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“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.
“Yes.”
“I don’t see Jeannette Gilbert dating anyone who wasn’t young, her age, say. Probably someone appealing. I don’t see that as John Shaw or Henry Willoughby or...”
She paused, her voice trailing.
“Or Roger Gleason?” he asked.
“Gleason is...interesting,” she admitted.
“I think most young women would find him appealing,” Mike said.
“Slimy,” McBride said, shaking his head.
Kieran glanced at McBride and nodded. “Some women are drawn to men like him, though. He keeps himself fit, he has a quick smile and—here’s something important—he had something to offer them. He must have seen plenty of young women coming in for a job at the club.”
“Rich as Croesus, he is. He owns the building,” Mike pointed out. “The whole old church. Man, that’s some mean property in Manhattan.”
Craig looked at Dr. Fuller. “What about Miss Gilbert’s manager, Oswald Martin? The man is in his late thirties. He made her rich. But she grew up, and maybe she wanted to go her own way.”
“Possible, but unlikely in my mind. She was making a fortune for him. He tried to rule her life, yes, but she was getting what she wanted. She could slip away when she wanted,” Fuller said. “She gave impromptu press interviews—without him around.”
“He might have been furious over the mystery lover,” Mike said.
“And she might have just made up the mystery lover for good press,” Fuller said.
Kieran looked at him quickly. “A mystery lover is always good press,” she said.
“We’re all speculating now,” Craig said, putting an end to the talk. “I have agents out to find Oswald. I plan to speak with him tonight. Can you, at the moment, give us anything helpful?” he asked Fuller.
“Yes, Kieran and I have talked, but we needed to know more about his first victim, which is why we came down now, without a complete report with explanations. This is what we’ve got so far. This man has money. He can come and go as he pleases. He’s got a respectable appearance. Normally, I would have said he was between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, but Kieran suggested a little older and I think she’s right. He’s gained the respect he receives and he’s intelligent. I imagine he pulled up the original church plans. They’re available online, by the way, though not even online—or in any archive—will you find a reference to the hidden crypt. Your killer listens to the news. He knew about the findings.”
“And how the hell did he get in?” Mike murmured.
“There’s always a way,” Craig said.
“But the security footage—”
“Yes, that remains a mystery,” Craig said, cutting off his partner. “What else can you tell us, Dr. Fuller?”
“The killer used a mausoleum before—a family mausoleum. He was dissatisfied. I believe he was in love with Ms. Gilbert—as he had been with Ms. Howell. Not sexually. His love is above all that. His love is for perfection, I believe. Both women were more than attractive. They were beautiful. He laid them out almost tenderly. They were...art.” Fuller kept his eye on the pictures as he spoke. “I’ll write up my complete report. You’ll have it first thing in the morning.”
Craig glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost eight o’clock, but he knew his day would go on; he was expecting Oswald Martin at the office soon.
If the man was innocent, he’d certainly agree to be questioned. And if he was guilty? Well, he’d agree, too. He’d want to appear to be cooperating.
“Dr. Fuller, thank you for coming in.”
“Well, then, I’m off. Heading to the office. I now feel the need for continued research on the minds of such men,” Dr. Fuller said.
Kieran stood.
“No need to join me. You were a godsend today, Kieran. Thank you,” he said. He smiled at her and then at Craig. “I’m quite certain that Special Agent Frasier will see to it that you get home safely.”
Kieran looked like a deer caught in headlights.
What the hell?
“Um, sure, thank you,” she said to Fuller. “Actually, I can just walk to Finnegan’s. I was supposed to be helping today. It’s a Friday night.”
It wasn’t unusual that she said she was going back to the pub. What struck Craig was the way she seemed to be so confused, unsure of what she really wanted to do.
“Someone will drive you,” Craig said. “I’ll meet you as soon as we’re done here.”
She nodded. Her smile for him was weak. She was almost out the door to the conference room when she seemed to remember Mike and McBride. She turned and bid them both goodbye, and then hurried out.
Craig didn’t get a chance to wonder about her behavior. The intercom buzzed again.
Oswald Martin was there. Were they ready for him?
Hell, yes.
* * *
Kieran had been sending Kevin texts half the day.
He hadn’t gotten back.
He might have gone home, but she doubted it. His audition might have run long. He might have had an instant callback.
But he should have texted her by then.
She looked at her phone as she was leaving the conference room and saw a missed text.
He was heading to the pub.
Walking out to reception, head still down over her phone, she crashed into a man coming toward the conference room.
She jumped, apologizing, as he steadied her, his hands on her shoulders.
She knew him from the tabloids.
Oswald Martin.
“Oh! I’m sorry, so sorry,” she murmured. He had an escort—a blue-suited FBI agent.
“It’s all right,” Martin said to her.
“This way, Mr. Martin,” his escort said.
