A Perfect Obsession--A Novel of Romantic Suspense

by Heather Graham

  “Almost a year. Just made it back about a month ago,” Digby told them. “The university was wonderful about it, but then, of course, the prestige of having a professor involved in such a find is quite something in the academic field—not to mention, of course, what I’ll publish when the results are in.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Mike said, trying to keep the enthusiasm in his voice.

  And of course they were all thinking the same thing: they’d verify what Digby was telling them, but if he’d been in Paris for a year, it was hardly likely that he’d hopped back to kill a girl in Virginia.

  “You mentioned something about the floor to me when we were talking before,” Craig told him. “That it was too clean, that it didn’t seem to have the film on it that very old things usually seemed to have.”

  “Yes, I did say that. I don’t know how to explain it... Maybe it’s just an older man’s mind on a place he doesn’t much like.” He shrugged and offered them another crooked smile. “Maybe a Victorian maid was down there at some point!”

  He laughed at his own joke.

  They all laughed with him.

  They thanked him for coming, and he was escorted out.

  “Well, one down, at least,” McBride said. He looked over at Craig and Mike.

  Craig leaned forward and hit the intercom, asking that Dr. Anthony Andrews be called. Soon, the ME’s voice came over the speaker system.

  “What did you find? Any ID on the body yet?” Craig asked.

  “Not yet. She wasn’t in any fingerprint system. We’re looking at dental charts now.”

  “What did you find about cause of death?”

  “Same situation, gentlemen. A quick stab to the heart. She was killed elsewhere, cleaned up, dressed up and laid out.”

  “How the bloody hell does someone walk down a city street and get a body down into an unknown crypt without being seen?” McBride muttered.

  “Downtown can be quiet,” Mike said. “Especially in the dead of night. You know that thing about New York City never sleeping? Not true—it’s actually not easy to find an all-night diner.”

  “There’s one near Penn Station and one near Lexington,” McBride offered in response to Mike’s remark. Then he went back to what he was saying. “What was I thinking? Hell, there’s a shoot-out in the street in broad daylight and no one sees a damned thing. Why was I expecting someone to notice a guy walking around with a corpse?”

  Craig brought the conversation back to the point of his call to the ME. “Dr. Andrews, how long had she been down there? When did she die?”

  “Four years, gentlemen, give or take a few months. From what you’ve told me, our young lady in Jersey was killed about five years ago. You have a woman who died in Virginia six months ago...and now Ms. Gilbert. And now a missing woman.”

  “He’s speeding up,” Craig said, and he stood restlessly. “We have to find this guy. We have to find him and stop him.”

  “If he’s speeding up, he’ll make a mistake. He’ll make a mistake, and we’ll get him,” Mike said.

  “Yes, I believe we will, but...how many will die first?” Craig asked.

  Mike didn’t answer.

  There was a tap at the door. Craig glanced over to see that one of their new young associates was hovering there.

  He had brought Brent Westwood in.

  “Mr. Westwood,” Craig said, ushering him into the room.

  “I came in right away. I told you about Jeannette. I told you about working on a movie when she disappeared. I—I don’t have anything else to say,” the actor told them.

  When they’d first met him, he’d been full of emotion and bravado. Now he looked uncomfortable.

  “Sit down, Mr. Westwood. We have reason to believe that you lied to us,” Craig said.

  “Yes, sit,” Mike told him, and smiled.

  Westwood looked flushed—and guilty. “I told you about the movie. You can check with the director. I was upstate—with no chance of coming back down here. I loved Jeannette—”

  “But Jeannette didn’t love you,” Craig said.

  “What? She—she did! How could you know Jeannette’s feelings? I’m telling you—”

  “Do you know, Mr. Westwood, your lie could lead us to prosecuting you for hindering an investigation?” Mike asked.

  “She did care about me!” Westwood protested.

  “No. You weren’t the man she was referring to when she spoke about her mystery lover,” Mike said.

