“I wonder if the guide told your story about the poor author who wasn’t published until he’d been dead forever,” Kieran murmured. She looked at Craig and shrugged. “I do counseling with a young woman who just took the ghost tour down here. She was convinced that she heard moaning.”
Craig stared at her and frowned. “Moaning?”
“She was on a ghost tour, and I don’t even know exactly where, though I assume that the guides would come by here,” Kieran said.
“Sure, they go by here,” Nat said. “It’s an old place with a lots of history. But moaning? I’ve heard people shriek on those ghost tours.”
Craig wasn’t amused. He turned to Nat. “Is there a crypt here?”
“Um, not that I know about,” Nat told them. “There’s a basement,” he offered brightly.
“Could we see the basement?” Craig asked.
“Oh, well, I mean, we may have more business now, and my brother and I run this place together, and it’s not a big deal to come out in the yard—if you can call this a yard—but...”
His voice trailed off, till Craig showed his badge.
“FBI!” Nat said, his eyes widening. “What would the FBI—Oh! Oh, this is about the dead girls. I don’t have any dead girls in the basement, I swear it! I swear on my mother’s life!”
“Mr. Braden, I don’t think you have a dead body in your basement, but I would love to see it,” Craig told him.
“Okay,” Nat said slowly. “But why?”
“The family owned this property for over two centuries. Dirk Der Vere is buried here. I’m thinking there might also be an underground crypt, long forgotten,” Craig said.
“Of course, of course, if it could help...yeah, but it’s just a basement. Come on, follow me!”
Nat headed back in. They went around the front of the shop—where Hank now stood, a slightly older version of Nat—and through to the kitchen. The stairs to the basement were there.
Nat turned on lights.
It was a finished basement, filled with photography equipment and trunks of costumes and props. Craig walked around the whole of it.
“See, just a basement,” Nat said.
Hank chose that moment to come down the stairs. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.
While Danny explained to Hank, Craig walked to the wall closest to the sliver of grass that held the grave marker. He pulled boxes from the area to discover a two-by-four-foot rusted grate in the ground.
“Where does that lead?” he demanded, looking at Nat.
“Hell if I know. It’s a grate. I thought it was ventilation or whatever,” Nat said.
Craig glared across the room at Hank, who shook his head, now wide-eyed with wonder. “I don’t know. We’ve never had need to touch it. There are always boxes piled up there. Even when my dad and granddad were alive. It’s just a grate. Who opens a grate into the ground?”
“Someone,” Craig said softly. He reached for the grate. It pulled out easily into his hands and led to what appeared to be a tunnel in the earth.
“You got a good flashlight?” he asked Nat.
“Yeah, yeah, we got a flashlight,” Nat said.
He and Hank turned into one another in their efforts to procure a flashlight.
As they scurried about, Craig asked, “Is there any other entrance to the basement?”
“A delivery door, just there, at the end toward the back,” Nat said, stopping.
Kieran walked over to the area Nat had indicated. She could see a fold-up ladder and latch opening to the back of the yard.
She turned back as Craig was heading into the tunnel. She started to follow him. He stopped, cracking his head where he’d bent to enter the shaft that could only be accessed by bending over.
“No. You stay!”
She let out a breath and nodded. He was FBI; she was not.
They all waited—her, Danny, Nat and Hank—as Craig disappeared.
“I don’t believe this,” Hank whispered. “All these years...”
“It’s possible that it’s just a hole in the earth,” Nat said. “Or, maybe we have a historic find right here! That will help business. I mean, we’re doing all right, but...wow! How cool would historic photos be at a place where a real historic find occurred?”
Both brothers looked hopeful for a minute.
But then they heard Craig’s voice, shouting from the tunnel. “Help me!”
“Craig! Are you all right?” Kieran called.
Craig’s voice came to them again. “Dial 9-1-1! Get an ambulance—fast!”
Kieran fumbled for her phone and dialed 9-1-1. As she did, Danny hurried forward to help Craig.
He was awkwardly emerging from the tunnel, bent over and moving with difficulty.
He was bringing with him the dirt-covered body of a young woman.
Sadie Miller? Had they found Sadie Miller?
“Is she...d-dead?” Nat asked in horror.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
“LORAZEPAM,” DR. FREDERICK DAVIES SAID. “And Rohypnol. High dosages were found in her system. She’s going to pull through. Quite a miracle when you consider that the young woman was underground for several days, deprived of food and water. She’s come around a bit here and there as we’ve treated her.”
Lorazepam. And Rohypnol.
The same substances Andrews had found in the body of Jeannette Gilbert.
“And is she conscious now?” Craig asked anxiously. He’d waited outside the emergency room doors for what seemed like endless hours, but had been less than a full sixty minutes. He’d wanted to burst his way into the ER where she was being treated, praying that she’d say something.
But there were few people fiercer than those in health care when they were desperate to save a life. And, of course, she’d been out cold when they’d gotten to the hospital.
