A Perfect Obsession

  “Oh, Kevin, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe that you kept all this from me. And for so long! I’m your twin.”

  “Well, you’ve kept a fair amount from me, too, at times,” he reminded her.

  “Sometimes I don’t talk because I’m professionally not able to do so,” she replied.

  “What do I do?” he asked her. “Just step up now and tell the truth?”

  “That’s probably the best. You can talk to Craig. He’ll believe you. You know that.”

  Kieran started, hearing the doorknob twist. Then there was a bang on the door.

  “Hey, what’s going on in there?”

  It was Danny, the “baby” of the family, younger than Kevin and Kieran by a little more than a year. He was the wild child of the family, now a respectable tour guide for the City of New York, though, of course, he could still get into a great deal of trouble. Always with the best of intentions, of course.

  Kieran stood quickly and opened the door. “Did I lock it?” she murmured.

  Danny burst into the room and flipped on the TV. “This is so sad and so crazy!” he said. “Imagine, that poor girl found in Le Club Vampyre! And now... Wow! The bad boy of the silver screen stepping up and offering a huge sum of money for information on her murderer. Brent Westwood! You’ve got to see this news conference. It’s Brent Westwood saying that he was Jeannette Gilbert’s secret lover!”

  * * *

  It was past nine. Craig was getting ready to head home from the office, and he’d told Mike and McBride to do the same. But his office door opened.

  “You might want to hold on just a minute!” Mike said, stepping back in.

  “What—”

  “Put the TV on. Any news channel,” Mike said. He’d already gone for the remote that controlled the screen on the far wall of Craig’s office.

  Light and sound filled the room.

  A man stood at the front of the New York field offices of the FBI, surrounded by a sea of reporters, all jockeying to get better positions with their microphones.

  Craig recognized the guy; it took him a minute to know why.

  Then he realized quickly that it was Brent Westwood, aging star of stage and screen. He was an exceptionally well-muscled man, an “action hero.” Craig remembered that he’d halfway paid attention to a slice of life news piece recently that had talked about the beautiful people of “yesteryear” who were still working hard at their craft, even if they weren’t getting the leading roles they’d once enjoyed.

  The actor listened to a question from a reporter and answered it gravely.

  “You had to know Jeannette to understand,” he said, the right amount of pathos in his voice. “She was, at heart, a shy girl. She wanted what we had to be special. We’re both public figures, but we didn’t want our relationship to be public. It was something so private, of the heart.”

  “Weren’t you worried when she disappeared?” someone shouted.

  “I’ll be honest. I thought it was a publicity venture, directed by those controlling her career,” he said, not mentioning any names.

  “But wouldn’t she have told you?” another reporter asked.

  “In this field, we have to be very careful. I knew that she’d tell me what was going on as soon as she felt that she could. Was I worried? Yes! But I knew that the police—New York’s finest—were working on finding her. I feared their anger, really, when she surfaced. I never expected that they would find her...as they did.”

  He put a hand in front of his face, as if shielding himself from more questions—and as if hiding his tears, as well. “Please, I’m beside myself with grief, but I’m here to see if there is anything at all that I can do to help in the investigation into her death. This is...”

  He broke down and turned away.

  Mike groaned. “Great. He’s coming here. And he’s using this to garner publicity for himself. That girl had great taste in men.” He snickered. “Maybe she was looking for a father figure.”

  “He was the biggest thing in action movies at one time,” Craig said.

  “Guess they don’t know our offices actually close at night,” Mike muttered. He turned to the NYPD detective. “You want to handle this?”

  “He probably knows you’re here, given what’s going on,” McBride said.

  “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” Craig said. He pointed to the screen. “There he is, going for the door—and there’s security. In less than a minute, someone will be calling up here.”

  As he spoke, the intercom buzzed.

  It was one of the young agents in reception.

  “Do we go get him?”

  Craig didn’t believe that the man pretending so much grief was Gilbert’s killer.

  Such a recognizable man didn’t sneak around easily. Nor did he appear to be the type who would have dressed a murdered girl so carefully. Or managed to get down to Virginia to have carried out a murder there and done the same. Craig had no proof. It was only a gut feeling, but his gut feelings had served him well.

  He toyed with the idea of having security send him away and tell him to come back during office hours.

  But, of course, that would make the Bureau look callow.

  And he wouldn’t do that.

  “Of course, anyone with information that could lead to the solving of this heinous murder is thanked for bringing us information at any time,” he said.

  And so Mike sat and McBride sighed, and they waited for the actor.

  * * *

  The three of them—Kevin, Kieran and Danny—stared at the flat-screen television in the office, watching as Brent Westwood spoke to the press.

  Kevin’s expression was blank, stunned.

  “I don’t get it,” Danny said. “Not that Westwood wasn’t—isn’t—a cool guy and all, but, hey, Jeannette Gilbert was a kid in comparison. Not that I’m judging. We’ve seen a lot of older guys with younger women and younger guys with older women who seem to be happy as larks. Love is love, right? No matter what our age, sex, race or preference. Still...I wonder if it all seems so shocking to us because the church—the club—is right behind us.” Staring at the screen, he was unaware when Kevin looked at Kieran with a warning glance.

