A Perfect Obsession--A Novel of Romantic Suspense Read online

  “Makes Roger Gleason a good suspect,” Mike said. “He’s definitely been here. He’s a respectable man. He might have been meeting with Jeannette Gilbert for some kind of a publicity thing. Wasn’t she part of a promotional event here?”

  “Yes, I believe she was. We don’t have anything on Roger Gleason—yet,” Craig said.

  “You hear about the find...and a day later, bring a girl down here to bury. According to the autopsy, she was dead already,” Mike mused aloud.

  “Yeah. He must have planned to leave her somewhere else. I wonder where,” Craig said. “I still can’t fathom how he got down here.”

  “The security footage is somehow jimmied.”

  Craig looked over at him. “Egan has our people working with their people. None of them can figure out how the tape was fixed. And if it wasn’t fixed, there’s another way in here.”

  “Yeah? Under the ground?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah, under the ground.”

  Mike groaned. He was older; he actually had the seniority. But the two of them had been working together for years, and they had a great relationship.

  Mike walked down the rows of tombs—those sealed and those not—muttering as he leaned over the shelves of the dead, pushing at the walls.

  Craig did the same. It was eerie work; he tried not to look at the skeletal remains beneath their decaying shrouds. He thought about Shaw and the historical people.

  They probably wouldn’t be happy. They worked with delicate chisels and tiny brushes, and he was pushing aside nearly two-hundred-year-old remains in his attempt to find what he was looking for.

  It seemed, however, that he hit nothing but the solid granite on which the city sat.

  “Special Agent Frasier!”

  He nearly bumped his head, startled by the uniformed officer who had come to talk to him.

  “There’s a rep here from the mayor’s office. She’s with Henry Willoughby, Aldous Digby and Roger Gleason. They’re waiting to talk to you in the storage area,” the officer told him.

  “Yeah, of course,” Craig said. He glanced at Mike and shrugged.

  The body was gone. Jeannette had been taken to the morgue.

  The forensic team had gone over the area with a fine-tooth comb.

  It had to be opened back up to the archaeologists, anthropologists and historians who would record the find and see that the remains were reinterred in a cemetery in Brooklyn or the Bronx.

  He and Mike walked back out past the broken wall to where Roger Gleason was waiting with Henry Willoughby and Aldous Digby and a young woman in a smart pin-striped business suit. Her heels were too high for the marble steps that led to an uneven basement floor, but she represented the mayor, so he figured her attire had to be proper.

  “Special Agents,” she said, addressing him and Mike and offering her hand in a shake. “I’m Sandra Adair from the mayor’s office. Naturally, we’re grateful for the federal interests here. And we’re appalled about the murder of Ms. Gilbert. But, gentlemen, we’ve spoken with Assistant Director Egan, and we’ve all agreed that it’s time to let the historians get back to work. Are we all in agreement?”

  “Yes, I believe it’s all right for the work to continue,” Craig said politely. “With Ms. Gilbert now in the tender hands of the medical examiner, Professor Shaw and Professor Digby may continue their documentation of the long dead.”

  He kept his voice modulated, trying to hide his irritation.

  Willoughby lowered his head, smiling, no doubt aware of Craig’s feelings. Sandra Adair seemed oblivious, and Roger Gleason apparently didn’t care one way or another; he wasn’t reopening for business yet.

  “Well, then, thank you, and, naturally, we’ll be anxious to hear that you’ve solved the murder of Ms. Gilbert,” Adair said. “Mr. Willoughby, I’ll leave it to you to call the experts back in. Oh, by the way, Special Agent Frasier. I don’t believe your phone has been working down here. I have a message for you from Detective McBride. He wants you to call him.”

  “Thank you,” Craig said.

  She turned to head back up the old marble steps. He gritted his teeth and then stepped forward to help her. She was annoying, but he didn’t want to see her flat on the ground with a broken ankle.

  “We’re okay?” Digby asked. He let out a sigh. “To be honest, I’m anxious to do this work, but I’m equally anxious to get in and out.”

  “Yes, we’ll need John Shaw,” Willoughby said as Craig headed up the stairs.

  Craig turned back to Digby. “Professor, you were here when Ms. Gilbert was found. Is there anything in particular you noted? Anything you could tell us that might help in any way?”

  Digby was thoughtful.

  “The floor,” he said.

  “The floor?”

  “People had already been in, of course. But, there’s always a kind of a film—time and decay—on the floor. Now that I’ve had time to think, there was something a little off. It seemed to me that much of it was...too clean.”

  “Was that before or after the body was found?” Craig asked him.

  “When we first came down, I thought it odd. The tombs, the shrouds, the coffins all had that film. But the floor seemed clean. Right at the start.”

  Before Craig could comment, Willoughby got down to business. “I’ll call Shaw so we can get moving. This is going to take weeks.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Willoughby,” Craig said. He headed out then and didn’t look back.

  He heard Mike speaking with Gleason, thanking him for his concern for the city.

  Then Mike headed up after him.

  An officer was at the main Gothic-arched doorway, keeping watch over who entered and exited. Craig nodded and headed out to the street, aware that Mike was with him.

