The Di Medici Bride

by Heather Graham

  “Jeannette.”

  She frowned. “Jeannette Gilbert?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “I know that, because John Shaw just told me. But he only found her a few hours ago. The police asked him not to say anything.”

  Kevin took a deep breath. “Well, John Shaw might not have said anything, but one of the workers down there—a grunt? A student? I don’t know—came out and told people on the street, and the story was picked up, and there are already media crews there.”

  She studied her brother. “Kevin, it’s terrible. A young and beautiful young woman who was very popular has—I’m assuming—been murdered. But, Kevin, I’m afraid that terrible things do happen. But…we didn’t know Jeannette Gilbert. Not personally.”

  “Yes,” he said. “We did.”

  “We did?”

  “I did,” he corrected. “Kieran, I was the so-called ‘mystery man’ she was dating! I might have been the last one to see her alive.”

  * * *

  The NYPD had been called in first; that was proper protocol, since New York City was where the body had been found.

  Jeannette Gilbert hadn’t been kidnapped in another state—and subsequently killed in New York. She’d last been seen by her doorman entering her apartment; she was a long-time Manhattan resident. She had, in fact, grown up in Harlem, a little girl who’d lost both parents and gone on to live in a household filled with children and an aunt who hadn’t wanted another mouth to feed.

  By the age of seventeen, however, she’d had an affair with a rock star.

  While the rock start denied any kind of intimate relationship with her at the time, he’d gone on to put her in one of his music videos soon after.

  An agent had picked her up and it had been a classic tale—little girl lost had become a mega-star. By twenty-five, she was gracing runways and doing cameo spots on television shows and even appearing in small roles in several movies. She was considered a true supernova.

  Because, Jeannette’s physical appearance had been called perfect by every critic out there.

  She could walk a runway.

  She had beautiful skin, luscious hair, long legs, and a body that didn’t quit.

  Craig Frasier had learned all this about Jeannette in the last few hours. Before that, she’d been a face he might have recognized on a magazine cover.

  But he’d made it his business to read up on her quickly.

  Because her death had suddenly become the focus of his life.

  He’d been in his office, reading paperwork from witnesses about the murder of a known pimp, when he’d been summoned, along with his partner, Mike Dalton, to Assistant Director Richard Egan’s office.

  Craig and Mike had been partners for years. Craig had been assigned a young, new agent when Mike was laid up on medical—a shot to the buttocks—about a year ago. He’d learned then how much he appreciated his partner; they knew each other’s minds. They naturally fell into a division of labor when it came to pounding the pavement and getting the inevitable paperwork done.

  And there was no one Craig trusted more to have his back, especially in a shoot-out.

  Egan, a good man himself, was hardcore bureau. His personal life had suffered for it, but he never brought his personal life into the office. He was the best kind of authority figure, as well—dignified, fair, compassionate. And efficient. He never wasted time. There were two chairs in front of his desk, but he hadn’t waited for Craig and Mike to sit down. He’d started talking right away.

  “I had a back-burner situation going on here,” he’d told them. “We’d been given information, but the local police down in Fredericksburg, Virginia, were handling the case. A girl—a perfect-looking girl, an artist’s model—disappeared about six months ago. A few weeks later, her body was found in an historic cemetery outside Fredericksburg, in a mausoleum. She’d been stabbed in the heart, then cleaned up, dressed up, and laid out in a family mausoleum. She was discovered when the family’s matriarch died, since she’d been put in the matriarch’s space. As I said, it seemed to be a local matter, and the Fredericksburg and Virginia state police had the murder. We were informed because of the unusual aspects.”

  Egan had paused, running his hands through his hair. Then he’d resumed speaking. “We’re all aware of the high-profile disappearance of Jeannette Gilbert.”

  Mike nodded. “Yeah, we were briefed with the cops about her disappearance when she went missing. We weren’t really in on it, as you know. But we were on the lookout.”

  “Ms. Gilbert’s been found. An archeological dig at old St. Augustine’s.”

  “You mean—”Mike began.