  Let it lie. Don’t let on about anything I was saying to you.

  “And the whole grave thing,” Danny went on. “I mean, do you know that half our city parks are built on old graveyards?” He turned and looked at Kieran. “John Shaw was in today, right?”

  “Yes, he was pretty shaken,” she murmured.

  “I wonder... I’d love to get down into that basement sometime. Think he’ll take me down there?”

  “I would think,” Kieran said.

  “After all this, obviously. I mean, go figure. They make that kind of find, and then discover a missing starlet displayed down there. Wow. So sad. And still...”

  Kieran could feel Kevin’s tension. He wasn’t angry with his younger brother. He was just ready to explode.

  The door to the office opened and the last of their clan, Declan, stood there, looking in at the three of them. “I know you guys have other jobs, and, hey, I should be all right and well-staffed here for a Friday night. But Cody is on her honeymoon and with everything going on, those who came to gawk around the block are here now, hungry and thirsty. Mary Kathleen is running around out there like a madwoman. Don’t any of you actually help anymore when you’re here?” he asked.

  “Hell, yeah! Sorry!” Danny said, leaping to his feet.

  Kevin rose more slowly. “I’ll take the bar,” he said.

  “No, no. Go home, Kevin,” Kieran said. “I don’t have real work tomorrow. It’s Saturday. That okay, Declan?”

  “Sure. One good body actually involved in working would be great,” Declan said.

  Kevin sti
ll appeared a little shaky.

  “I’m so tired,” he murmured.

  “Then go home,” Kieran said, jumping up. “I’ll be a bundle of energy, Declan. I promise.”

  “Hey, well, you did work today, too,” Declan reminded her.

  She nodded. “Yeah, kind of makes me need to work now,” she said, and headed out of the office. “Kevin, go home!”

  “I’m going,” he assured them. “Thanks,” he said softly, and left.

  Declan was right. Their Friday nights were often busy, even when Wall Street, the Financial District and the government offices closed and downtown became somewhat quiet. But Finnegan’s was known for bringing in great Irish bands and local talent, and people were often willing to hop on the subway or drive down for the established platform of good food, great taps and music. Also, when the club had opened around the block, many who had tired of the constant thrum of the dance music had found themselves wandering over for the more relaxed venue.

  But tonight was exceptional—once again, because of the club. Not because it was opened.

  Because it was closed.

  And the talk among everyone had to do with poor Jeannette Gilbert.

  And most of the talk was the same.

  The slimy manager-agent had done it.

  The mystery lover had done it. No, the mystery lover wasn’t a mystery anymore, and good God, everyone knew that Brent Westwood was no killer! He stood for truth, justice and the American way.

  What about the step-uncle who had raised her? The jerk! Or her aunt, or her cousins?

  What about the guy who had bought Saint Augustine and turned a venerable and historic old church into a club? Hey, that guy bore some watching, too. And then there were the freaks who wandered around the city. And that history group. Everyone knew that some of the city’s cling-to-the-past historians were insane. That was it! One of them had murdered her to prove the point that you needed to let the dead rest in peace!

  Everyone had a theory, and Kieran heard them all.

  She spoke with their regulars and also noted all the new people—those who probably hadn’t been downtown in years but had come down to witness the events at Le Club Vampyre, if only from the street. She noted businessmen and construction workers. Older women, younger women. All kinds of people.

  One especially attractive young woman at the bar drew Kieran’s attention because she kept pulling out her phone and looking around the pub.

  “Can I help you in any way?” Kieran asked her.

  She smiled. “Just biding time,” the woman said. “That old clock on the wall is right? My cell phone has died.”

  “Yes, it’s the right time,” Kieran told her.

  “Thanks!” The woman smiled at her. “You have to be Kevin’s sister,” she said. “One of the Finnegan family.”

  “Yes, I am. You know Kevin?”

  “I was in a print ad with him about a year ago. He told me about this place. First time I’ve had a chance to get down here. Is he here somewhere?”

  “No, he went home. I’m so sorry. You could give him a call.”

  “Ah, well, I’m only here a few more minutes. I’ll call him, though, and I’ll come back.” She smiled. “You’re gorgeous—but then, so is Kevin!”

  “Thank you. My twin has the camera charm, trust me!” Kieran said. She would have talked longer, but another patron called her and she moved on.

  It was around 11:00 p.m. when Craig reached her on her cell, checking to see if she was still there. He told her he’d head into the pub, and they could go home together.

  She felt her heart beating a little too quickly. She didn’t have to worry that she wasn’t saying anything to him about Kevin’s admission. Brent Westwood had gone to Craig’s office, claiming to be the mystery lover. But still...

  Lying to him was so uncomfortable.

  Was she really lying?

