Mary Kathleen was sweet, thanking the three of them for their help tonight, as always. She gave them stations as the popular dinner hours came and went. After all, it was Sunday, crowded for the very traditional roast their clientele loved.
It was good to work; movement was good.
The more Kieran moved, the less she remembered seeing the corpse.
The less she worried, pondered or mulled over the situation.
And yet, she couldn’t really stop.
Kevin’s loss of the woman he had loved so dearly was heart-wrenching.
People tended to grieve for what was terrible and hurt with those who suffered, even when the suffering was far away. But this loss was so close. Her twin’s loss. She knew his world had been changed. Life itself had become something different. Just waking each morning would be a process of learning to go on.
She was sorry for Kevin and all those who had known and loved Jeannette.
And she was sorry for the family of Cary Howell, killed in Virginia, and for the family of Cheyenne Lawson, killed in New Jersey.
She was so sorry for those who had loved the young woman she had stumbled upon that day. They would just be learning that there was no hope left for them.
And yet, nothing could be done for her.
She couldn’t help but wonder about Sadie Miller, who had just disappeared. Had the killer already taken his knife to her? Was he sitting with her body, mulling on the work he had done in the past, trying to determine how best to display her, whether to hide her or whether to leave her in the open?
What, she wondered, made the killer choose how he was going to do what?
She was mulling the question and wiping a table when Kevin came up to her. “Come in the office. Your lad is on the television.”
She hurried after him to the office. She saw that they’d missed the original broadcast, but the local news stations were showing the press conference over and over again.
Craig was an excellent speaker. He carried an easy air of authority while not appearing to be in the least unapproachable.
He talked about the Jeannette Gilbert case, informing the public there were certain things that he couldn’t say yet, not in an ongoing investigation. Because of her death, murder investigations in other states were now being compared, and law enforcement wanted to alert the populace that a serial killer was at work.
Young women, especially, needed to be exceptionally vigilant. They should stay in crowds when they were out, spend time with known friends and family. Because, they believed, the victims had been lured by someone trustworthy, Craig begged women to take great care in embarking on any promised lure of employment, entertainment or special interest.
A dozen reporters asked questions; Craig fielded all of them well, stopping them before they could come at him in a barrage.
“We’re asking for the public’s help. A young woman has now been missing two days and, because she fits the victim profile, we’re seeking any aid the public can possibly give us to find her. If anyone has any information at all regarding Sadie Miller, we ask that you call our dedicated number.”
A picture of Sadie appeared on the screen. She was smiling in the photograph—smiling beautifully.
Larry McBride stepped forward for the NYPD, reiterating some of what Craig had said and asking that anyone aware of suspicious behavior to please inform the authorities immediately.
Then the question came up about that afternoon.
Witnesses had reported a commotion at the old Huntington mansion; they’d seen forensic teams and rescue vehicles.
“We believe, yes, that we have found a previous victim of the same killer. As of yet, however, we’ve little information, and none that we’ll share before discovery of the victim’s identity and notification of her next of kin,” Craig said, stepping forward.
A flurry of questions then was halted by Egan, who stepped forward to end the press conference.
“We don’t want the city in a panic. We do want the city aware and alert. Thank you all very much. Again, all and any help is greatly appreciated.”
The scene switched to that of a pretty female news anchor, commenting on the news conference and asking all those in the city to please take the warnings to heart.
“Well, there you have it,” Kevin murmured. “They have to catch this guy!” he said passionately. “And Sadie is out there. Still out there.”
He didn’t ask if Kieran thought she was alive or dead. He just let the words hang on the air.
Kieran set her hands on his shoulders. “They’ll find Sadie. They’re very good at what they do.”
“Not good enough,” Kevin said, and turned to head out of the office. Kieran followed him.
The press conference had taken place hours ago, so she figured Craig should be arriving at the pub soon.
It had quieted down; the dinner hour was over.
But the pub was far from empty. And seated at the side tables before the bar—as seemed to be their habit—was John Shaw. He was accompanied by Roger Gleason, Henry Willoughby and a number of his minions, Allie Benoit, Joshua Harding and Sam Frick.
“Ah! Here she is!” John Shaw announced. “You were there, right? You were at the old Huntington mansion. You know what happened there. My God! Another cache beneath the ground. It’s amazing what lies underfoot, eh?”
Kieran frowned, walking up to join the table. Allie Benoit met her gaze and rolled her eyes apologetically.
Roger Gleason smiled at her. “They’ve been hoping to see you.”
Willoughby sighed. “John has been hoping to see you. I may be a historian, but, sometimes, we really need to let the dead rest.”