He had been allowed in the ambulance, behind the EMT. The whole way there each traffic snarl had weighed on his nerves; he’d wanted to get out of the ambulance and punch the drivers of a few nonmoving vehicles.
He’d gotten hold of Egan and Mike while in the ambulance. They’d assured him that a forensic team had been sent to the shop, but they’d gone in quietly, and while Craig knew that the news would be out that Sadie Miller had been found, he was hoping that Egan had managed to keep the where and the how of their discovery away from the media for the time being.
“Hey,” Mike said quietly, patiently, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Mike had set things into motion at the photography shop, warning the brothers to keep quiet, unless, of course, they wanted to wind up suspects themselves.
He’d left the forensic crew working and come to hospital.
Kieran and Danny had followed in a taxi as quickly as possible; the two were in the waiting room, sipping bad coffee.
He’d wanted them to go home; but the simple fact was that Sadie Miller wouldn’t have been found if Kieran and Danny hadn’t gone exploring, if Kieran’s words about her therapy patient hadn’t sparked something in his mind.
They deserved to be there.
He reined in his thoughts and focused on what Dr. Davies was saying. “The patient is sleeping heavily, in what we consider a good sleep. She’s not in a coma. But what I’m trying to warn you is that she was dosed with a sedative known for causing short-term memory loss.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that the drug can cause memory loss.”
“We can get lucky. She might know what happened...she might not. And dogging her with questions won’t change that.”
“Dr. Davies,” Mike said, “my partner and I have been at this for a while. We understand fully that a woman’s life and well-being are of the utmost importance.”
“Yes,” Craig said. “We understand. But may I si
t with her?”
“You may. Right now she’s being transferred to ICU.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Craig said.
He turned. Kieran and Danny had risen and come to him. “I’ll be here awhile,” he said quietly.
Wide-eyed and solemn, Kieran nodded. “Of course. You’ll call me right away when she wakes up, right?”
He nodded.
He prayed that by some miracle, the doctor was wrong, that Sadie Miller would wake up with a perfect memory and she would immediately give him the name of her abductor.
In a perfect world...
Perfect.
He looked at Kieran with her finely honed features, huge blue eyes and wealth of auburn hair. She’d been dressed for work, but somehow the pin-striped and skirted business suit she wore seemed to do nothing but complement her willowy form.
He lowered his head, not wanting her to see the look in his eyes.
New York had tons of beautiful woman. There was no reason to fear for her in particular. She wasn’t a fool; she wouldn’t head out to meet with someone when she knew that the victims had been tricked. The killer didn’t come in with guns blazing; he somehow finessed his victims to his will.
Her hand fell gently on his arm. “We’ll head to Finnegan’s.”
“Yes, and if you’re here late, I’ll stay with Kieran,” Danny told him. “At her place.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“I’m going to head in and call McBride. We’ll get an officer on duty outside the ICU,” Mike said.
Craig nodded.
Good call. It was entirely possible the killer would start checking hospitals, wanting to come back and finish her off before she could talk.
“She has to be in here under a different name,” he told Mike. “And we should let ‘slip’ that she’s at a different hospital, somewhere in Brooklyn or the Bronx.”
“I’ll see to it,” Mike promised. He turned to Kieran and Danny. “I have a car here. Wait a few more minutes, and I’ll drop you at Finnegan’s.”
“Excellent,” Danny said.
Craig looked at Kieran one more time. She offered him a semismile, and her voice was soft when she spoke. “She’s alive, Craig. She’s going to make it.”
He allowed himself a smile in return. “Yes, but...”
“But?”
“I asked you to avoid graveyards.”
“Hey, I had lunch with my brother, and it was actually my neighborhood. I didn’t go into a crypt—you did. And she’s alive, Craig.”
“Yes, and I’m grateful and it’s a damned good day. But...”
“But what?”
“If something were to happen to you, none of it would matter to me.”
He turned before she could reply. Dr. Davies was waiting for him. He followed the physician as he led the way to intensive care.
Once he was in the room, a nurse gave him a chair. She was a small, young woman with a fierce attitude, and she warned Craig that she could see him through the glass from the desk. “Call me when the young lady wakes up. Do not barrage her with questions.”
“Yes,” Craig said simply.
The nurse smiled at him. “I heard you saved her life.”
“Not me—a number of people in the right place at the right time,” he said.
She left him to sit and watch over Sadie Miller.
Sadie had an IV going into her system. Her face was pale; even her lips were a chalky color. Still, she presented a picture as beautiful as could be imagined.
Perfect.
The word haunted him.
He was still watching her an hour later when he felt the vibration of his phone. He stepped out and told the nurse he was going to the hallway.
It was Mike calling him.
“The newspaper called with what we all believe is a real missive from our killer,” Mike said.
“Oh?”
“He wrote a letter—old-fashioned letter. It’s written on common paper bought at any drugstore, grocery store or other around the country. Naturally, forensic teams are on it now, hoping against hope for saliva on the envelope, fingerprints... Anyway, want to hear what’s written?”
