A Perfect Obsession--A Novel of Romantic Suspense

by Heather Graham

  “Kevin is my brother, Sadie,” Kieran said, moving forward so that she could reach over the bar on the hospital bed and take Sadie’s hand. “We all own the pub together, though our older brother, Declan, runs it. Kevin is actually my twin.”

  Sadie looked at Kieran. Absolutely no sign of recognition showed in her eyes.

  “You do look like your brother. Only way prettier. Oh, that came out wrong. Kevin is gorgeous—he’s just a guy, you know?”

  “Sadie, you don’t remember coming to Finnegan’s?” Kieran asked her.

  The woman looked at her with clear green eyes and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

  “No, please, don’t be upset. None of this is your fault. I’ll tell you about Finnegan’s, though. There’s an entry with beautiful old glass in the doors. You come by a row of side tables—high-tops—before you get to the bar. The bar is old wood, really nice. There are posters for Irish fairs and Irish bands, and Guinness, of course! What’s a pub without a few Guinness posters, huh? Oh, there’s actually one of me. When I was younger, I did Irish dancing. My parents loved Irish dance, and they couldn’t get the boys going, so they picked on me. Funny, because Kevin did wind up taking dance in school—acting major, you know?”

  “Yes, I had to take all kinds of dance classes,” Sadie said. She smiled as she looked at Kieran. “I wish I did remember you. I was polite, I hope?”

  “You were lovely—not to worry.”

  Something seemed to flicker in Sadie’s eyes. “I almost feel that I do know you... Actually, I haven’t even seen Kevin since I worked with him last.” She closed her eyes and blinked when she tried to open them again. “I’m so tired...”

  “Go to sleep, Sadie. I’ll come back tomorrow. We’ll talk more. Maybe you’ll remember something then.”

  Sadie nodded, her eyes already closed.

  “Maybe...your face, your voice...they’re so familiar.”

  Craig started to speak, but Kieran shook her head. She rose and came over to his side of the bed. She seemed pleased. “I’ll try again tomorrow. Little by little. If we just nudge really gently, she may begin to get more memory back. I don’t want her to close down.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, all right.”

  They waited a few minutes more, till Marie Livingston returned.

  “Did she wake up?” Marie asked.

  “Just for a minute,” Kieran said.

  “Did she...?”

  “No, but we’ll be back,” Kieran said. Then she paused. “Hey, are you all right? Are you staying here with her?”

  “I am,” Marie said firmly. “In the hospital, everyone needs a friend. I will not leave her.”

  “You have my card, right?” Craig asked her. He’d given it to her the night before.

  “Yes, Special Agent Frasier, I do, and I’m so grateful. If anything, I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll plan on seeing you tomorrow,” Craig told her. “I’ll have my partner, Mike, stop by sometime today, and you may see a cop named McBride, but don’t worry. None of us will put any pressure on Sadie, okay?”

  “Oh, I wish she could remember,” Marie said. “That monster! Thank God. He seems to like to terrify his victims, drug them and then—I’m so grateful that you found Sadie!”

  “You’re a good friend,” Craig assured her. Then he and Kieran bid Marie goodbye.

  Craig stopped in at the nurses’ station and received much the same report he’d gotten from Marie. When they headed out, a new officer was on guard duty. He solemnly told Craig he’d watch everyone and anyone coming and going from ICU.

  Traffic out of the city was painful, but then, traffic always was. Still, when they were on the highway, heading south through New Jersey, he found that his mood was fairly bright.

  Except this was the kind of case that you couldn’t let go.

  Neither, he thought, could Kieran.

  He glanced over at her as he drove. She had a book out on her lap.

  “My company must be really great,” he told her.

  She flashed him a smile. “I’m reading about death through the ages—and New York City.”

  “Cheerful. You are a bundle of fun.”

  “No, no, honestly, it’s interesting. It tells about funerary art. Death’s heads and simple stones were popular in the 1600s. People had a very grim look at life. And, say, back in the European countryside—where there was space—everyone was buried in the churchyard or entombed in the church itself. New York was big on cemeteries because it’s always been a moneyed city. You couldn’t let prime real estate go to the dead, not when the space was needed for the living, for housing, shops and things. And you should see all the different types of headstones and tombs, entombment and interments. Mausoleums, Greek, Roman, Gothic. And, of course, I’m not sure if you heard Willoughby last night—I think it was before you came in—but he was talking about the word sarcophagus or the plural, sarcophagi. Means flesh-eating. I’m reading it here, in this book, too. Oh, by the way, I didn’t realize it myself until this morning, but while this book is by a George Hatfield, it has a forward by our esteemed John Shaw.”

  “Great reading. I think I should have gotten an audiobook. I do have music in the car, you know. Lots of it.”

  She grinned at him, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I don’t know, Craig. There’s something about this case that’s driving me crazy.”

  “Something? Everything about this case is driving me crazy.”

