A Perfect Obsession

“Maybe he wanted her found,” Dr. Fuller speculated. “His first victim, however, was in a mausoleum many weeks before the woman whose space she was in died. Then again, maybe that didn’t please him.”

“You mean that killing is like art to him?”

“Killing—and displaying the body.”

Kieran nodded. “Jeannette was stunningly beautiful in life. Living art. Maybe he tried to preserve his victims, but couldn’t?”

“Possibly. Buying mortuary supplies might raise a question.”

Kieran gave him a brief, grim smile. “He’s living his life in his own mind. Maybe he saw something in her.” She thought of the original murder. “Dr. Fuller, what was the other victim like? What do you know about her?”

“Young. Her name was Cary Howell. That’s all I have. Frankly, we need to get over to the FBI offices. It’s just a short walk south on Broadway—I won’t even have to drive again. You ready?”

* * *

“Two hundred and eighty-five miles—driving time approximately five to six hours, with a couple of pit stops, down to Virginia,” Craig said. He had his board set up, having accrued more records on the Virginia case. “Victim number one—that we know of—Cary Howell, was found in a crypt when the matron of a family was about to go in.” He pointed to her picture. “Killed six months ago.”

Then he pointed to Jeannette’s photo. “Gentlemen,” he told McBride and Mike, “please note Cary and then Jeannette. I think you’ll agree it’s highly unlikely that we have a copycat on our hands—not when you see the details.”

“A rose in her hands,” Mike murmured.

“White dress,” McBride said. “Let me guess—Cary Howell was stabbed in the heart?”

“She was. Of course, you’ll note the decay of the body is much greater in the first case. She’d been there longer, and Virginia can be hot.” He glanced at his notes and looked over them. “In fact,” he said softly, “the Virginia ME bemoans the fact that the heat does what it does to bodies. The decay caused breakdowns that made certain chemical testing impossible for him.”

“Still, Virginia,” McBride said. “We need to find a suspect who was in Virginia when Cary Howell was killed—and here in New York when Jeannette was killed.”

“Not so easy,” Craig said. “The Virginia ME could only narrow down the time of death on Cary to about a week, and that week would have been six months ago. The drive to Virginia and back can be done in a day.”

“Still, we can find out who has been to Virginia,” McBride said. “Or if any of our suspects left the city around that time.”

“Not if they took side roads,” Mike noted.

“Hard to get in or out of New York City without hitting some kind of a camera,” McBride said.

“True—but there are ways,” Craig said. “But I don’t believe that Jeannette Gilbert went off with just anyone. She knew her killer. She trusted him. That makes me believe that the killer is from or lives in New York City since, even though she traveled for work, Jeannette spent her entire life here.”

“The other victim trusted her killer, too,” McBride said.

“But Jeannette Gilbert was a media star. She was known. Right now, I’d like to look at this case as if it is a separate situation. We need to focus on possible suspects right here in the city, people who were close to Jeannette Gilbert.”

“Sure,” McBride said glumly.

“Naturally, everyone at the church-nightclub was questioned immediately, but only Gleason had actually ever met Ms. Gilbert, and that was because of an ad done at the club. He made no attempt to hide and didn’t avoid any questions. He’ll remain on our radar. Number one suspect—according to the tabloids—is her manager, Oswald Martin,” Craig said. “I have officers out trying to find him now.”

“Can’t convict a man via the tabloids,” McBride noted.

Mike had a sheaf of notes in front of him. “She had a row with a photographer a while back—Leo Holt. High-fashion photographer. It was covered in the tabloids. And they lived in buildings on the same block by Central Park. However, there’s nothing to link him to her disappearance.”

“We really have nothing to link anyone yet. Thing is, I don’t think we’re going after the usual—because of Virginia. I don’t think it’s someone with whom she just had a petty argument. I don’t think it’s a scientist working at the scene, either.” Craig shook his head. “But I like charts and lists, so I’ll add Holt’s name.”

