“We have agents going back there soon,” Egan told him. “Nothing yet.”
“Does seem like a place where Roger Gleason might shop for a female friend,” Egan told him.
“Let’s let him go and keep up the surveillance on him. And we’ll attend tonight.” Craig looked over at Mike. “Mike and I can head back down to the boutique ourselves,” he told Egan.
“All right. What about Ms. Miller?”
“I’ll bring Kieran by to see her right after we head to the boutique. She just might trigger something in Sadie’s mind.”
Craig headed back into the room where Roger Gleason was waiting. “You’re free to go,” he told him.
“Free. Right.” Gleason grimaced. “You can tell those guys watching me that they’re welcome to come on in. They can’t drink on duty, but our bartenders make some really good nonalcoholic drinks. Expensive, of course, but we do try to cater to everyone.”
“Thanks. I’ll let them know,” Craig said.
No sense in denying what the man had obviously seen.
He walked back out of the room himself, leaving Gleason to wait for an escort out of the office.
* * *
“Where are you?”
Craig’s words came to Kieran over the phone as she left the subway and hurried down the street.
She was so tempted to lie.
“On the street,” she said. That was the truth.
“On the street where?”
“Downtown.”
“Almost at Finnegan’s? They let you out of work already? Nice job.”
“I’ll be working tonight. I’m going to be Dr. Fuller’s date this evening. I’m sure you’ve heard. Gleason is opening the club back up tonight.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. You’re Dr. Fuller’s date?”
“His daughter is in a play—she’s a butterfly or a snowflake or something,” Kieran told him.
“Okay. Well, I’ll get you at Finnegan’s in about an hour. I’m stopping by that boutique—Chic-er-elli. Then I’ll get you and we’ll drop in on Sadie.”
Kieran paused. She was standing right in front of the shop with the artistic sign that read Chic-er-elli.
“Oh, you know what? I’m right by the shop. How about I head there and meet you?”
“How about it?” she heard—but not over the phone.
And then she winced. Because she turned, and Craig was headed down the street toward her. He was just about ten feet away.
She closed her phone. “I needed a dress for tonight,” she told him.
“Oh, yeah. Saks was too inconvenient? And this place is surely right in your price range.”
She wasn’t sure if he was angry, but he was definitely being sarcastic.
“I told you, I’d been here before. That’s how I knew the label. Aren’t you glad I knew the label? Colleague?” she asked him.
He stepped up to the shop and opened the door and looked back at her. “Our colleagues Drs. Fuller and Miro come into the office or speak with people at their offices. They don’t go out hunting dangerous criminals.”
“This is a boutique in broad daylight on a busy New York street,” she whispered, sailing in past him.
Craig followed.
The boutique was really charming; it was done up with Victorian-era red love seats and chairs, models on podiums in sexy lingerie and elegant gowns. The walls were covered with fine wallpaper and handsomely framed scenes of New York City.
Craig paused to look around. Kieran waited.
Then they headed to the counter.
A very pretty young redhead was behind it. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you. I need to ask you some questions,” Craig said pleasantly, producing his credentials. He glanced down at Kieran. “She needs to buy a dress.”
“Oh, yes. Liz told me that someone would be in. And Mrs. Chantelle—the owner—is aware, too. She’s in Boston, but she’s on her way back to the city. She’s spoken with someone...but, um, you really need a dress?” the salesclerk said, turning to Kieran and looking confused. “I’m here alone at the moment. Um, well—”
“Start with the pictures,” Kieran suggested. She heard the little bell over the door sound. She didn’t need to turn to know that Mike had been right behind Craig.
“With you in a moment, sir,” the salesclerk said.
“It’s okay. I’m with them.”
“I’m Special Agent Craig Frasier, that’s Special Agent Mike Dalton and this is Kieran Finnegan,” Craig told the young woman. She still looked flustered.
“I’m Nancy Collins,” she murmured.
Chic-er-elli was a high-end boutique; customers seemed to be few, allowing for one salesclerk at a time, so it seemed.
Craig glanced at Kieran as he reached into his pocket. She knew they were thinking the same thing.
When he displayed the array of pictures—prints, newspaper clippings, Facebook printouts—before Nancy Collins, she studied them.
The grad students were first—Allie Benoit, Joshua Harding and Sam Frick. They were followed by Oswald Martin, Leo Holt, a scruffy-looking man Kieran hadn’t seen and didn’t know, and then John Shaw and Professor Digby. He laid them all out on the counter, watching the woman’s face. Then he added in pictures of Henry Willoughby, Roger Gleason—and Kevin.
Kieran tried not to react. She’d believed that Kevin was no longer a suspect.
“Take your time, please, really look at them,” Craig said.
The woman did so. “You see so many people day after day, that faces begin to blur before you.”
“Yes, but look closely. Have you seen any of these faces in the shop?”
She pointed to a picture. “Him, I’ve seen his face.”
She was pointing at Leo Holt.
“I mean, I think he’s been here.”
“Do you think that you might have sold him a white dress?” Craig asked.