  “Rat terrier,” Mike said.

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s not really her fault. I mean, there’s no reason to stop the experts from their cataloging and corpse inspections,” he said drily. “She’s doing her job, that Ms. Adair. She’s just nervous-looking and yappy—like a rat terrier.”

  Craig grinned. “Yesterday we dealt with an asshole—according to McBride—and today a rat terrier.”

  “Yeah, but at least you don’t have to pretend to be polite to an asshole!” Mike said.

  Craig took out his phone. “I’ve got to call McBride.”

  When he hung up a minute later, he told Mike, “McBride has Tobias Green down at the station.”

  “Lovely! Can’t wait to meet the man.”

  * * *

  Kieran didn’t have to be at Finnegan’s on Saturday morning.

  Saturday mornings were traditionally slow. But as she walked into the pub she mumbled something about being worried that the news might cause another surge in clientele.

  The truth was that she knew Kevin would head there when he could. It was a natural instinct for all of them; they headed to the family when they were in trouble.

  But Kevin wasn’t at the pub. He did, however, call her right away.

  “I’m actually honestly working,” he told her. “One line in that new cop show. I’m a detective today. Ironic, isn’t it?” he asked her.

  “Kevin, you have to talk to Craig. He knows that Brent Westwood is lying.”

  “How?”

  “Instinct? I don’t know. He just knows. Maybe the way Brent Westwood came across when he headed to the FBI building and they interviewed him.”

  “They did know each other. That much is true,” Kevin said.

  “Let Craig and Mike and the cops know the truth, Kevin. Don’t you want them to catch her killer?”

  “God, yes!”

  Kieran instantly regretted her question. She quickly assured her twin that she was there for him, and that he had to make the decision t
o talk.

  When she hung up, she noted that John Shaw was at the bar. He’d ordered one of their Saturday specials—a lobster pie—but he was picking at his food. Instead of sipping at his old ultra-lite beer, he had a scotch glass in front of him again.

  Empty.

  “Kieran!” he called, seeing her. “Be a love and come on over here! Would you be so kind as to get me another drink?”

  She walked over to the table and shook her head. She pushed a glass of water his way as she said, “You’re trying to numb your mind with shots, and it doesn’t work that way. Talk to me instead.”

  John groaned. “So, the pub-keeper girl just has to be a psychologist. Don’t go trying to fix me, Kieran. I’m not ready to be fixed.”

  “What happens when they call you back in—and it’s barely eleven thirty in the morning and you’re on your way to full-blown drunk?”

  “You’re way too pretty and young to sound like my mother!” John said. “I’ll just call Declan over here and tell him he runs a pub and that you won’t give me any alcohol!”

  “Call him. This is a pub, John. In the true tradition. We’re not out to make huge profits on our booze—”

  “You’ll be out of business soon enough!”

  “No, John, listen to me—”

  She broke off because his cell rang and he quickly picked it up.

  Then his eyes widened and he stared at Kieran.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “I’m ready!”

  He hung up, staring at her. “What are you, my girl? A damned clairvoyant? That was the mayor’s office. I can get back in the basement! I can go to work. Quick, Kieran, can you get me coffee?”

  “That I can do,” she told him.

  When she returned with the coffee, he’d consumed half his lunch and half the glass of water.

  “John, may I come with you?”

  “Um...well, I have to get ahold of Professor Digby and my grad students. I have to make a new assessment of what we should be doing. And I’ll need more pictures. Real work won’t start right away. It takes a bit to get organized again, you know. But you’ve already been down there, you’re part of the task force, or your doctors are anyway and...sure!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey! You can act as my assistant until the grad students get there. How’s that? I know you’re an excellent note taker!”

  Kieran thanked him again and told Kevin what she was doing. She thought about at least texting Craig as well, but then decided not to. He seemed to be especially agitated about this case, and there didn’t seem to be any reason to get him going. Besides, she wasn’t in any danger; there were still cops all around the old church.

  “Anthropology and archaeology!” Shaw said as they walked toward the church. “So similar and yet, different. As you know, I am also an anthropologist—an expert in the field of comparative study of people and their social evolvement, their different cultures. Archaeology is the study of human activity in the past—largely based on the implements they used. We come together nicely, studying what foods were eaten, what diseases were suffered, how long people lived, what made some live much longer than others. Oh, I do love the study of man! No other such fascinating and varied creature exists! Well, I mean, you know the differences in psychology and psychiatry—lots more years of study and often major money-making abilities being a few. But the study of the human being in all its guises is so very, very fascinating. I’m delighted to be getting back in—”

  He looked at her and broke off. “I am so sorry about Ms. Gilbert. I do hope they catch the killer quickly. It’s just that...”

  “It’s all right,” Kieran assured him. “I understand.”

  John Shaw produced his credentials at the arched entrance to the building. Kieran had been a little worried that an officer might not let her in, but the cop on duty at the door had apparently seen her there before. She was ushered right in along with the professor.

  Nothing seemed to have changed in the club area since the day before. It was, in fact, empty. As they headed toward the bar and the marble steps behind it down to the crypts below, she heard voices.