“Going in that direction, there’s John Shaw himself,” McBride offered. “He’s creepy enough, crazy enough. My gut says no, but you could write him down, too.”

Craig did. “Then,” he added, “we have the owner of the club. Roger Gleason.”

“Definitely slimy,” Mike said.

“Can’t convict on slimy,” McBride put in.

“No, but we have to start somewhere,” Craig said. “The first one who usually comes under suspicion is the significant other. In our case—the mystery man.”

Mike cleared his throat. “We don’t know who he is. That’s why he’s a mystery man.”

“We’re going to find out. We have statements from friends and associates and coworkers already, since she was listed as a missing person,” Craig said. “It will come out.”

“We have to add in every one of the people involved with Shaw,” Mike said. “His colleague, Professor Digby. Henry Willoughby had been there, too, representing the historic preservation group. And then the grad students.” He referred to his notes. “Allie Benoit, Joshua Harding and Sam Frick. All of them go to the university here, and all have worked with Dr. Shaw before.”

“There’s her family,” McBride said. “The aunt... She’s just kind of a sad sack. And the step-uncle, Tobias Green—a total asshole. Never bothered with the girl, begrudged every piece of food she put in her mouth as a kid—and threatened to sue the NYPD if we didn’t find her!”

“Add the asshole step-uncle to the list,” Mike said.

“I don’t think you should write asshole on that board of yours. Probably against Bureau policy,” McBride said wearily.

“He probably is an ass,” Craig agreed, “but I’m not sure if that puts him with the kind of man we’re looking for. Gilbert wouldn’t have feared him, but how would he have gotten to know our other victim?”

“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.

“Yes,” Martin said, but he was still staring down at Kieran.

“I’m Oswald Martin,” he said.

“How do you do?” she murmured, not offering her name.

He kept looking at her, and then he took a card from his pocket. “If you’re ever looking for work, please...just see my card.” He thrust it at her and instinctively, Kieran took the card.

“Mr. Martin, if you will?” his FBI escort said firmly.

“Of course, of course,” he said. “My card—”

“Mr. Martin,” his escort repeated.

“Perfect!” Martin said, walking away.

CHAPTER FOUR

OSWALD MARTIN SEEMED appropriately grim, but comfortable and at ease as he spoke in the conference room with Craig, Mike and Detective Larry McBride.

He was horrified, a term that seemed to refer to everyone’s feeling about the discovery of Jeannette Gilbert, but he’d been begging the police to listen to him from the time she’d failed to respond to his call.

“The papers!” he said with disgust, waving a hand in the air. “Internet, media—whatever! These days, everything in the world is out there in a split-second tweet. That’s how I found out she was dead. Jeannette! A young woman—a beautiful girl I’ve worked with for nearly a decade—is killed, and I see it first on social media. I told the police over and over again that she wasn’t flighty, that she didn’t just take off and that she wouldn’t run away from me. But because I ‘discovered’ Jeannette, and because I’m older by several years, they just have to turn it into something dirty, something wrong. Yes, I loved her—like a big brother. And she loved me, in just the same way. The stuff I’ve read is disgusting. I was ‘angry’ about her so-called mystery lover. What a crock. She was twenty-seven years old. She’d seen other men through the years. I could advise her, no more. Did the police really investigate? No, they were just as bad as the tabloids!”

Martin was an interesting man. Late thirties, his head clean-shaven, one gold earring and all-black attire, he looked like a modern-day Aleister Crowley. Sure, he seemed appropriately “horrified.” But Craig wasn’t sure that the man was appropriately sad.