  But Egan had cut him off. Yeah, he meant the new nightclub. Egan wasn’t a fan. He’d gone on and ranted for a full minute about old historic places becoming nightclubs. In his opinion, that suggested New York City had no real respect for the past.

  Craig knew Mike hadn’t been asking his question because of the club; he’d been trying to ascertain if she’d been found dead.

  Mike had glanced over at Craig; Craig shrugged.

  They’d both just let Egan rant, figuring it was obvious. The poor girl was dead.

  It had ended with Egan saying, “Yes, she’s dead. And it is bizarre—as bizarre as that earlier case, maybe even more so. Because in this case, the perp had to know she’d be found quickly. He placed her in an historical site where anthropologists and archeologists were expected to arrive imminently. Later, you can go over the info on the Virginia case, do some comparisons. We’re part of the task force on this, but we’re taking the lead., and you two are up for our division. Because, gentlemen, I believe we have a serial killer on our hands.”

  They’d asked about the security tapes.

  Techs were going over those now.

  “That’s a bitch!” Egan had exclaimed. “Try looking for something out of the ordinary when every damned customer in the place is like an escapee from B Goth flick or worse! Not to mention that the club closed down when the body was discovered. There’s no club security at night other than the cameras, but cops have been patrolling the place since the historic folks stepped in.”

  From the office, he and Mike had gone straight to the church. The M.E. on duty was Anthony Andrews, a fine and detail-oriented doctor, but he hadn’t really started yet.

  Photographers were still taking pictures, trying to maintain the scene just as it had been after Professor Shaw had opened the first coffin—and saw Jeannette Gilbert.

  A half-dozen members of a forensic team were moving around, but Dr. Andrews delicately stopped the photo session to show Craig and Mike what he’d discovered. Gilbert had been killed in another location, stabbed through the heart, and then bathed and dressed and prepared before being placed in the old coffin.

  Seeing her was heartbreaking. He hadn’t known the young woman or really anything about her until today, but she’d been young and beautiful and her life had been brutally taken. She lay in the old coffin, dressed in shimmering white, a wilted rose in her hands. With her eyes closed, it looked as if she slept.

  Except, of course, she’d never wake again.

  “Defensive wounds?” he’d asked Andrews.

  “Not a one. She was taken by surprise. Whoever killed her stood close by—had to be someone who seemed trustworthy. Maybe someone she knew,” the M.E. had speculated. “Or she could’ve had some kind of opiate in her system. Anyway, she didn’t expect what was coming.”

  “Time of death?” Mike had asked. “She’s been missing about two weeks.”

  “I’m thinking one to two weeks,” Andrews replied. “If she was abducted, perhaps soon after. And I don’t believe she’s been embalmed—but she was somehow preserved. Maybe in a freezer while he worked on her or made arrangements or…” He sighed. “I need to get her on the table.”

  Two patrol officers, the first on the scene, had closed off the area. Luckily, the club had been closed, pending the investigation of the newly discovered cryp
t. Detective Larry McBride with the major crimes division had been the first to arrive. Craig and Mike had worked with him before. He was particularly mild-mannered but he had a brilliant mind and nothing deterred his focus.

  “Glad you guys are lead on this,” McBride had told them. “This is… Well, I believe we definitely have a real psychopath on our hands. Bizarre! Wherever he killed her, he bathed away the blood. I’ve got officers who’ll be doing rounds with pictures of the dress. Pending notification of the so-called aunt who raised the girl, they’ll be asking all her friends if she owned the dress, or if the killer obtained it.”

  “Checked the label,” Andrews had said. “It’s from Saks.”

