was no way Jeannette Gilbert would not be a topic of conversation tonight. And while the police and the FBI had chosen to let the lie that Brent Westwood had told stand as far as the public went, both the older actor and Kevin knew the truth themselves. And, she noted, Brent Westwood was in attendance, holding court with a number of people over at the bar.

  Roger Gleason arrived at the door to greet them.

  She was glad to see that he was especially cordial to Kevin, assuring him that he was more than welcome and that he should have been on an invite list with everyone from Finnegan’s.

  “Everyone at that pub has been great to me and the crew of folks who has been working here,” he said. Then Gleason looked at Dr. Fuller anxiously. “Will you...know a type? Know who the killer might be if you run into him here?”

  Gleason, Kieran realized, was serious, tense and anxious.

  Because circumstantial evidence had suggested that he was the killer?

  Or...because he was the killer?

  “Mr. Gleason, if only it were that easy,” Dr. Fuller said. “Sometimes, people do give themselves away in conversation. Sometimes, a killer has to gloat—or say something. Then again, sir, is there a reason you suspect that the killer might be here tonight?”

  “The killer knows me and knows this club,” Gleason said, his tone gruff. “And he’s managed to put this at my door. Yeah, I think he’s here tonight. Come on, please, come up to the bar. Let me introduce you to a few people.”

  Kieran looked around as they headed to the bar. She saw a popular fashion designer holding court in one little area, a rising politician in another. Stars of stage and screen seemed to have gathered at the bar.

  Naturally, she looked for Craig and Mike.

  And they were there.

  They were standing at the far end of the main bar, near the entrance to the steps to the crypt. Just when she caught Craig’s eye, a giggling young blonde woman tripped into him. Craig steadied her, giving her his attention. He looked up at Kieran then, and she loved the expression in his eyes. He just wasn’t a flirt. The expression looked a lot more like, “Help!”

  He was an FBI agent. He’d have to manage on his own. She smiled and shrugged, and he shook his head and then listened to whatever the young woman was saying.

  Roger Gleason was introducing Kevin to a producer at the bar. Dr. Fuller had engaged in conversation with Leo Holt, who was telling them that he—like Kieran—had missed great professions as models. Kieran told him that he was sweet as she kept looking around.

  When she saw the huddle of academics in the corner—rejoined by the grad students, all holding drinks in elegant glasses—she smiled and walked over to greet them.

  “Professor Digby, John! Joshua, Sam, Allie—hey! And Mr. Willoughby, nice to see you.”

  “You, too, dear,” John Shaw said. He shook his head. “This is amazing.”

  “So odd to be here when it’s like this,” Willoughby said. “I mean, not that I haven’t attended a black-tie affair here and there, but...this! This is something.”

  “So cool,” Joshua said.

  “Free booze,” Sam agreed.

  “They’re such children. Can’t take them anywhere,” Allie added.

  “Hey, it is a glittering night of celebrities,” Kieran said. “But I see, John, that you keep looking toward the stairs. I’m sure they have tons of security, and that the crypt is safe. Not to mention the two FBI agents hovering near the stairs.”

  “I suppose it’s like having a child—no one can look over a find quite the
way you can yourself,” John told her. “But I am enjoying myself—among the living. I am. I really am.”

  “Of course, he’s really much more of an extrovert among the mummies and all,” Digby teased, and laughed at his own joke.

  “Digby! You should talk!” John Shaw said.

  “I never claimed to be comfortable among living people,” Digby said, a bit indignant now that the tables had been turned.

  “Well, my friends, if you look around, I’m sure the dead are, in truth, far more interesting than some of the poster-people attending tonight,” Willoughby said. “That new designer queen...Tatia, or whatever she goes by. The woman has hardly moved. She’s kept her expression as bland as a pancake. And that petite little model over there—she hasn’t even spoken. All she does is pose. So, perhaps, the dead are not so bad, eh?” He turned to Allie Benoit and smiled.

  “Let me think,” Allie said. “Nope. Excuse me. I’m going to go find someone among the living to speak with tonight.”

  “I guess we should split up and mingle,” John murmured. “I mean, we do spend way too many hours together.”

  “I’m out of here,” Allie said. “Hey, want to join me?” she asked Kieran. “Never mind—I forgot. You’re with ruggedly handsome and deadly serious over there. Okay, I’m off on my own to flirt with the rich and famous!”

  “Maybe one of us can make the little model smile,” Joshua suggested to Sam.

  “I should join you,” John Shaw said.

  “No offense, sir, but we won’t get anywhere if she thinks we’re dragging our grandpa along,” Joshua told him. He smiled at Kieran and hurried off, followed closely by Sam.

  “Hey, Kieran, you don’t have to stand here with a trio of old-timers,” John Shaw said. “I think we’ve been appropriately put in our places.”

  “Among the dead!” Digby said, and sighed. “Almost old enough,” he added cheerfully.

  “Speak for yourself,” John Shaw told him.

  Willoughby wasn’t smiling. He was looking toward the stairs to the crypt below.

  Two young women scantily clad in tuxedo-like uniforms with fishnet stockings had just gone running down them.

  “Mr. Willoughby, I’m sure that the site is protected. The bartenders and other employees have to go down to the storage area for supplies,” Kieran told him.

  He gave her a weak smile. “Somehow, it doesn’t seem right, does it? I mean boxes of booze where bodies used to lie.”

  “Well,” Shaw said, testing his sense of humor again, “there were spirits—and now there are spirits!”

  He was so pleased with his joke. Kieran smiled, as well.

  “I can’t take it. I just really can’t take it,” Willoughby said. He started around the corner of the bar.

  “Mr. Willoughby?” Kieran said, following him.

  Though Craig and Mike had been standing by the stairs, they were apparently mingling elsewhere now.