  “How dare you!” Westwood blustered.

  “I say we arrest him now,” Craig said.

  “Arrest me!”

  “He could tell the truth,” Mike said.

  “You can’t know her feelings—” Westwood began.

  “You never slept with her,” Craig said quietly.

  Westwood’s mouth worked; his eyes flicked to the side. He didn’t know what they knew—and didn’t know what science might have told them. Of course, they had no way of knowing if Westwood had ever had intimate relations with Jeannette Gilbert. But Westwood apparently didn’t know that.

  “Our relationship was far higher than such graphic intimacy. You don’t understand. We talked. I didn’t take advantage of her—”

  “And you weren’t her mystery lover,” Craig said. “She was a young woman, Westwood. When she was truly in love with someone, it meant physical love for her, as well.”

  “You didn’t know her!” Westwood said.

  “Ah, but we know people who did. People who knew her very well.”

  Westwood looked away again. “There might have been someone else in her life.”

  “I’m going to get some coffee, Mr. Westwood,” Craig said. “Would you like some?” He smiled. “You’re going to be here for a while.”

  * * *

  Kieran had worked through the lunch hour and was just perusing the take-out menus they kept in the office when she was startled by a buzz on her intercom from their receptionist and bookkeeper.

  “You have a visitor.”

  “Who is it? Send him on back.”

  “He’s already on his way. It’s your brother.”

  She looked up. Danny was in the doorway. He walked in and plopped down in the chair in front of her desk.

  “Hey, sis. We can go and eat real food, you know,” he said, glancing at the menus.

  “You came to eat lunch with me?” she asked him.

  “I just finished with a tour,” he told her. “I was kind of in the neighborhood. Well, not really. But you got me thinking.”

  “How nice.”

  He grinned at her. “About old graveyards and the forgotten dead in the city.”

  “I see.”

  Kieran arched a brow at him. She’d kind of promised Craig that she wouldn’t go prowling around graveyards and crypts anymore.

  But there was still a missing woman out there.

  She leaned toward her brother. “Okay, so...”

  “I know of a few other places.”

  “And we can tell Craig about them.”

  “Yes, we could. Meanwhile, I’m feeling the need for a beer. A dark beer.”

  “We carry plenty at Finnegan’s.”

  “Yeah, well, I was thinking of a subway jaunt down to the East Village. McSorley’s.”

  McSorley’s Old Ale House had a claim to being the oldest Irish tavern in New York. None of the Finnegans had ever decided to contest that fact, more because they had always operated as a true pub—with an extensive food menu. McSorley’s had also had the motto “Good ale, raw onions and no ladies!” until a 1970 ruling decided the “no ladies” part had to go. While Kieran knew there had been years when there had been “the ladies room” at Finnegan’s, they’d always been a more family-oriented institution.
/>   She loved McSorley’s; it was one of the few remnants of Civil War–era New York still in business.

  “Okay, so what’s in the East Village, Danny?” she asked, wise to her brother.

  “Just come to lunch with me,” Danny said, and grinned. “That way, we’re both innocent!”

  Kieran rose, sliding the menus into her desk. “Let’s go.”

  They hopped the subway and headed to the East Village. As Danny quickly led the way, Kieran hurried to follow after him.

  “Where are you really taking me?” she asked him. “The Marble Cemeteries are both down here, I know, but—”

  “Lunch, Kieran, lunch! I’m starving!” Danny said.

  True to his word, Danny took her to McSorley’s. He got a dark beer; Kieran opted for water. He chose the hash and she opted for the cheese plate—just cheese and a packet of crackers along with onions.

  Onions came with just about everything at McSorley’s.

  The place was a dive bar, and nothing had been taken from the walls since the early twentieth century. There was a pair of Houdini’s handcuffs at the bar. Kieran had liked to come with friends and imagine those who had come before—soldiers heading off to wars, early businessmen deliberating deals and the advent of the 1970s and the first women to grace the tables.