“Except that you found another murdered girl, right?” John Shaw said. “My God, we do have a most unusual serial killer on our hands. One I imagine of great interest. I mean, not a butcher, but a fastidious man. What does he want? What does he get out of what he’s doing? It does seem so strange. It’s as if he’s conflicted. He does and he doesn’t want his kills to be seen.”
“John, really,” Willoughby murmured.
“Ms. Finnegan,” Sam Frick said, “the young woman who was found... I’m so sorry. Had she been dead long? I mean, they know it’s not the missing woman, right?”
“No, she’s not the missing woman,” Kieran said. “Listen, I don’t really know anything. I’m sorry. I’ve seen the same information you have.”
“We just saw it. We were working all day,” Willoughby said. He shook his head. “John is right about one thing—you just have no idea how much lies beneath the streets of New York. Time changes things, you know? I mean, finding history here, well...it’s not always easy. And the Huntington mansion has always been privately held, though I, myself, have been appalled to see how poorly our absentee landowner has seen to it.”
“But another hidden vault!” Shaw said.
“A privately owned vault,” Henry Willoughby reminded him strongly, rolling his eyes. “Hey, no one loves old New York more than me—and no one is more aware of the law.”
“Oh, the Brit who owns it can’t care about another family that’s been dead a hundred years,” John Shaw said. “From what I’ve heard, he only bought it for the investment. But, hey, what do I know?”
Roger Gleason cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, there will be no more work on any other site until you’ve finished with my place. I do intend to reopen. Obviously, I can’t keep the club closed for an endless amount of time. We
’ll just close off the entire basement during opening hours.”
Kieran saw that Craig had finally come in. She was glad; all she wanted to do was go home.
“Excuse me!” she said quickly, and she fled toward the entrance, eager to stop Craig before the Le Club Vampyre crew involved him in conversation.
“May we just leave?” she asked, rushing up to him.
“Yeah,” he said, holding her steady against him. “You want to tell your brothers goodbye?”
What she wanted was to just run out the door. But her purse was back in the office, and she did need to let Declan and the others know that she was leaving.
By the time she’d run to the office and stopped quickly by the bar, Craig had been reined in by the group at the table.
“A serial killer—trying to prove what?” Shaw was saying when she returned.
“I don’t think that serial killers are trying to prove anything. They kill for their own pleasure, and they don’t have any empathy for their victims,” Allie Benoit said. She shivered. “Those poor girls. Do you know how long this has been going on?” she asked Craig.
He shrugged easily. “Open investigation,” he said quietly. “I can’t really talk about it.”
“But aren’t we part of this investigation?” Henry Willoughby asked, perplexed. “Roger Gleason was the one to report the hidden crypt as soon as his construction men found it. I was called to see that history was preserved. John Shaw actually found poor Ms. Gilbert, and Allie, Josh and Sam were working with him and Professor Digby.”
“Where is Professor Digby?”
Shaw sniffed. “Some scientist. He can’t wait to get out of the dust and grime at night. He shouldn’t even notice. After all, knowledge is everything. Says he needs to shower as soon as possible, even before a bite and a drink!” Shaw told him. “Ah, I’m not being fair. I’ve worked with Digby forever. He’s a good man. Never thought a scientist could get freaked out, though. But, hey. This is the first time we found a person recently deceased when we were working. I can’t blame him.”
“Poor guy,” Allie Benoit noted.
“I think it freaked out all of us,” Joshua Harding said. He looked at Craig glumly. “Freaked me out! But,” he added, glancing at John Shaw, “I’m on scholarship. I can’t afford to be too freaked out.” He turned and smiled at Kieran. “Thankfully, we get to come here at the end of the day. Warm and cozy and good food.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, glancing at her watch. “Gotta run. We’ll see you all.” She slipped her arm through Craig’s.
He got the hint.
They left.
“So Digby is freaked out,” Craig murmured as they stepped outside.
“Yes,” Kieran said, following his lead since she’d no idea where he’d managed to park the car. “And it makes you wonder. Can you imagine anyone being excited about an appointment with Digby? I mean, poor Digby is just not exciting.”
“Not Digby, but maybe he was a doorway to something that was exciting for someone who wanted to move into a life working with history or archaeology,” Craig said.
She knew they were talking about Sadie Miller. “There’s been nothing on Sadie?” she asked softly.
He shook his head. “Cops have been everywhere—her place of work, the coffee shops she hangs out, the dinner spots, the clubs...nothing. They have posters up, and we have the press conference on the air. If anyone knows anything, they’re not speaking yet.”
“The more time that goes by—”
“Yes. Thing is, she might have been killed right when she went missing,” Craig said. “There’s really not anything more we can do to find her. There’s an army on the street looking for her already.”