  However, a security officer was there.

  “No one goes down unless you’re an employee,” he said sternly.

  “I’m Henry Willoughby! I’m in charge of the historic area,” Willoughby said, speaking with authority. “Let me pass, sir. I intend to see that history is preserved against this onslaught of elite partiers!”

  The guard stepped aside. Kieran followed Willoughby down the marble stairs.

  One of the pretty tuxedo-clad women was just coming up with a bottle of rum. She stopped and looked at them. “Oh, Mr. Willoughby!” she said. She gave a serious shudder. “Checking up on things? I don’t see how you do it—all those decaying old corpses! I can’t stand being down there!”

  “No one should be down there,” Willoughby said. He was distracted. Kieran gave the server a sympathetic smile and kept walking downstairs with Willoughby.

  The second young tuxedo-clad woman passed them on the stairs as she came back up, as well. She caught Kieran’s eye and shuddered slightly.

  “Mr. Willoughby,” Kieran said. “They’re just working.”

  “Gleason is rich enough,” Willoughby said. “He could have kept the club closed a little longer. It’s not even a full week since they found Jeannette Gilbert.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs. To the right, as always, the shelves of wine and beer and alcohol remained. To the left, another security guard stood by the area of the broken-down wall—and all the graves beyond.

  “No one allowed down here, sir,” the security guard said.

  “I’m Henry Willoughby—entrusted by the City of New York to see that this area stays safe!”

  “I’m watching it, sir,” the guard said.

  But, just after he spoke, a strange rustling sound came from the far reaches of the crypt.

  “Sir!” Willoughby said, indignant. “What, did a horny guy bribe you, you idiot, to get back there with a girl? Some people!”

  “No one went back there,” the guard protested.

  “There’s something going on,” Willoughby announced, heading into the area filled with the old tombs.

  “Sir, if it’s dangerous...” the guard protested.

  Kieran quickly read his name tag. “Mr. Gillian, please—there are a pair of FBI agents upstairs. Frasier and Dalton. Please find them, get them down here.”

  He nodded to her and hurried for the stairs.

  Willoughby was already gone. Kieran hurried after him.

  She passed by the first row; most of the bodies here were in coffins. As she came toward the back, she called out to him. “Mr. Willoughby?”

  There was no reply. The crypt seemed eerily silent; if she listened carefully, she could detect the music from above as if it were far, far away, barely a hint of sound.

  She couldn’t hear Willoughby; he didn’t answer her.

  Kieran looked at the row of tombs and sarcophagi in the middle between the first and second rows of catacomb shelving. Nothing.

  She started down the second row of tombs.

  There were no marble slabs—broken or intact—on the second row of bodies. Shrouds covered them, some as if melted into the bodies, some disintegrating so badly that skulls—disarticulated from the rest of the form—seemed to be staring at her.

  Bony fingers protruded from one, almost as if they reached out in an attempt to help the body crawl from the slab on which it lay.

  The lighting—focused near the broken wall—paled here.

  And Kieran realized she was afraid.

  She heard someone moving along the next aisle of bodies.

  “Mr. Willoughby?”

  There was no answer.

  She froze dead where she was.

  Someone was down there. Someone who was now trying to move around the other row and come toward her. There was an eerie menace to the slow, careful sound of the steps.

  Kieran took a breath and started to run.

  She heard her pursuer give up the attempt at silence and rush into her wake.

  * * *

  Craig was startled when he saw the security officer looking through the crowd, apparently anxious to get to him.

  The flirtatious blonde woman—who had known them for agents—had first tried to get Craig and Mike to take her downstairs. Everyone wanted to see the old crypt.

  He’d firmly refused, but she’d continued to talk, telling him that she was being managed by Oswald Martin and would love it—love, love, love, it!—if they’d go over with her to where Oswald Martin was speaking with Leo Holt. She felt awkward going over alone, but with two handsome men at her side, well, it would just be great!

  Martin had had an answer for everything Craig had thrown at him, and in his own way, he had cared about Jeannette Gilbert, Craig thought. But Leo Holt was with him, and Craig relished another chance to talk to the photographer.

 
But they had barely started a conversation—with the girl saying how she’d love, love, love a nice shot with two special agents—when Craig saw the officer and excused himself. Naturally, Mike followed.

  “Mr. Willoughby heard something down in the crypt and took off. He was there with a young woman who asked that I get you. Now, I don’t know what he could have heard. I was at that wall all night. I looked away for about two seconds when one of the girls working this thing needed help with a box. There’s been a guy at the stairs...but there are people everywhere!” The guard looked aggravated—and guilty.

  Craig wondered how much time he might have spent helping one of the beauties in the scanty tuxedo costumes.

  But there was no time for recrimination.

  He headed for the stairs and hurried down them.

  As he did so, all the lights in the place suddenly went out.

  Upstairs, auxiliary lighting came on amid the startled cries of those present and the whine of the band’s instruments.

  Down in the crypts...

  It was pitch-black.

  * * *

  It had been dim before; now Kieran could see nothing at all.

  The eerie silence seemed to envelope her; the musty smell of the long dead wrapped around her.

  It wasn’t the dead she need fear.

  Someone was following her.

  She needed to get back to the entrance to the forgotten crypt. If the lights were out, she was certain they were out on purpose.

  She thought she heard someone speaking; she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It was soft—so soft. But then she began to recognize the words.

  “‘Thou art not conquer’d...Kieran.’”

  Softly spoken, her name, so softly said. She had to wonder if she’d really heard it.

  She barely dared draw in a breath. Had she imagined it?

  She wasn’t imagining the whispering. There was no doubt about the soft, raspy voice.

  “‘Beauty’s ensign yet is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks...’”