A Perfect Obsession

But her two roles converged nicely that day.

Traffic was exceptionally bad, and by the time Dr. Fuller arrived, Jeannette Gilbert’s body was long gone. Still, he headed first to the church to view the scene of the discovery, then he came around the corner to Finnegan’s and met with Kieran in Declan’s office.

Kieran got him a scotch—he said he needed one, just one—and ordered shepherd’s pie for him. He’d been driving a long time.

He ate quickly. He sipped his scotch as if it were nectar from above.

She’d already texted the pictures to him; she went over her sketches and her notes.

He sat for a minute, thoughtful.

“They’re going to suspect her manager and agent, Oswald Martin,” he said.

“Yes, I know. But you don’t think it was him?” Kieran asked.

“She was his meal ticket. He also worked with her for years,” Fuller pointed out. “Tell me—what were your impressions?”

Kieran looked at him and then plunged in. “Organized. The killer knew what he was doing. It’s likely he’s killed before.”

Fuller nodded. “As I understand it, the FBI’s on it because a body was found similarly in another state.”

Kieran continued with her assessment. “She trusted whoever killed her, so, therefore, I don’t think it was a random person off the street. Also, whoever did it is meticulous in his own habits. Maybe not clinically insane, but I’d say crazy, just not visibly so. Sociopath, beyond a doubt. His own satisfaction excludes any concern for others. The usual profile would suggest a young man, late twenties to early thirties. But I think he’s a little older. I also think he’s got a decent income, is well educated. After all, he can definitely do some research. He found out about the crypts under the church. What puzzles me, though, is why he placed her in a coffin there. He had to have known that she’d be found quickly.”

“Maybe he wanted her found,” Dr. Fuller speculated. “His first victim, however, was in a mausoleum many weeks before the woman whose space she was in died. Then again, maybe that didn’t please him.”

“You mean that killing is like art to him?”

“Killing—and displaying the body.”

Kieran nodded. “Jeannette was stunningly beautiful in life. Living art. Maybe he tried to preserve his victims, but couldn’t?”

“Possibly. Buying mortuary supplies might raise a question.”

Kieran gave him a brief, grim smile. “He’s living his life in his own mind. Maybe he saw something in her.” She thought of the original murder. “Dr. Fuller, what was the other victim like? What do you know about her?”

“Young. Her name was Cary Howell. That’s all I have. Frankly, we need to get over to the FBI offices. It’s just a short walk south on Broadway—I won’t even have to drive again. You ready?”

* * *

“Two hundred and eighty-five miles—driving time approximately five to six hours, with a couple of pit stops, down to Virginia,” Craig said. He had his board set up, having accrued more records on the Virginia case. “Victim number one—that we know of—Cary Howell, was found in a crypt when the matron of a family was about to go in.” He pointed to her picture. “Killed six months ago.”

Then he pointed to Jeannette’s photo. “Gentlemen,” he told McBride and Mike, “please note Cary and then Jeannette. I think you’ll agree it’s highly unlikely that we have a copycat on our hands—not when you see the details.”

“A rose in her hands,” Mike murmured.

“White dress,” McBride said. “Let me guess—Cary Howell was stabbed in the heart?”

“She was. Of course, you’ll note the decay of the body is much greater in the first case. She’d been there longer, and Virginia can be hot.” He glanced at his notes and looked over them. “In fact,” he said softly, “the Virginia ME bemoans the fact that the heat does what it does to bodies. The decay caused breakdowns that made certain chemical testing impossible for him.”

“Still, Virginia,” McBride said. “We need to find a suspect who was in Virginia when Cary Howell was killed—and here in New York when Jeannette was killed.”

“Not so easy,” Craig said. “The Virginia ME could only narrow down the time of death on Cary to about a week, and that week would have been six months ago. The drive to Virginia and back can be done in a day.”

“Still, we can find out who has been to Virginia,” McBride said. “Or if any of our suspects left the city around that time.”

“Not if they took side roads,” Mike noted.

“Hard to get in or out of New York City without hitting some kind of a camera,” McBride said.

“True—but there are ways,” Craig said. “But I don’t believe that Jeannette Gilbert went off with just anyone. She knew her killer. She trusted him. That makes me believe that the killer is from or lives in New York City since, even though she traveled for work, Jeannette spent her entire life here.”

“The other victim trusted her killer, too,” McBride said.

“But Jeannette Gilbert was a media star. She was known. Right now, I’d like to look at this case as if it is a separate situation. We need to focus on possible suspects right here in the city, people who were close to Jeannette Gilbert.”

“Sure,” McBride said glumly.

“Naturally, everyone at the church-nightclub was questioned immediately, but only Gleason had actually ever met Ms. Gilbert, and that was because of an ad done at the club. He made no attempt to hide and didn’t avoid any questions. He’ll remain on our radar. Number one suspect—according to the tabloids—is her manager, Oswald Martin,” Craig said. “I have officers out trying to find him now.”

“Can’t convict a man via the tabloids,” McBride noted.

Mike had a sheaf of notes in front of him. “She had a row with a photographer a while back—Leo Holt. High-fashion photographer. It was covered in the tabloids. And they lived in buildings on the same block by Central Park. However, there’s nothing to link him to her disappearance.”

“We really have nothing to link anyone yet. Thing is, I don’t think we’re going after the usual—because of Virginia. I don’t think it’s someone with whom she just had a petty argument. I don’t think it’s a scientist working at the scene, either.” Craig shook his head. “But I like charts and lists, so I’ll add Holt’s name.”

“Going in that direction, there’s John Shaw himself,” McBride offered. “He’s creepy enough, crazy enough. My gut says no, but you could write him down, too.”

Craig did. “Then,” he added, “we have the owner of the club. Roger Gleason.”

“Definitely slimy,” Mike said.

“Can’t convict on slimy,” McBride put in.

“No, but we have to start somewhere,” Craig said. “The first one who usually comes under suspicion is the significant other. In our case—the mystery man.”

Mike cleared his throat. “We don’t know who he is. That’s why he’s a mystery man.”

“We’re going to find out. We have statements from friends and associates and coworkers already, since she was listed as a missing person,” Craig said. “It will come out.”

“We have to add in every one of the people involved with Shaw,” Mike said. “His colleague, Professor Digby. Henry Willoughby had been there, too, representing the historic preservation group. And then the grad students.” He referred to his notes. “Allie Benoit, Joshua Harding and Sam Frick. All of them go to the university here, and all have worked with Dr. Shaw before.”

“There’s her family,” McBride said. “The aunt... She’s just kind of a sad sack. And the step-uncle, Tobias Green—a total asshole. Never bothered with the girl, begrudged every piece of food she put in her mouth as a kid—and threatened to sue the NYPD if we didn’t find her!”

“Add the asshole step-uncle to the list,” Mike said.

“I don’t think you should write asshole on that board of yours. Probably against Bureau policy,” McBride said wearily.

“He probably is an ass,” Craig agreed, “but I’m not sure if that puts him with the kind of man we’re looking for. Gilbert wouldn’t have feared him, but how would he have gotten to know our other victim?”