  “I’m trying to get into the mind of the killer. He leaves Cheyenne Lawson out on the grass, but beneath an angel. Our as-yet-unidentified victim went into an unknown vault. Jeannette Gilbert was left where he had to know she’d be found immediately. Wherever he’s left them, they’ve been dressed and tended to as if they were dearly loved—cherished.” She turned to him. “Say Cheyenne Lawson was his first. He was trying to do something special, but he thought that he failed. Next, our victim in the private crypt that I stumbled into. Did he feel that he failed with her, too, and that he just wasn’t ready? Or he hadn’t achieved what he wanted? Then, he had Sadie down in that crypt at the Braden photography studio. But, so far, he hadn’t killed his victims in the crypts or cemeteries where they were found. So why did he have her down there? And wasn’t he taking a terrible chance? Someone might have heard her.”

  “He probably believed that she was completely drugged, which was just about the truth.”

  “Forensics hasn’t found anything yet? Not a single print?”

  He shook his head. “We believe that he’s wearing gloves.”

  “And where’s the blood? Killing all those women...there has to be blood! I just feel that there’s something I should put my finger on that I haven’t gotten yet.”

  “Here’s what I can’t figure. Sadie Miller left Finnegan’s to meet with someone. We know that, even if Sadie doesn’t. How did she walk out onto the street and just disappear? She had to have gone with her would-be killer. He didn’t just throw a rag over her nose, knock her out and drag her off. He got her somewhere, and once she was there, he dosed her drink or something he managed to get her to eat. And the dosage he gave her must have been huge. He had to have known the drug, too—the effect that it would have had. Short-term memory loss. Once she was drugged the way he was doing it, he was safe even he didn’t get to carry through his plan for her.”

  “I wonder why he was waiting. And that, of course, sends you back to the question of what makes his mind tick. What is he trying to do?”

  “I’ve interviewed a number of serial killers, Kieran. I remember one guy I interviewed. I asked him why he did what he did. He just looked at me and told me that it was fun. He enjoyed watching the light go out of a victim’s eyes. Fun. He killed for kicks. Sometimes we may put too much into it. Sometimes, I think, these guys are just bad. And that’s it.”
>
  Kieran smiled at him. “Ah, but you’re missing what’s important. We try to figure out what makes them tick and who they are because that helps to find them.”

  “Finding them. I won’t argue with you there. Finding them is what matters.”

  “There’s a whole section in here about the old church Saint Augustine’s. It was built in 1782 and burials took place there until the laws forbid further burials south of Canal—except for certain circumstances. I guess a major politician, a religious leader—or a really rich man—can get in where he wants. Anyway, there had been a small graveyard to the side of the church, and there were known catacombs below the altar.”

  “Yep, and they were all just moved.”

  “The bodies in the graveyard were reinterred in Brooklyn soon after the law was passed, and the church sold the land that had been the graveyard as the city grew. So, at first, it paid to be rich or prestigious and buried in the church. But, then, as you said, when the church was deconsecrated, all the known people went on out to Brooklyn, too.”

  “There’s just no guarantee for a body, huh?”

  Kieran grinned. “Cremation—and scattering at sea. That’s probably pretty permanent. Anyway, here’s what’s so odd. The whole section of catacombs that was just found—when foundations were set to be shored up last week—had to have existed before the law came into being, so they’ve been there since the late 1700s. But you have all these historians and scholars involved, and no one knew they were there. They were literally just discovered—after well over two hundred years. So, anyone could have heard on the news that the old crypt or catacombs had been discovered. But, whoever it was also had to know the layout of the church and how to rig security footage and alarms and all the rest. And he has to be fairly agile to carry a body around. This should really limit the suspects.”

  “Well, it would.”

  “It would if?”

  “If we knew what other people knew.”

  She was silent a minute. “Gleason,” she said quietly. “Roger Gleason. He knew the church. He controlled the alarm and the security cameras. Who the hell else could it have been? Unless...”

  “Unless what?”

  “What if there is another way into the church? I went down to get whiskey for Declan last night. I looked around the basement. It almost abuts the church.”

  “And you found a secret entrance?” he asked skeptically.

  “No,” she admitted. “I guess my point is that much of underground or subterranean New York has been lost. There was a fire that wiped out almost everything. The British were here, Patriots fled, the British ruled, the Patriots came back. Fire, construction, opposing factions. Records were lost all over the city,” Kieran said.

  “Which is why no one knew about the crypts.”

  “I think someone did,” she said, turning to him. “I think someone already knew that they were there, and I think our killer did want Jeannette found. He still hadn’t gotten it down right. She didn’t stay as beautiful and perfect as he wanted. He felt the need to keep going. But he also wanted his work seen before it all went too badly. So, she’s put in a coffin that John Shaw is sure to look into first thing.”

  “You could be right,” he told her. With his eyes still on the road, he reached over and took the book from her and tossed it into the backseat.

  “Craig, what...?”

  “The sun is shining. It’s a perfect day. You’re supposed to let go of things so that you can look at them again with fresh eyes,” he said.

  She nodded. “A bit ironic, don’t you think? We’re on our way to find out about another victim.”

  “And we have a few hours to go.” He started humming as he went to switch on music. He paused.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Something we’re keeping quiet about for now. Our FBI analyst and Drs. Fullers and Miro think that the newspaper received a real communication from the killer.”

