A Perfect Obsession

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

He’d been in his office, reading statements 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 leave—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 hard-core 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 a 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 PD 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 had 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 archaeological dig at old Saint 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 the destruction of old historic places. 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, who shrugged.

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

Egan had ended by saying, “Yes, she’s dead. And it is bizarre—as bizarre as that Fredericksburg case, maybe even more so. Because in this case, the perp had to know she’d be found quickly. He placed her in a historical site where anthropologists and archaeologists 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 at the club.

Techs were going over those now, Egan had said.

“That’s a bitch!” Egan had exclaimed. “Try looking for something out of the ordinary when every damned customer in the place looks like an escapee from a B Goth flick or worse! Not to mention that the club closed down when the crypt was discovered. There’s no club security overnight 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 ME on duty was Anthony Andrews, a fine and detail-oriented doctor, but he hadn’t really started his examination of the body 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 seen 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. Craig hadn’t known the 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 ME 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. “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 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. It’s possible the killer obtained it.”

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

McBride had 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 archaeologists. 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 at the time but him, an associate professor and a few grad students. I have names and numbers, 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, the killer 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.

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

Craig had 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.

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

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.

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 his girlfriend 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 the world.

Finnegan’s.

CHAPTER TWO (#u1331d861-6ae7-562e-8a2a-ce4c074c1eb4)

AS HE ENTERED the pub, Craig’s attention was all for his search. With luck, Kieran would be at the office today or—

But, no, she walked directly over to him.