“We pulled all the sales slips for the last year,” she said, distracted. “We sold over a hundred white dresses in that time. Mrs. Chantelle deals with a designer in Italy who specializes in white dresses because of all the young women going for confirmation in Italy, and then, of course, she creates them for young women who have quinceañeras and so on... I believe that we had charge slips for sixty of them. The others were paid with cash.”
“Who the hell uses cash these days?” Mike murmured. “Other than...”
He didn’t say “criminals” or “killers.” He just let his statement fade ominously on the air.
“Wait a minute. I’ve seen this guy,” Nancy Collins said, pointing to the picture of Kevin. “Oh, wait, no—not in the shop. I’ve seen him in a magazine...maybe on television.” She looked up suddenly at Kieran.
She appeared seriously confused. “That’s not...you? I mean, you didn’t have a sex change or anything, did you? Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but...”
“No, that’s not me,” Kieran said. She glanced at Craig. Even under the circumstances, he was smirking.
“You’re sure you saw him in a magazine or TV and not in the store?”
“Oh, I’m sure. I would remember if I’d met him in the flesh!” she said.
Kieran smiled pleasantly at Craig.
“It’s very, very important, Ms. Collins. Please keep studying the photos,” Craig implored solemnly.
And she did so. “Maybe him,” she said. She pointed to the picture of Roger Gleason.
Kieran felt the tension that seemed to shoot into Craig.
But then the young salesclerk said, “No, no—I saw his picture in the newspaper this morning. Oh, yeah, I know who he is. He owns that club. I’m going one night. I’m going to save up to go! How cool, I mean, in an old church with creepy graves benea
th and—Oh!” She looked up, her face filled with guilt and remorse. “Oh, yeah, I’m so sorry. It’s where Jeannette Gilbert was found.”
No one spoke.
“Anyway, I don’t think that he’s been in here,” she said.
“Anything else?”
“This guy or this guy—maybe,” she said. She was pointing to pictures of Henry Willoughby and Professor Digby. “Maybe not. They kind of look familiar, but then, they look like each other, don’t they? This guy—him I’d remember!” she added, pointing to John Shaw. “I mean, he looks like he got his finger stuck in a wall socket.”
John Shaw did have something of that look about him with his wild white hair.
Kieran looked more closely at the pictures of Professor Aldous Digby and Henry Willoughby. They were similar. Both men were bald. Both were tall and straight and dignified in appearance.
“Do you think you saw one of these men? Did you sell them a white dress?” Craig asked.
Nancy Collins shook her head, looking seriously distressed. “I’m so sorry. Even the girl looks familiar to me. I just don’t know. Mrs. Chantelle said she’d be in here by seven, ready to speak with whoever needs her. I only work three afternoons a week.”
“Thank you,” Craig said, hiding his disappointment.
Nancy Collins turned her eyes to Kieran. “We have a white dress that would look fabulous on you. And it’s on sale. There’s only one left. It’s a six. Want to see it?”
Kieran thought about Jeannette Gilbert in her white dress lying in the coffin.
She smiled. “Thank you. I’m more into the little black dress thing, you know what I mean.”
She was startled when Craig said, “I’d like to see that white dress.”
“Um, sure. I can show you the white—and something in black.”
She disappeared into the back and then reappeared.
She showed them the black dress first; it was an elegant, simple little piece, fitted with a V neck, cold-shoulder sleeves and elegant little crystals along the neckline.
Kieran wished she could afford it; a glance at the tag assured her she could not.
“You should definitely buy it,” Mike told her, grinning.
She showed him the tag. He winced.
“It would have been nice,” he whispered.
“How about the white?” Craig asked.
“Oh, yes!”
It was a lovely gown as well, and quite different. The neckline was high; the sleeves were covered with lace. It would have been a truly breathtaking gown on a young woman.
It was...virginal. Pure.
“That’s really not our Kieran,” Mike noted.
Kieran shot him a frown and looked at the tag.
“Wow. It’s really discounted!” she said.
“Why is it discounted so much?” Craig asked.
“It might have been on hold and never picked up. We don’t buy many of any one item. We try to offer unique clothing. But when all sizes are gone and a garment remains too long, it goes on discount. I can check the books and see, if you like,” Nancy said.
“If you would,” Craig told her.
She went back behind the counter. “Oh, yes, here it is. It was supposed to be picked up the other day, but there’s a cancel notice next to it—deposit forfeited,” Nancy read, looking on her computer screen. “I guess the buyer let it go.”
“Who was the buyer? There must be a name,” Craig said.
“There is. Joe Smith,” Nancy said, pleased to be offering something.
The bell above the door made its tinkling sound. An older woman in an elegant little hat and fox stole entered.
“Um, may I help that lady?” she asked. “It’s Mrs. Bolton—very wealthy. And we work on commission.”
“Of course,” Craig said. “And thank you. Here’s my card. And Special Agent Dalton will give you a card, and, of course, we’ll be back, but if you should think of anything...”
He collected the photographs on the counter.
“Of course,” Nancy said, accepting the business cards and starting toward the newcomer in the shop. She paused. “It’s a no on the black dress?”