  McBride nodded. “Nice dress. She looks like a princess.” He paused. “I have a daughter her age… So, anyway, no inside security by night—but cops watching on the street. The men on duty swore no one went in until Roger Gleason opened up to wait for the archeologists. Gleason says he comes in every day, even though the club’s closed for a few days. I interviewed him personally and he seems to be on the up and up. Says he’s personally not that interested in the historical stuff but seeing that the work goes well will actually make his club more famous. Still, he’s not one of those guys who lets his own property go unattended. He was working up here—and heard Shaw’s screams. Shaw swears there was no one down there the time but him and a few of his grad students. I have names, etc., which I’ve emailed to you already. They were all questioned. I don’t think they had anything to do with Ms. Gilbert’s death. The mystery here is, how the hell did the bastard get in with the body? Anyway, the security footage is down at your office now. And, of course, we’re hoping forensics can come up with something. This killer…well, they’re calling in shrinks. You know, profilers. The murder was cold, swift and brutal. But then, he takes all this time with her. He comes in like a shadow—and then leaves her on display, waiting to be found. I talked with Egan, and I’ve been hanging in for you guys. Actually, I’m almost afraid to leave. It’s a media frenzy out there.”

  By now, the frenzy on the streets involved more than just media. Word had spread; dozens of celebrity-stalkers and those inclined to the macabre had congregated outside the club.

  Craig questioned Gleason himself before leaving. He seemed like a Wall Street type—and although his club might be Goth, he was far more prone to the elegant in his manner and dress.

  New York City’s finest were dealing with the facility and crowd control.

  “I need to talk to Shaw,” Craig had decided.

  But Shaw wasn’t there. They’d heard that when he’d first gotten up close and personal with the body, he’d screamed like a banshee.

  And Allie Benoit, John Shaw’s grad student and assistant, had told him that Shaw had spoken with the police, and then freaked out and fled. Allie was pretty sure he’d gone to the pub—the pub whose back wall abutted that of the old church-turned-nightclub.

  And that was exactly what John Shaw had done.

  Finnegan’s!

  He swore, walking around the corner and reaching the pub.

  The damned man just had to go to Finnegan’s!

  The pub had stood there almost as long as the church. It had seen the New York draft riots during the Civil War, and the violence of the Irish gangs that had once held huge sway in a city where immigrants poured in daily from around the world.

  The pub had witnessed so much history.

  Including the recent history of the diamond heist that had nearly cost Kieran Finnegan her life.

  “She won’t be involved!” he said firmly, speaking aloud.

  But before he entered, he knew, somewhere in his gut, that the die was already cast.

  Of all the pubs in all the world.

  Finnegan’s.

  CHAPTER 2

  As he entered the pub, Craig’s attention was all for his search. With luck, Kieran would be at the office today or—

  Naturally, she’d walked directly over to him.

  And he couldn’t do what he wanted to do—tell her that she wasn’t to have the least interaction with anyone connected to the murder.

  He didn’t have the right to make that kind of demand.

  And since she was here, she might have already served John Shaw, and John Shaw would’ve talked to her….

  At the moment, though, he needed Shaw. She’d understand that; he never had to explain himself or his intentions to Kieran.

  She knew what he did for a living; he knew about her professional work for Drs. Fuller and Miro. They respected each other’s professions and discussed things when they could—or when the other might have a useful insight. Or when, as occasionally happened, they became involved in the same case.

  Fuller and Miro worked with the police and the FBI. They often gave their considered opinion of a suspected criminal’s state of mind or behavior.

  They’d been involved, all four of them together, in a situation before—the so-called Diamond Affair.

  But now…

  He wanted to hold her and yet he couldn’t; he was here professionally.

  Even as he approached the booth where John Shaw was seated, he was still hating the fact that the church where Jeannette had been found was directly behind Finnegan’s. He’d come to terms with being in love with Kieran—and the fact that she, too, dealt with criminals.

  However, it was still difficult for him to accept that she was sometimes too quick to put herself in danger in defense of others.

  Yes, it seemed to be a Casablanca moment.

  Of all the old abandoned dug-out holes in Manhattan….

  The damned catacombs just had to be close to Finnegan’s!

  Too close… This place was too close to where a young woman lay dead, where her body had been stashed with the bones of those long forgotten.

  Craig knew John Shaw, and Shaw knew him; they’d met at the pub several times when Shaw had come for his professional meetings or get-togethers—or when he just wanted to sip one of his ultra-lite beers and chill.