  “This is real New York!” Danny said. “You know that Poe lived and worked here, right?”

  “Yes, Danny.”

  “Well, he had a bit of a rivalry going with a poor fellow who was only published in any major way long after he was dead, back in the 1950s. Typical story. Great writer named Dirk Der Vere. Old Dutch, I’m guessing. Anyway, the fellow wrote tragic, haunting tales, but he was a major laudanum freak and alcoholic. Fought with every publisher everywhere—and so most of his work wound up in family chests that only came to light in the last century.”

  “Sad, very sad. And?” Kieran asked.

  “His family was wealthy, which, I supposed, led to the man’s ability to wallow in his addictions. Anyway, he died young.”

  “Again, very sad.”

  “He died about two blocks from here, and there’s a tiny graveyard that’s about a four-by-ten sliver of dead grass at the back side of the house.”

  “And you want to trespass?”

  “You can see it from the street.”

  “We’re going to see a gravestone from the street?”

  Danny shrugged. “I thought I should get you out of the office. And I did want to come to McSorley’s—and I didn’t want to come alone.”

  “Okay.” Kieran fell silent. She knew that Danny had finally realized that he was actually in love with her oldest friend—and family friend—Julie Benton. But Julie had gone through a horrible divorce, not to mention a part in the diamonds heists a ways back, and had taken off to spend time with her family in Maine. Danny was not the kind of man to look elsewhere when his heart was in Maine. Kieran wasn’t sure that he’d admitted his feelings to himself, and she was sure he’d never said anything to Julie.

  But that did leave his big sister as his best possible companion. So she went along with him.

  “Funny, really,” Kieran said.

  “What’s that?”

  “One of our patients who was just in the office said she went on a ghost tour down here and loved it—but scared herself into hearing things.”

  “Easy to do. I wouldn’t mind leading ghost tours here. The area is really great,” Danny said. “There are all kinds of tales about Houdini and Poe from around here. A good guide or storyteller could certainly make a few people see ghosts. The little graveyard, though, that’s sad to me.”

  “Let’s go see it,” she said.

  They paid their bill at McSorley’s Old Ale House and headed down Seventh Street. Then Danny made a few twists and turns and they were there. Many of the buildings in the area were Civil War vintage, but the one Danny walked her by stood out among the rest. It still had a tiny front lawn and steps that led up to a Victorian-era porch. The sign above the door, however, read Braden and Sons, Fine and Vintage Photography.

  “I think I’ll just ask if we can take a peak,” Kieran said.

  “Go ahead. Ruin all the fun!” Danny said.

  She ignored him and headed inside to a desk where a man in a bow tie, vest and rolled-up sleeves was speaking with a woman before the old-fashioned counter. She was obviously pleased with her purchase, oohing and aahing about the wonderful way her son looked in a Yankee drummer boy uniform. Obviously, in this studio, people were photographed in historic costumes.

  Kieran waited patiently. When it was her turn, the clerk greeted her with a smile. “Hi! Let’s see...you could be a great Rose O’Neal Greenhow! Or better yet, my personal favorite, Pauline Cushman! She was really beautiful. Honestly, I’m not sucking up or anything, but I can just imagine you in a fine Victorian dress... Cushman worked her way into being such a fine spy by giving a toast to Jefferson Davis. She was an actress, and I’ll bet she was excellent!”

  “No, no, I’m not here for a picture.”

  “Why not?” Danny said. “You’d be great!”

  “And you, sir? Will you be in it? Is this a romantic trip to New York City for you both? Oh, God, no—sorry! Look at you. You two are related, right?” the clerk asked.

  “Brother and sister,” Kieran said. “And really we’re—”

  “We’re both huge history buffs,” Danny interjected, then he turned to his sister. “Go for it, Kieran!”

  She glared at him. “Only if you do, too, brother dear!”

