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.
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.
And he couldn’t do what he wanted to do—tell her that she wasn’t to have the least interaction with anyone connected to the murder.
He didn’t have the right to make that kind of demand.
And since she was here, she might have already served John Shaw, and John Shaw would’ve talked to her...
At the moment, though, he needed Shaw. She’d understand that; he never had to explain himself or his intentions to Kieran.
She knew what he did for a living; he knew about her professional work for Drs. Fuller and Miro. They respected each other’s professions and discussed things when they could—or when the other might have a useful insight. Or when, as occasionally happened, they became involved in the same case.
Fuller and Miro worked with the police and the FBI. They often gave their considered opinion of a suspected criminal’s state of mind or behavior.
They’d been involved, all four of them together, in a situation before—the so-called Diamond Affair.
But now...
He wanted to hold her and yet he couldn’t; he was here professionally. He strode past her, his eyes on Shaw.
Even as he approached the booth where John Shaw was seated, he was still hating the fact that the church where Jeannette had been found was directly behind Finnegan’s. He’d come to terms with being in love with Kieran—and the fact that she, too, dealt with criminals.
However, it was still difficult for him to accept that she was sometimes too quick to put herself in danger in defense of others.
Yes, it seemed to be a Casablanca moment.
Of all the old abandoned dug out holes in Manhattan, the damned catacombs just had to be close to Finnegan’s!
Too close... This place was too close to where a young woman lay dead, where her body had been stashed with the bones of those long forgotten.
Craig knew John Shaw, and Shaw knew him; they’d met at the pub several times when the professor had come for his professional meetings or get-togethers—or when he just wanted to sip one of his ultra-lite beers and chill.
“Craig!” John said, looking up at him with surprise. “I—Oh, my. You’re coming to see me. So I guess it should be Special Agent Frasier. Not Craig. Look, I’m not sure what else I can say to anyone. All I know is that we opened that coffin and...and there she was.”
Craig slid into the booth and smiled at him. “You must be pretty rattled.”
“Yes. You’re here officially? The police told me not to say anything yet. They need to contact the poor girl’s family. I mean, that’s why you’re here—coming to me and not Kieran, right?”
“Yes, John, this is official. The NYPD detectives are on the case, of course, but we’re taking part, as well. We’ve put together a task force. This as a very high-profile murder.”
John nodded, his white hair—something of a strange mullet cut—flapping beside his ears. His glasses slid down his nose with his effort, and he pushed them back with his forefinger.
“Of course. This needs to be solved fast,” John said. “But...” His expression grew even more perplexed. “I don’t know how I can help any more. I don’t know how I can help, period. Professor Digby—Aldous Digby, one of my associates—and I were there, and three grad students. Oh, and two of the construction guys. The guys were watching—waiting to get back to work. I didn’t let them touch the coffin. Nice guys, but, you know, that coffin might be two hundred years old and, well, you need to have a delicate touch. And Ms. Gilbert... The second I saw her... I have to admit I screamed. I was rattled, as you said. But I made sure everyone got out. We did and then went up to the church—the club area—to wait for the police.”
“Right. So there were seven of you. I have the names,” Craig said. He was certain that the meticulous Detective McBride had sent his email.
He’d also seen Jeannette Gilbert’s body at the site.
He winced, the picture of her still so clear in his mind. Her lovely, pale, perfect face. The white dress. The red rose.
John nodded. “Seven of us were in there—and seven of us got out quicker than a flash.