“Mike, yes, dammit—”
“‘Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: Thou art not conquer’d; beauty’s ensign yet is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, and death’s pale flag is not advanced there.’” Mike paused, then asked, “Do you know what that is?”
“Sounds like Shakespeare.”
“It is. From Romeo and Juliet,” Mike said. “Gotta admit, I wouldn’t have known, but we have some romantics around here who have seen the movie. God bless Netflix! It’s Romeo speaking, when he finds Juliet seemingly dead.”
Craig had seen the play as a boy. Both of his parents had thought it was important to see some Shakespeare.
And, of course, the two protagonists had died—died young and beautiful.
“Are they certain it came from the killer?”
“We have Isabel Dunn from the Bureau here now. She and the good doctors Fuller and Miro both believe it’s authentic.”
“Based on those lines?”
“The envelope was addressed to the paper with the words Attention Editor and An Explanation: a kindness done written on it,” Mike explained. “Of course, they could be wrong, but it seems like it just might be our guy.”
Maybe, Craig thought, the killer actually wanted them to know—to understand why he took the lives of these women.
He was trying to preserve what was young and beautiful.
Craig let out a long breath. “Was Egan able to keep the newspaper from publishing what they got?”
“He did some bargaining,” Mike said.
“Great. Thanks.”
“Nothing yet, right?”
“No, nothing,” Craig said, but, as he spoke, he turned to see the young nurse approaching him. “Special Agent Frasier, Ms. Miller is awake.”
“Gotta go, Mike. Call you right back.”
He turned and hurried after the nurse.
* * *
“Even his citizens called him Peg-Leg Stuyvesant!” Henry Willoughby told Kieran.
Willoughby had come into Finnegan’s alone and chosen one of the tables where the “crypt keepers”—as Declan had coined them—always sat after their days at work. He’d given Kieran a huge smile of pleasure when he’d seen her and coerced her to sit with him for a spell. She’d asked him how the work was going, and he’d rolled his eyes and told her, “Shaw is slower than dripping molasses. Good man, though. Knows his stuff. But me...I can’t do it hour after hour, day after day. I’m surprised his grad students haven’t revolted on him. The hours that man can put in!”
She’d mentioned how they were lucky that they had people like him to preserve history, and the next thing she knew, she was seated next to him, sipping coffee, receiving a lecture.
“Now, Stuyvesant! That man was so important to New York City!” Willoughby said. “Now, there’s no descendants left with his name. They say that’s because the poor fellow was charged with losing New Amsterdam to the British. But what was the man to do? There were British warships in the harbor and not a man in the Dutch colony seemed to feel like fighting. Stuyvesant had no choice but to surrender the city. They say he was a mean son of a bitch. Hard as nails and very strict. The Dutch West India Company had to step in a few times. Ah, but then the Brits came. But, thing is, he stayed on. So much of lower Manhattan was his farmland. And he’s buried at Saint Mark’s in-the-Bowery. You knew that, right?”
Kieran had known it. It didn’t matter. Willoughby kept talking. She thought that he must have been a lonely man, having lost his wife, and, apparently, having loved her so much. It was okay to just
let him talk.
“Beautiful church, Saint Mark’s! Stuyvesant purchased land from the Dutch West India Company in 1651 for a farm—or bowery, which, of course, is why the area is still called the Bowery! Ask most schoolkids—they have no idea. But then, they have no idea of much else, eh? Anyway, the first chapel was for the family. Stuyvesant’s great-grandson sold it to the Episcopal Church for a dollar in 1793, and the church we see now was started in 1795 and consecrated in 1799. Fabulous old place! Stuyvesant is still there, of course, he was buried in a vault beneath the church. Wouldn’t John Shaw like to get in there! Ah! But Saint Mark’s is still a practicing house of worship. With a whole city massively grown up on what was a farm. Then again, we are the New World! Ah, my lass, as they say here in Finnegan’s! History is a sad, sad thing to lose. There’s so much downtown—so much aboveground and underground. New York! Such a wonderful place. Thank God for people like those grad students! Another generation rising up to preserve!”
Kieran smiled at him and looked at her phone.
No call yet from Craig.
“Alexander Hamilton!”
“Pardon?” she said, turning back to Willoughby.
“I said that Alexander Hamilton helped with all the legal machinations to make Saint Mark’s independent of Trinity!”
“Really?” Kieran murmured. She smiled. She actually liked Willoughby; the man was a font of information. He’d been a little shy with her at first, but now he’d let down his guard.
“I love this city!” he told her.
She smiled. She was anxious to get away for the moment, but she didn’t want to appear to be rude.
More than anything, she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. No matter what she did, she couldn’t stop thinking of the killer.
Kieran believed that the killer had a lair—one lair where he brought his victims, and where he killed them and prepared them. It was someplace extremely well hidden. A place where he could clean up his victim and himself. A place where the pool of blood from a wound to the heart wouldn’t be found. She’d read that in London, Jack the Ripper had been able to walk through the streets with blood on himself or his clothing because so many people in the East End were butchers or worked in slaughterhouses.