“Yes, unless you can switch the tags on the white and the black?” Mike teased.
Nancy didn’t do well with teasing.
“I—Is the FBI requesting such a thing?” she asked.
“The FBI is completely joking!” Craig said flatly. With a hand on Kieran’s back, he ushered them all out of the boutique.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
“THE DOCTOR SAID that I could even go home tomorrow!” Sadie Miller said happily, smiling as Craig and Kieran entered her room.
As usual, Marie Livingston was there, too. “I’ve taken a week off work so I’ll be able to be her nurse. Well, I mean, I don’t qualify as a nurse, but I can fetch things and order Sadie to stay put.”
“I’ve told her that it’s completely unnecessary. I’m really so much better,” Sadie said. “Marie has a boyfriend. Poor guy, she’s barely seen him.”
“Assistant Director Egan asked that I be the only friend up here with Sadie,” Marie explained. “But Lance is a great guy, and he totally understands.”
“Sadie, I know you want to be out of here. I know you want your life back,” Craig said. “But I’d really appreciate it if you’d stay just a few more days.”
“Stay in the hospital? But—”
“I think we’re close to catching the killer,” he said.
Kieran glanced at him. She knew it was a bald-faced lie. They’d found one of his lairs; they’d found a dress label that didn’t seem to be getting them anywhere. They suspected Roger Gleason but had nothing tangible. And in his gut, he wasn’t sure.
“How can this help?” Sadie asked him.
He was surprised when Kieran answered gently for him. “Sadie, God, I hate to say this, but we’re afraid that he’ll come for you again. He knows you’re alive. He doesn’t know where you are right now. If you go home, if anyone finds out...”
“It’s easier to keep a guard on you here,” Craig told her. “We’re afraid he’ll think that you’ve remembered something.”
“But I still don’t remember. I am so sorry!”
“So, I figure maybe we’ll talk again,” Kieran said.
“If you think that will help,” Sadie said, gnawing on her lower lip. “The terror!” she said softly. “That’s what I remember. Waking up, unable to move...everything pitch-black.”
“So, I’ll tell you what I know about the night,” Kieran said cheerfully, taking a seat on the hospital bed at Sadie’s side. “Finnegan’s was so busy. You were at the bar. You were sitting next to a friend of mine, Bobby O’Leary. Old gruff Irishman. Nice as hell, though. He has big blue eyes and super-ruddy cheeks. He’s always a little grizzled-looking. Doesn’t shave that often so he has a white-stubble thing going on. So, you were by Bobby, and you talked to him. You probably thought he was safe, which he is. I mean, he wasn’t trying to pick you up. I was there, running around like a chicken without a head. But I stopped to talk to you, and you said right away that I looked a lot like Kevin.”
“You do,” Sadie said. “You really do. And your brother is a good guy. A lot like you.”
“Thanks,” Kieran told her. “Okay, I’ll describe Finnegan’s. Maybe the setting will jar something in your memory.”
Craig stood silently and watched and listened. Kieran did a great job with the description, her voice pleasant and easy. Sadie spoke a few words now and then, asked a few questions. But nothing sounded familiar.
“I feel that I do know you now,” Sadie said. “I wish so badly that I did remember!”
“It’s okay,” Kieran told her. “It’s okay.” She glanced up at Craig. “We’ll try again t
omorrow?” she asked.
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” he said. “And, Sadie, we’ll speak with the doctor. For your health, for many reasons, we’d like to keep you here a little longer.”
“For her life!” Marie said flatly.
Craig didn’t correct her.
Kieran rose to join him to leave the hospital. “Just keep getting better and better,” she told Sadie.
They were halfway out the door when Sadie suddenly spoke again.
“Soda. Soda with lime.”
“What?” Craig asked, spinning.
Sadie looked at them. “I—I remember an old white-haired guy with a brogue. He ordered a soda with lime. Is that right? Is it a real memory?” she asked.
It was.
Bobby O’Leary was an alcoholic in recovery; he still sat at the bar at Finnegan’s every day.
Ordering soda with lime.
Craig turned back into the room, and Kieran walked back to her side. She sat at the bed again and took Sadie’s hand into her own.
“You are remembering. You just remembered my friend, Bobby O’Leary.”
Tears stung Sadie’s eyes.
“But...I still can’t remember you!” she told Kieran. “And I can’t...I can’t remember going there, or leaving there—or why I was even there!”
Kieran smoothed her hair back. “Sadie, it’s all right. It’s wonderful. You’ve made a start. Now...relax. Get some sleep. Watch a movie on television, think about good things to come. Let it be an easy thing. You’ll remember. Just give it some time.”
* * *
“We should be feeling pretty good about all this,” Mike said, standing with Craig inside Le Club Vampyre and adjusting his tie. “Okay, we don’t have the guy yet. But we stopped him. A girl is alive. Alive, Craig. You found her alive. And now you’ve found one of his lairs. We’re close on his trail and, if you think about it, pretty damned quickly.”
“Has to be quick—when we hope a killer is holding someone alive and we hope to keep it that way,” Craig said.
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