  Their footsteps must have echoed because, as they neared the stairs to the crypts, two men appeared from the offices to the left of the bar.

  Roger Gleason, wearing another handsome, casual suit, and Henry Willoughby, nicely dressed as well, but just a bit heavier and not quite so dapper, stepped out to greet them.

  “John, good to see you back. Professor Digby will be joining you shortly. He ran out to grab a coffee. We had a rep from the mayor’s office down before. We’re good to go,” Willoughby said. He smiled, noting Kieran. “Good day, Miss Finnegan. You’re back. You have an interest in the very old, as well?”

  “I love the history of New York,” she told him. “My family, you know, owns a pub that has been serving since the pre–Civil War days.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said, but he looked at John Shaw.

  “Kieran has kindly agreed to serve as something of an assistant for me while I get myself together again,” John said.

  “Ah, pity!” Roger Gleason said, smiling as he looked at Kieran. “I would have loved it if you were applying for a job. You know, don’t you, that I also work to keep our city entertained? My bartenders and waiters and waitresses are invited to perform now and then. Helps with their tips and makes my place a bit different. First saw something like it in Vegas. Thought it was great.”

  “That is great. There are so many talented people in this city,” Kieran said.

  “And young and stunning. And a blue-eyed redhead!” Roger Gleason exclaimed, studying her.

  “Very stunning,” Willoughby said, appearing a bit anxious. “But, Roger, she is here to help John get going, not to apply for a job.”

  “Of course. There is still an officer sitting in the basement, though I’m not sure why,” Gleason said. “The side doors are locked, and there is no way in except through the front. But then, we’re all about preserving what we can of New York’s fine history,” he added.

  “Let’s head on down, shall we?” John Shaw suggested, trying not to sound giddy.

  “Yes, yes!” Willoughby said. He led the way down the stairs.

  “Enjoy, professionals,” Gleason said. “I’ll be in my office, planning for the business I might have again one day.” He left them.

  Kieran quickly followed Willoughby and John Shaw down the broad marble stairs. Neither man gave a glance to the storeroom with its racks of wine and liquor and kegs of beer.

  They headed straight to the area by the broken-down wall.

  “Kieran, I know you have a notepad, so jot down all this. Naturally, the original coffin is gone—I’m assuming the cops will return it when it’s time. But I do want to point out that I believe the coffin was crafted and brought down here about 1830. I believe it was made of mahogany, an expensive wood. Now, remember, in the early 1800s, this was pretty far uptown and the parish had a clientele who was making good money at the time.” He walked ahead, expounding as he went. “Now, toward the back where there are so many dead in shrouds, I believe they might have been victims of yellow fever or some other deadly disease to have swept through. There is a partition of sorts toward the rear that might designate a fear that the dead must be away from the others, while accorded a Christian burial to their standard of living. During times of pestilence, it took time for coffin makers to keep up. Let it also be remembered that the art of embalming did not come into popularity until the Civil War, when so many dead had to go great distances to be returned to their families. But the cool temperature down here and the structure of the granite seemed to have created something like natural mummies for us!” He walked about as he spoke, pointing things out.

  Kieran tried hard to keep up with notes. The man could have definitely used a voice recorde
r.

  Mr. Willoughby scampered behind them. “Professor Shaw, fear not! Your work will not be interrupted. Mr. Gleason might be whining about his club being closed at the moment, but he’s also a very wealthy man, and happy that the place in the museum for many of the artifacts we find down here will be named for him,” Willoughby said. He looked at Kieran and smiled gently. “He’s really not such a bad sort, Ms. Finnegan, my dear. He just thinks that you would be a lovely addition to his crew of employees. You do have the loveliest features! Like an alabaster statue!”

  “Thank you,” Kieran murmured, and hurried after Shaw, who was now halfway down the side wall, noting dates when he saw them. “Bad wood! Horrible rot,” he pointed out, pausing. “And how odd. The others here are in coffins as well...and of much better quality. Look at the brass on those handles, dear. While on this... Hmm, can’t even tell right off what the handles were made of. My God! That cross on that one must be twenty-four karat gold!”

  Kieran kept up with Shaw’s rambling, noting, however, that he seemed to be very aware of wood and brass and precious metals, even the linen used when they came to the corpses that were covered in shrouds.

  She kept noting the dead.

  Several of the coffins had windows at the head section—something popular in the 1800s, Shaw noted, when people feared being buried alive, and when it was in fashion to look at the coffin, and, through the window, see the face of the deceased. Of course, they weren’t buried here. Some were entombed; some, Shaw said, were merely laid to rest. “Shelved; just like in the Roman catacombs,” he said. “I have, of course, seen this before. Not common after the mid-eighteenth century, but then, our dead were here before then!”

  “Don’t touch anything, Ms. Finnegan,” Willoughby said softly. “You never know what kind of mold or fungi might have grown down here. Once everyone is working, gloves will be a must. You have heard, of course, about the so-called curses that came with the pyramids? It’s my firm belief, after a great deal of study, that every such death can be deemed a natural cause, since these microscopic killer creatures are natural.”