  “Craig!” John said, looking up at him with surprise. “I—oh, my. You’re coming to see me. So I guess it should be Special Agent Frasier. Not Craig. Look, I’m not sure what else I can say to anyone. All I know is that we opened that coffin and…and there she was.”

  Craig slid into the booth and smiled at him. “You must be pretty rattled.”

  “Yes. You’re here officially? The police told me not to say anything yet. They need to contact the poor girl’s family. I mean, that’s why you’re here—coming to me and not Kieran, right?”

  “Yes, John, this is official. The NYPD detectives are on the case, of course, but we’re taking part, as well. We’ve put together a task force. This as a very high-profile murder.”

  John nodded, his white hair—something of a strange mullet cut—flapping beside his ears. His glasses slid down his nose with his effort and he pushed them back with his forefinger.

  “Of course. This needs to be solved fast,” John said. “But…” His expression grew even more perplexed. “I don’t know how I can help anymore. I don’t know how I can help, period. Professor Digby—Aldous Digby, one of my associates—and I were there, and three grad students. Oh, and two of the construction guys. The guys were watching—waiting to get back to work. I didn’t let them touch the coffin. Nice guys, but, you know, that coffin might be two-hundred years old—well, you need to have a delicate touch. And Ms. Gilbert. The second I saw her… I have to admit I screamed. I was rattled, as you said. But I made sure everyone got out. We did and then went up to the church—the, the club area—to wait for the police.”

  “Right. So there were seven of you. I have the names,” Craig said. He was certain that the meticulous Detective McBride had sent his email.

  He’d also seen Jeannette Gilbert’s body at the site.

  He winced, the picture of her still so clear in his mind. Her lovely, pale, perfect face. The white dress. The red rose.

  John nodded. “Seven of us were in there�
�and seven of us got out quicker than a flash. And we were all interviewed.” He sighed loudly. “Hell of a thing for the owner of that place. They’ve barely been open what, a month or two? Then they have to stop work and close up because an engineer finds the coffins in the dirt and then the catacombs. They bring us in, and…sad. So sad. By God, she was beautiful! Poor thing.”

  “Just to confirm, you were there yesterday?” Craig asked him.

  “Of course. I was there as soon as the situation was reported.” He paused. “Did you know that The land where the Waldorf Astoria sits was once a potter’s field? Think of how old this city is. A number of the parks we enjoy today were originally cemeteries. I worked the old slave cemetery they discovered a few years back, so it was natural that I’d work on this one, too.”

  “You started on the church yesterday?”

  “Yes. I did. I was called yesterday morning and I made arrangements to get there as fast as possible.”

  “And then?”

  “I assessed the location. I called in Digby and my assistant, Allie Benoit. You don’t pry apart ancient caskets willy-nilly. We researched church plans, but the original architect’s plan is long gone.” He shook his head. “You must be familiar with what happened. The church sold the property to the club people. There was an outcry, not that it made any difference. But the building is so historic. Everyone wants to shop Fifth Avenue, see a show, bank on Wall Street. They forget that Wall Street was a wall. Canal Street was a canal—or a cesspool, really. Those are all part of our city’s origins and we need to preserve history!”

  Craig nodded, although he wasn’t convinced they’d needed to preserve the cesspool that had been Canal Street. He spoke quickly, not wanting the academic to bluster endlessly. “What time did you get in there?”

  “Let’s see…they called us right around ten in the morning. I was there within the hour.”

  “So, who was there then?” Craig asked. “Besides you and the colleagues and workers you’ve mentioned.”

  “Oh, lots of people. Let’s see, the manager—owner, too, I think—Roger Gleason. He’d been working down by the construction area. They stored their booze down there—in the old crypt they knew about, I mean, with the coffins and bodies all gone now. It’s a foundation, a basement. The basement—the crypts—were far more extensive than people realized. The wall had hidden some of the old coffins and shrouded corpses, so when some of the corpses were moved, the ‘second’ crypt was missed. “