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 crypt. 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.
&nb
sp; 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. “
“Okay. Anyone else know what was going on?”“At least two construction workers and one of the barmaid-slash-dancers. Have you seen what they do in there? She was dressed up in a little black bra and skirt and wearing some wicked make-up. The girls dance on tables when they’re not handing out booze.”
“So, employees, construction workers—anyone else?”
“Oh, yeah, the rep from the historic preservation group. Henry Willoughby. Loves history. He’s not a scientist, but he’s a great hands-on guy, ready to protect the past and help out if he can. The man loves New York and studied history and architecture. His wife passed away a while back, and now he gives all his love to the city. He stayed long enough last night to check in with us, make sure we were ready to catalogue the bodies and the artifacts we found. I would’ve brought in more crew, but—”
“Who stayed, then? Who was actually there when you kept working?”
“Me, Digby showed up, my grad students—plus a structural engineer and a construction worker, all to see that we didn’t bring down a wall, I assume.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, after I initially went in yesterday, the construction guys created a kind door for us.”“How long were you there yesterday?”
“Oh, it was almost midnight before I left! I didn’t touch or open anything. I stepped over the hole—where the wall broke when they working on the foundations—into the crypt beyond. Digby and my grad students and I were there. We make drawings and assessments and plan before we start the actual work, so, yes, I’d say it was midnight. By then, of course, the vampire dancers were gone and all the club people had been told to go home. Once they made the find—the second crypt—they closed down, of course, but people were hanging around. I
t’s…it’s history being reclaimed! Roger Gleason, the owner, seems like a nice guy. He has a conscience and some perspective on what’s important. We didn’t have to get court orders or anything. He simply agreed to close for a few days. They had patrol officers covering the place, making sure that once the news about the crypt got out, some Goth freak or necrophilia-pursuing freak didn’t try to break in.”
Craig nodded. He knew the answers to most of what he was asking; he just wanted it from Shaw and he wanted to ensure that their facts were straight.
“Yesterday,” Shaw said. “You understand, it was discovery day. I planned where to put some lights. I judged the space for people and decided on equipment. I did all the assessments, got my ducks in a row, you know what I mean?
Craig nodded again. “This morning when you arrived—were things exactly as you’d left them?” Craig asked.
“What?”
“Had anything you’d done been changed? Were tools missing, anything like that?”
Shaw frowned. “I…I don’t think so. I don’t get it. I’d roped off different areas in the basement for my people. We had our little brushes and chisels and…no, I’m positive that our work tables were as the way we’d left them,” he said. He leaned forward. “Didn’t Ms. Gilbert disappear about two weeks ago? She didn’t look as if she’d just been killed. She…she was beautiful as she lay there, but decay had set in. I guess down there, with the cool temperature, natural decay wouldn’t be what it would up here.” He briefly closed his eyes. “If she was embalmed, she wasn’t embalmed really well, but she was…dressed up. As if she’d been prepared for a viewing. Seeing her…it gave me chills! Chills! And I work with the dead all the time. When…when did she die?”
“The medical examiner is estimating her death to have been between one and two weeks ago. He’ll tell us more definitively when he’s done the autopsy.”
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