But was it the right army? Kieran wondered. The cops were good, but would they think to look in unusual places?
Ridiculous and bad thought on her part, she decided. If she or anyone else knew the right unusual places to look, they’d be doing so.
Then again, look where she had found another murder victim today.
If only she’d found a live woman instead!
They reached her place and went up the stairs. That night, ironically, or so it seemed to Kieran, someone was warbling out a decent rendition of Alice Cooper’s “The Man Behind the Mask.”
At her place, Craig headed straight into the shower. Kieran crawled into bed and waited up for him.
But the shower was on a long time.
When it stopped, Craig still didn’t come out.
She got up and headed to the bathroom door and tapped at it.
“Come in.”
She walked in and she had to smile. He was a good agent because he was always thinking.
He was a good man because he always cared.
He’d been writing on the mirror, making notes in the steam. He did it now and then, looking like a big kid.
He turned to her, his hair and body still damp from the shower. “Sorry.”
She stepped toward him and looked at his notes as he spoke.
“Right now, we have Cheyenne Lawson, left on the grass of the cemetery in New Jersey. We have the victim you found today, unidentified as yet. I think we’ll discover that she’s been down there a few years. Six months ago, Cary Howell was killed in Virginia. Now Jeannette Gilbert. And Sadie Miller is missing.”
“You think there were others in between?” Kieran asked.
“I don’t know. Based on what I know about serial killers, sometimes the need speeds up. Maybe it was one a year, then one every six months, and now...I don’t know. I’m sure it’s something Dr. Fuller has had on his mind. They’ll have a consultation with him and our specialists in the morning. We do have people coming in on this.”
She nodded. She slipped her arms around his naked torso and rested her cheek on the dampness of his back. “I’d like to believe that we can find Sadie alive,” she said.
“And maybe we will. However, you really need to stay out of graveyards.”
“Hey! Wasn’t my fault time caused the earth and the roof of the crypt to give in.”
“You could have been hurt.”
“You could be hurt or killed every day.”
“We’ve been through this, Kieran.”
“That’s right, we have,” she said. “Hey, not to worry! I have a full workday at the office tomorrow,” she told him.
He was still thoughtful, turning to hold her, smoothing down her hair. “I’m thinking about a drive to Virginia. Tomorrow night or Tuesday. There are some things I need to do tomorrow. I’m going to have a talk again with Professor Aldous Digby, because he did have opportunity and is a suspect.”
“I can’t see Digby being a killer.”
“I can’t, either. But I’ve been fooled before. And I’m checking in with a number of religious leaders in the area and cemetery directors. We need them to check out their catacombs and/or crypts. I really need to get them all working—before I find you in another crypt.”
“Not fair. I fell in.”
“Because you were trespassing in the graveyard.”
“I had an idea—a vague idea. It seemed right at the time.”
“Ah, and there’s the problem! You get an idea and walk right into danger.”
“What about going to Virginia?” she asked. “You think it can really help? Don’t you have all the police files?”
“If we can’t really figure out what he’s doing with his display, it’s best to know everything we can about the victims.” br />
“Yes.”
She pulled back. “Are you thinking about me going on your trip to Virginia?”
“I am. You and your training—and your gut—may be of great help.”
“And that will keep me off the streets, right?”
“A two-pronged win,” he told her.
“Craig...”
“Ah, well, it’s night now, and there’s nothing we can do but try to relieve some of the tension,” he said, his fingers moving over her cheek, over her throat and down to her breast.
“Tension, huh? I’ll show you tension,” she said softly, and she moved against him. She meant to tease and torment him, her touch running intimately down his abdomen. But as she teased, he suddenly made a move, lifting her high above him, then bringing her down slowly against him.
She laughed and kissed him and whispered softly, “You know, one of us will wind up bruised to pieces if we try—”
“I have no intention of trying anything with a hard sink and slippery tile,” he assured her, holding her to him as he walked back out to the bedroom with her, her legs curled about his waist, her arms around his shoulders. He eased her down to the bed, slid his damp form next to hers, caught her fingers within his and drew them above her head. He kissed her then, and she felt the force of his body and the rise of his erection against her flesh, and for a few moments, she forgot about the world. She loved his body, everything about him, and loved the way he moved when she touched him, loved the intake of his breath and, maybe most of all, she loved the look in his eyes when they came together at last, when he thrust into her, and it seemed that they were all but one.
The day had been long, offering so much that was ugly in the world.
But the night was long as well, offering a great deal of what was beautiful.
* * *
A young employee named Marty Kim was Craig’s favorite tech. Barely into his twenties, Marty had a way with video footage, computer cryptology, cell phones and more that made him an indispensable asset, in Craig’s mind.