  Danny grinned and turned to the clerk. “Irish Brigade, of course, my good man!”

  “Come, then! My dad started this business back in 1970—his dad bought the place in 1946, right after World War II. Nice when you keep a family business going. I’m Nat Braden, by the way.”

  Nat led them to the back where there were scores of costumes to choose from. As he and Danny went enthusiastically into choosing the right outfit for her, Kieran’s cell began to ring.

  It was Craig.

  She winced. She thought about not answering, but she had to.

  “Hey,” she said. “Anything new?”

  “Digby is innocent.”

  “I didn’t know he was a suspect.”

  “Everyone is a suspect.”

  Danny let out a whoop of pleasure at something he was being shown.

  “Where are you?” Craig asked.

  “Uh, in the East Village. Danny wanted to eat at McSorley’s.”

  “Are you still eating? I’ll join you.”

  “No, actually we were just walking and...”

  “Sixty-Ninth New York State Militia,” Nat said, and Danny let out another whoop.

  “Where are you, Kieran?” Craig asked, no doubt having heard the voices.

  “We got it into our heads to have period pictures made,” she said.

  “Which shop?”

  Wincing, she told him and hung up.

  Danny looked at her.

  “Craig’s on his way,” she said.

  “Oh. Oh, well, we are just having pictures made,” Danny said.

  Nat Braden frowned. “What else were you up to?”

  “To be honest,” Danny said, “I was just going to show my sister the old gravestone at the back side of the property.”

  “Oh, well, we’ll finish up the pictures, and I’ll take you out there!” Nat said, smiling again.

  “Great,” Kieran murmured.

  By the time she was dressed up—and Danny and Nat had helped her choose the appropriate ridiculously large and flowered hat—Craig had arrived.

  Naturally, suspicion was written all over his face. And then, of course, as he looked at Kieran, confusion took over.

  “Fuller and Miro are dow
n at the office,” Craig said to Kieran. “But...I thought this was a workday for you.”

  “Lunch,” she said.

  “Which would have been about two hours ago.” His eyes raked her. “I had no clue that you were into vintage photography,” he said.

  Nat Braden came around from the picture set and looked at Craig. “Joshua Chamberlain—young and dashing and the hero of Gettysburg! Oh, sorry—are you from the South?”

  “No, thanks, I’m not here for a Civil War picture.”

  “How about a mobster?” Nat said enthusiastically.

  Craig lowered his head, actually grinning. “No, I’m just here to catch up with these two.”

  “So you want to see the grave, too!” Nat said. “Sure, my pleasure.”

  Craig turned his gaze on Kieran, who held up her hands. “We were just going to walk by to see the stone,” she said.

  “Sad story,” Danny began. “It’s like that grave for that poor little kid who died at the end of the 1700s, only this one is later, around 1840, or something like that. New York is strange like that—odd little graves here and there with great historical stories to go with them.”

  “Ah,” Craig murmured.

  “I’ll show you as soon as we’ve finished up here,” Nat said.

  “Waiting with bated breath,” Craig said quietly.

  And so, Nat began to shoot pictures.

  Kieran felt the heat waves of anger washing off Craig as he watched. She posed quickly and demurred quickly when Nat offered to shoot more in other costumes for free.

  Next up was Danny.

  She stood next to Craig. He felt like an inferno, and he made no move to touch her.

  Finally, the shoot was done. Nat called to his brother, Hank, in the back, and told him they were heading out to the yard.

  It was truly just a sliver of ground. A large marble stone was there, with the remnants of a smaller stone encased in the marble and a little historic plaque beneath the old headstone: “Here lie the earthly remains of Dirk Der Vere, poet, author, passed this life on March 3, 1841, at the age of 27 years, 3 months and 5 days. The Der Vere family owned the property for nearly two centuries, becoming British when New Amsterdam became New York, and Patriots at the time of the American Revolution.”