  “What? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “Hey! I was more worried about Sadie.”

  “What was the communication?”

  “Words from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Romeo in the crypt.”

  “Not a love theme?”

  “No, ‘Death...hath had no power yet upon thy beauty,’ or something like that. He sent just a few lines.’”

  “Craig, that’s really important. That’s the key. This guy is trying to find beauty—perfect beauty—and preserve it. And he keeps failing.”

  “So he does.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “Egan wants to get a handle on the killer. He’s trying to keep the story from the papers and from the general public.”

  “I’m the general public?”

  “No! But, of course, you and Danny and your family have been asked to keep confidence about yesterday, as well.” He glanced at her. “And we all know that the Finnegan siblings can keep secrets.”

  “Oh, low blow!”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. But, seriously, it’s better this way, Kieran. Not everyone can keep quiet. And at the moment, he doesn’t want any information out about where Sadie Miller was found. Partially to protect the Braden brothers, Hank and Nat.”

  “And he thinks they won’t say anything?”

  “From what I understand, they’re happy to keep quiet. They’re not sure if the fact that a kidnapped girl was under their feet for a couple of days will make the shop more popular—or make it an anathema.”

  Kieran nodded. “Right. So the killer wants perfection. But he knows that youth fades with age. Craig, he doesn’t want them to get old. He wants them to be beautiful and young and smart forever.”

  “He ought to leave history alone and study mortuary science,” Craig said.

  “Maybe. Maybe he’s trying—in his own way.”

  “Maybe I will turn the radio on.”

  Kieran grinned and leaned back. A minute later, they were listening to the band Bastille.

  They really did need to do something to shake the case.

  Hard when they were both obsessed, when they were on their way to study an earlier victim—and hard when Le Club Vampyre—the old Saint Augustine’s—was right behind Finnegan’s pub.

  * * *

  The lead detective on the case in Virginia was a woman named Rebecca Owens. She looked to be in her midforties, a serious woman with short, prematurely graying hair and a wiry build and an easy, solid manner. Craig introduced Kieran as a colleague, a psychologist, which, of course, she was. It still felt a little strange. Sometimes she still couldn’t help feeling a little like a schoolgirl playing at being a grown-up.

  Detective Owens led them into her office and wasted no time getting down to business. “We let the Bureau know about this case, even though it was one murder, because it was so bizarre,” she said, passing Craig a folder. “We went through all the usual—boyfriend, family, past teachers... It was a sad case. It’s haunted me since. I’m glad the Bureau is involved. I’m not glad, of course, that it seems the killer’s moved on from here, but if you all have new leads or fresh clues, I couldn’t be happier,” she told them.

  “We believe that your victim wasn’t his first or his last, I’m afraid,” Craig told her.

  “I saw in the news that you found a girl alive,” Detective Owens said.

  Craig nodded. “We were very grateful to have found her alive.”

  “In an old tomb.”

  “Yes,” Craig told her.

  Rebecca Owens dragged her fingers through her short hair. “I pray we don’t find any more young women down here. We’ve got lots of battlefields, and, God help us, enough cemeteries with vaults and mausoleums, and old churches, too.”

  “If I’m right, he came back to the New York area. That seems to be his
real stomping ground. Along with a foray over to Jersey.”

  “What do you think I can do for you, Special Agent Frasier?” Owens asked. “I’ve sent copies of all our files to the Bureau.”

  “I know, and we appreciate that. I’m interested in firsthand knowledge of the site where she was found, and anything you can tell me about the victim herself,” Craig said.

  “I’ll take you out to the cemetery,” Owens said. “And as for Cary Howell... I didn’t know her personally, though I came to feel that I did. There was such an outpouring of grief over her, first when she was reported missing, and then when she was found. She was young, eager, beautiful and bright. And nice! She would help anyone. Her dad told me that she volunteered at one of the senior living facilities. The old-timers would talk about the past and she would listen and, apparently, really be enthralled. She loved the world. The world loved her,” she finished sadly.

  “So she was perfect,” Kieran said softly.

  “Just about—if anyone can be perfect. Strange, but true. When you look at a person who is that kind and nice, it makes them more beautiful, don’t you think?” Owens asked her.

  “I do,” Kieran agreed.

  “I called one of her girlfriends, a young woman named Janet Harlow,” Owens said. “She’ll meet us out at the cemetery.”

  “She doesn’t have to meet us there. Isn’t that kind of hard on a friend?”

  “Not really,” Owens said. “This friend, Janet Harlow, goes out to the cemetery just about every day. You see, Cary Howell is there now—in her own family’s tomb. Janet brings flowers out every few days. Makes her feel better, and, hey, if anything makes someone feel better, I say go for it.”

  * * *

  They passed beautiful country as they drove from Fredericksburg out to the cemetery. Rebecca Owens, doing the driving, talked about the city.

  “You had two battles at Fredericksburg,” Owens told them as they drove, “and nearby, you had Spotsylvania and the Wilderness and the Chancellorsville Campaign. We’re really beautiful. You have to come when you can enjoy the country.”