  Yes, she reasoned, omitting the truth—an important truth—was a lie.

  Luckily, when he arrived, he offered her a weary smile before heading to an empty bar stool. She watched him talk to Declan and order a soda. He looked tired. Despite knowing he’d have to be up for work early the next morning, he was waiting for her.

  The Friday night crowd was diminishing, so Declan thanked her and told her to go on home.

  She didn’t argue.

  “Your place or mine?” Craig asked, pointing the way to his government car, parked down the street. Thanks to his decal, parking was much easier for Craig than it was for most people in the city. “You know,” he said, as they reached the car, “we don’t have to be asking that question of one another all the time. Moving in would be kind of like the right move now.”

  “Probably,” she murmured. “My place tonight?”

  “As you wish.”

  She glanced his way. He had to be far beyond exhausted, but he was also easily able to go with the flow. She studied him for a moment; he seemed deep in thought, and, of course, she knew he was thinking about the day’s events.

  She winced, turning away. She really was so in love with him. What was not to love? He was a walking wall of extremely striking testosterone, masculine to the hilt, yet he never behaved rudely, and never seemed threatened in any way by another man’s—or woman’s—talents or abilities. He was faultlessly courteous. Oh, he had a temper, she knew, but the ability to contain it. His features offered exceptionally fine cheekbones, a strong jaw and wonderful, hazel eyes that far too often seemed to be all-seeing.

  “One day soon,” she murmured, finally responding to his comment about moving in together.

  She was suddenly, almost irrationally, angry with her brothers. First, one of Danny’s best-intended foibles had gotten him into the trouble when she’d met Craig; now Kevin’s tragic romance seemed to be putting her once again in an extremely awkward situation.

  That anger quickly dissipated. She felt so bad for her twin.

  In minutes they reached her apartment above a sushi restaurant–karaoke bar in the Village.

  Someone was warbling an Aerosmith number as they climbed the stairs. They were both so accustomed to the sometimes painful entertainment that they barely noticed.

  Upstairs, she immediately headed for the shower. “Underground graves,” she muttered, heading in.

  He joined her.

  She wasn’t surprised. Or disappointed. Sharing a shower with Craig, she wouldn’t have to talk to him.

  But as he stepped in behind her, slipping a bar of soap from her fingers and easing it down her back, she was the one who nervously spoke.

  “So, what about the mystery lover?”

  “Narcissistic blowhard,” he said, twirling her around, finding her lips.

  His kiss was good, wonderful. Seductive. And it made her forget the day. Hot water and steam swirled around them. The soap made their naked flesh sleek and wet. They kissed and touched and stroked one another until they were certainly clean—and their sense of hunger and need was great. Then they stepped out of the shower, reached for towels, more or less forgot the concept of them and stumbled onto the bed in Kieran’s near-dark room, and back into one another’s arms. Once there, they eschewed foreplay. She crawled atop him and straddled him, and he entered her, the heat of his body bursting within her. They made love, again and again, their lips locked as they climaxed each time with a ferocity that left Kieran breathless. She marveled at it, amazed that she was with him, that the world could be so good, that sex was such an amazement every time.

  He pulled her down into his arms and held her and stroked her hair. The glow of aftermath and a sense of warmth and security enveloped her.

  And then she realized that he was lying there awake, no doubt thinking about the day once again.

  And he picked up right where he had left off.

  “Liar
.”

  “Pardon?” Warmth and serenity slipped away.

  “That man. Brent Westwood. He’s a liar. I can’t prove it. There’s no way, really. Jeannette Gilbert is dead. But, in my gut, I know it. There’s no way in hell that man is the mystery lover Jeannette alluded to in her interviews. He’s a liar.” He smiled grimly as he stroked her face. “I will, however,” he assured her, “discover the truth.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  CRAIG STOOD JUST INSIDE the downed wall in the basement of Le Club Vampyre and looked around.

  Techs had been studying the security footage of the club for hours; none as yet had discovered if the footage had been altered and, if so, how.

  And if it hadn’t been altered, then it seemed that Jeannette Gilbert’s killer had slipped into a cloak of invisibility that had covered her, as well.

  “We’ve established that the killer’s not stupid,” Mike said, watching Craig’s expression. “And, according to our good docs and Kieran, he’s organized, and we know that he’s killed before. According to the info we have on his first victim, he has a vision, a way of leaving his victims. Maybe he’s even trying to learn how to preserve them. He just hasn’t gotten it right yet.”

  “Art,” Craig murmured. “Yes.” He stooped down to look at the floor. Everyone in the city who read a paper or turned on a computer or a television had known about the discovery of the early graves behind a false wall in the basement of the building. Anyone would have known. But who would have known how to enter the place without being seen?

  “Makes Roger Gleason a good suspect,” Mike said. “He’s definitely been here. He’s a respectable man. He might have been meeting with Jeannette Gilbert for some kind of a publicity thing. Wasn’t she part of a promotional event here?”