“We’re truly sorry,” Mike said gently. “The people there were asked not to tweet or say anything to anyone. Apparently, asking wasn’t enough.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a social media age, isn’t it?” Martin asked. He wasn’t waiting for an answer. He’d really made a statement. “I told Jeannette that all the time—that anything she did, anyone she saw, any word she uttered was up for grabs. She was a sweet kid. A truly sweet kid. The best. Her life sucked before I found her. I mean, I don’t know whether or not to hate her aunt. She took Jeannette in, but she treated her as if she were an unwanted pet! Almost like Cinderella with her stepsisters, you know? She was like an indentured servant. She was worked her little tail off. But the kid was beautiful. Beautiful. Perfect, you know?”

Perfect.

To Craig the word seemed to be disturbing.

“When was the last time you saw her?” Craig asked.

Martin sighed deeply, and not without aggravation.

“I told the police!” he said. “It was two weeks ago—or now it was two weeks ago plus a day or two! I saw her at dinner. We talked about what she was doing, what she aspired to do and the contract in the offing with a major cosmetics giant. She was going to be the new face of L’Amour, and you can only imagine... Anyway, I told her what the contract would mean. I told her that she’d really hit the big time, bigger and brighter than she’d ever been before. And I told her to quit handing out interviews, especially when it came to talking about this guy—this mystery lover—that everyone else seemed to know about. Everyone but me!”

“You talked where?” Craig asked.

“At Wine Bar Bacanalia!” Oswald Martin said. “A very public place. When we parted ways, we were in full view of every waitress, waiter, bartender and hostess in the place. You all should know this. I told everyone when I reported her missing. And I reported her missing because—due to the new contract—we had a meeting the next morning with the cosmetic company.”

“So,” Craig said lightly, “you reported her missing because she didn’t show up for her meeting with these people?”

“What are you, an idiot?” Martin demanded, looking at Craig. He quickly appeared to regret his words. “Sorry, sorry. You can’t possibly understand the importance of such a meeting!”

Yeah, what an idiot, Craig thought. He just didn’t understand fame and fortune.

“Sorry, sorry, truly sorry,” Martin muttered quickly. “Jeannette was a true pro. She grew up with nothing, but she was smart as a whip. She knew that the appointment we had could make the difference between her being a star who’d perhaps be forgotten as soon as a younger face came along or a supernova, shimmering in the public memory for decades. It was no publicity stunt when she didn’t show up. I tried so hard to make the police believe that. And then, of course, to the tabloids, I became like a monster, a slave driver, all for my own enrichment. Was Jeannette a major cash-flow outlet for me? You bet. But I represent other acting and modeling personalities, as well. Other than what you read in the tabloids, you won’t find anyone I’ve ever worked with who won’t tell you I’m a straight shooter!”

The man stared straight at Craig as he said the last; there was passion and sincerity in his voice. It seemed to be real, but, in Craig’s mind, it was far too early in the game to be certain.

“Naturally, we’ll be verifying what you’ve told us,” Craig said.

“Yep. And we’ll check out the cops who worked the missing person detail,” McBride said, the undertone in his voice so low Craig doubted Oswald Martin had the least idea of how deeply he had offended the officer who was there representing the City of New York.

“You travel much, Mr. Martin?” Craig asked.

“Around the USA, Europe, anywhere?” Mike added pleasantly.

“Of course. I travel all the time,” Martin said. He appeared to be perplexed. “Why do you ask?”

“You do any work in Virginia?” McBride asked.

“Not much, no. Most work in the US comes out of New York, Los Angeles and sometimes Miami,” Martin said, looking at them all. “Virginia? I mean, an ad campaign can take you almost anywhere, but even if Jeannette was headed to a certain location, it wouldn’t mean that I’d be there with her. I tried to accompany her—every star needs a shield!—but I couldn’t always, because, as I mentioned earlier, I do represent other people. Still...she was part of a shoot that was a public service announcement, encouraging people to enjoy the country. That was about six months ago. Yeah, we were in Virginia then. She filmed in Richmond and Williamsburg. And then Charleston, South Carolina, Savannah, Georgia, and Saint Augustine, Florida. I can send the footage of the announcement, if you like.”