A Perfect Obsession

“And you can’t convict a guy for being an asshole,” McBride said sadly.

“We’ll still want to talk to him,” Craig murmured.

“Construction workers, bar employees—we’re missing people,” Mike said.

“Yeah, well, we could be missing suspects that include all of Manhattan and beyond, since the news was out about the find,” McBride said wearily. “What have we got off security tapes? Did Tech finish with them yet?”

“We got nothing,” Craig said.

“How can you have nothing? I saw the cameras there.”

“The techs studied the tapes over and over. Roger Gleason stayed late—until Professor Shaw was all set up for today. You see him and Shaw leaving together—in fact, you see Gleason setting the alarm. And, yes, the alarm company has been questioned and nothing went off last night. The cameras recorded through the night. You see no one go in and no one go out.”

“That’s impossible,” McBride said.

“It was a church,” Mike argued. “There’s more than one entrance. The door to the left leads to the offices—at least what was offices when it was a church. The door to the right led outside.”

“I tried it, Mike,” Craig replied. “It doesn’t open now. The next building is flush against it.”

“There has to be another way out,” Mike said. “I feel like an idiot. I went through every room at the place. I don’t remember another door, but—”

“There are two side doors next to the main pointed arch entry,” Craig said. “Locked from the outside, on the same alarm system. In an emergency, they open out.”

“I had Forensics inspect those doors. They weren’t jimmied. They weren’t opened,” Mike said.

“Shouldn’t pass a fire code that way,” McBride grumbled.

“That’s just it. An alarm to the fire department goes off when they’re opened,” Mike said.

“Something had to have happened—a technical failure?” McBride posited. “And of course there are no alleys.”

“It’s Manhattan,” Mike said. “Buildings wind up flush together because real estate is prime. No alleys,” he added, looking at Craig.

“No. No alleys,” Craig agreed.

“The cameras had to have been tampered with. Someone had to have jimmied the alarm system,” McBride said. “It’s looking like the owner himself might be guilty in this thing. Who the hell else could have done all that?”

Craig had to admit that it seemed the detective was right.

How had someone gotten into the church, carried the body downstairs and gotten it into the coffin without being seen?

“She was killed by a ghost,” Mike muttered.

“Seems that way,” McBride said, shaking his head. “But she’s still a real corpse. A ghost would have had to have carried in a real corpse!”

Craig’s buzzer rang then; he hit the intercom.

“Special Agent Frasier,” one of the secretaries said, “Dr. Fuller and Ms. Finnegan are here. I’ve taken the liberty of sending someone down to get them. Do I hold them out here or send them in?”

“Send them right in,” Craig said.

“Good. The shrinks can explain how ghosts work and make victims invisible, too,” McBride said, his sarcasm a cover for his exasperation. “Something’s wrong—film, tape, digital images. They had to be manipulated.”

“We have the best techs in the world,” Mike said.

“I don’t care how good you are, there’s always someone better,” McBride argued.

That was true enough, Craig thought.

“And that would point to someone who knew Le Club Vampyre,” he said aloud, glancing over at Mike.

“Or the church—when it was a church,” Mike said.

“It’s probably a new system. It’s different being a church and a nightclub,” Craig pointed out.

He was glad then to see Bentley Fuller walk in with Kieran.

“Guy looks like he’s in great shape. He’d make a solid FBI guy,” McBride commented beneath his breath, and he stood to greet Fuller.

Craig thanked them for coming. Kieran nodded at him and took a seat, but he picked up on her vibe right away. She looked uncomfortable. He wondered why. She hadn’t appeared so miserable the first time she’d come down to the FBI headquarters, back when they barely knew one another. By now, of course, she’d been here often enough. But still, there was something off about her.

Fuller walked right up to Craig’s board and stared at the image of Cary Howell.

“Wow,” Fuller murmured. “Same work—as in what the killer seemed to do. Same hand, too. I would be stunned if it wasn’t.”

Kieran was looking at the image, too.

“But here’s what different. Cary Howell was in a mausoleum. The old lady who died might have lived on for years, and Cary wouldn’t have been found until then. Why hide one girl and put the other where she’d be found the next day?” Craig asked.

“He thinks he’s an artist,” Kieran said.

“What?” Mike asked.

“He’s creating something with these women—art, in his mind. Temporary exhibits, if you will,” Dr. Fuller said. “I think he realized with his first victim that no one saw the true beauty of his creation since he didn’t make sure that the body was found quickly enough,” Fuller explained. “I do believe that Cary Howell was his first victim—or, I hate to say it—an earlier victim. He has been experimenting and learning.”

“Why put them in a coffin then, period?” Craig asked.

“Because they’re dead, and the dead belong in coffins, but their beauty should be remembered, honored,” Dr. Fuller said.

Craig glanced at Kieran. She was staring at his board. Her face was white.

“Kieran, are you all right?” he asked her.

“Fine,” she told him. She leaned forward. “I was looking at your suspect list. And the thing is—everyone in New York knew about the historical find.”

“Yes, but, everyone in New York didn’t know the layout of the church or where the wall had been broken,” Craig said.

“You have ‘mystery lover’ on the list,” she said.