A Perfect Obsession

“That—what?” she asked.

“I sometimes wonder how your brother manages to be an actor. He’s a horrible liar.”

“What did he lie about?”

“What are you lying about?”

She arched her brows, wishing she’d met and fallen in love with an auto mechanic, a taxi driver—anyone but an FBI agent.

“Since I haven’t said anything, I haven’t lied about anything, either!” she protested. He wouldn’t let it be, she thought. Hell, he was an investigator. It was what he did. But what could she say? Betray a confidence?

“It’s about Kevin’s love life,” she said. There. That was the truth. “And I’m just not—Well, you know, you can’t talk to me sometimes and I can’t talk to you.”

It was the semitruth, but he probably wouldn’t have let it go at that. Except that her cell phone started ringing and she pulled it from her jeans pocket. Caller ID quickly informed her that it was one of her two psychiatrist bosses, Dr. Fuller.

“Hey,” she said, answering the phone gratefully. “Is everything all right? We did decide to close today, right?”

“We did—until about an hour ago,” Dr. Fuller said, his tone regretful. “I was actually planning a day of tennis.”

The man was very good at what he did; beyond being a gifted psychiatrist, he had an unbelievable wealth of knowledge in all things related to his field—his pharmaceutical awareness was nearly uncanny. He could rattle off the names of dozens of drugs, what they did for what, and who should and shouldn’t take them with greater ease than most people could recite the alphabet. He could offer empathy that would crack the hardest core, and be staunch and unwavering when needed.

He also looked bizarrely like a pinup underwear model and loved his wife and the game of tennis with absolute passion.

“Oh?” Kieran said, looking over at Craig and wondering if he could or couldn’t hear her employer’s words as well, since he was standing so close to her.

“We’ve gotten a call from Assistant Director Richard Egan—Craig’s boss,” Fuller said.

“Oh?” she repeated, certain now from his wary expression that Craig could hear the conversation. But this was not unusual; her bosses were frequently called in as consultants by the NYPD, the FBI and other local law-enforcement agencies. As the doctors’ psychologist, Kieran often worked on evaluations for those perps in custody, and with the doctors on identifying the personality type of those still at large.

“He wants us in on the old church murder. They’ll have someone up from Quantico, he told me, but, for the moment, he wants us in. I’m on my way, but I’m up in Connecticut. I was thinking you might go over—it’s right by Finnegan’s.”

“I’m at the bar now.”

“Can you go over right away? I’m not sure how long they’ll keep the body in situ, and I want our own photos, notes of everything you see. Can you go?”

She glanced at Craig. He was wearing a very hard expression.

“Of course,” Kieran said. “Special Agent Frasier is right in front of me. He’ll be happy to see that I’m accompanied over.”

“Great. I’ll see you as soon as traffic allows,” Dr. Fuller said.

Craig groaned aloud. “I don’t like this one,” he said softly. “I don’t like it at all. I really wish that you weren’t involved.”

“Craig—”

He lifted a hand to stop her. “I know. It’s what you do. I just wish that it wasn’t what you did on this particular case.”

Because of Kevin, she’d wind up involved one way or the other. Better that she’d been asked to go in; better that she could see the victim and the surroundings before trying to understand the psyche of the person who could do such things.

She smiled. Though she was fairly tall herself, she stood on her toes to plant a quick kiss on his lips.

“Face it. You don’t want me involved in any case.”

“Okay. True. But, this...well, I guess you’ll see for yourself. It isn’t—it isn’t something you should see. It isn’t something anyone should see, and it’s sure as hell something that never, ever should have happened. But...”

“I’m careful. I’m always careful, Craig, you know that. And I love my work with the doctors, even if it’s usually in an office.”

“Let’s go, then,” he said.

They left the office. While Craig dismissed the professor, Kieran spoke quickly with Declan, apologizing for running out, especially when the pub was now filling up. People who were never downtown were downtown that day. People who had nothing to do with architecture, churches, clubs, archaeology or anthropology. Despite police preference, Twitter had broadcast the news.

The building that had once been a place of worship and now housed Le Club Vampyre was, beyond a doubt, beautiful. It was grand and tall with flying buttresses. Gargoyles had been created for every rain gutter and more. Entrances were designed with pointed arches. Inside, she knew, the ceiling was vaulted, majestically painted with angels gracing the heights.

While Trinity and then Saint Paul’s Chapel had been designed for the use of the early British settlers, by the time Saint Augustine’s had been built, the city had grown. A colony had become a state in America, and that growing population had wanted to build something grand.

The church was literally in back of the pub, but they had to head out the front and come around to the parallel street entry. In doing so, they waded through a sea of media and onlookers to reach the interior of the church. Once inside, there still seemed to be a crowd.

“Seems like a lot of people at a crime scene,” Kieran murmured to Craig.

“Up here, in what is the nightclub area now,” Craig said, “you have a lot of cops. Some of the nightclub workers. Some historic board people. But not down below. Even before Gilbert was found, only a few people were allowed down there.”

“Ah.”

“Yep, lucky girl,” he said drily, looking ahead.

Kieran studied her surroundings quickly.

She’d been in the church a few times when it had still been a place of worship. While she’d grown up in the Catholic Church, her parents had loved the beauty of the Episcopal house of worship so close behind their pub. It had been fantastic then, so beautifully built, and it had seemed they always had a great reverend, super music and lots of good things. It had been sad to hear of the place being sold.

But not much had really been changed, not as far as the facade went, nor even the inner structure.

The new owner had maintained the feel of great space. Where the altar had once been, there was now a long bar. To the left and the right, the smaller altar areas had now become little nooks with plush chairs and coffee tables. To the far right was a bandstand and DJ’s box. Heavy red velvet drapes kept the antique feeling while allowing for the little nooks to close off for privacy. The center of the room—with the exception of a secondary bar—was empty, spacious and airy.

“There. Egan has gotten here himself, and he’s with the owner,” Craig said, taking her arm and walking over to a trio of men.

She knew Richard Egan, Craig’s boss, head of the criminal investigation division at the FBI’s New York headquarters. He looked the part; he was somewhere in his fifties, Kieran thought, with a headful of neatly cropped silver-white hair and a tall, lean, fit and extremely dignified physique. He nodded grimly as he saw them approach.

“Ms. Finnegan, thank you for coming so quickly. We have some of our people coming up, but due to the high-profile situation we have going on here, I wanted the good doctors Fuller and Miro in on it all as quickly as possible.” He paused for a moment to glance at Craig. “Mike says you went to look for Shaw?”

“I did, sir. I found him, and Ms. Finnegan, of course.”

“I’m grateful you were able to get here so quickly. Let me introduce you, Kieran,” Egan said, and turned to the other two men with whom he’d been standing. “Henry Willoughby, Ms. Kieran Finnegan.”

She quickly shook hands with the man. He was middle-aged, lean, with a trim ring of gray hair around his bald head. He was very solemn—clearly concerned with the goings-on. She’d seen him on a local news show occasionally; he had a fine way of speaking, and his enthusiasm over a museum opening or city history was contagious.

“Henry’s president of a wonderful group called Preserve Our Past,” Egan explained.

“Yes, of course, I’ve seen you on TV,” she said, and offered a small smile.