“Just to confirm, you were there yesterday, too?” Craig asked.
“Of course. I was there as soon as the situation was reported.” He paused. “Did you know that the land where the Waldorf Astoria sits was once a potter’s field? Think of how old this city is. A number of the parks we enjoy today were originally cemeteries. I worked the old slave cemetery they discovered a few years back, so it was natural that I’d work on this one, too.”
“You started on the church yesterday?”
“Yes. I did. I was called yesterday morning, and I made arrangements to get there as fast as possible.”
“And then?”
“I assessed the location. I called in Digby and my assistant, Allie Benoit. You don’t pry apart ancient caskets willy-nilly. We researched church plans, but the original architect’s plan is long gone.” He shook his head. “You must be familiar with what happened. The church sold the property to the club people. There was an outcry, not that it made any difference. But the building is so historic. Everyone wants to shop Fifth Avenue, see a show, bank on Wall Street. They forget that Wall Street was a wall. Canal Street was a canal—or a cesspool, really. Those are all part of our city’s origins, and we need to preserve history!”
Craig nodded, although he wasn’t convinced they’d needed to preserve the cesspool that had been Canal Street. He spoke quickly, not wanting the academic to bluster endlessly. “What time did you get in there yesterday?”
“Let’s see... They called us right around ten in the morning. I was there within the hour.”
“So, who was there then?” Craig asked. “Besides you and the colleagues and workers you’ve mentioned.”
“Oh, lots of people. Let’s see, the manager and owner, Roger Gleason. He’d been working down by the construction area. They stored their booze down there—in the old crypt they knew about, I mean, with the coffins and bodies all gone now. It’s a foundation, a basement. The basement—the crypts—were far more extensive than people realized. The wall had hidden some of the old coffins and shrouded corpses, so when some of the corpses were moved, the ‘second’ crypt was missed.”
“Okay. Anyone else know what was going on?”
“At least two construction workers and one of the barmaids-slash-dancers. Have you seen what they do in there? She was dressed up in a little black bra and skirt and wearing some wicked makeup. The girls dance on tables when they’re not handing out booze.”
“So, employees, construction workers—anyone else?”
“Oh, yeah, the rep from the historic preservation group. Henry Willoughby. Loves history. He’s not a scientist, but he’s a great hands-on guy, ready to protect the past and help out if he can. The man loves New York and studied history and architecture. His wife passed away a while back, and now he gives all his love to the city. He stayed long enough last night to check in with us, make sure we were ready to catalog the bodies and the artifacts we found. I would’ve brought in more crew, but—”
“Who stayed, then? Who was actually there when you kept working?”
“Me, Digby showed up, my grad students—plus a structural engineer and a construction worker, all to see that we didn’t bring down a wall, I assume.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, after I initially went in yesterday, the construction guys created a kind of door for us.”
“How long were you there yesterday?”
“It was almost midnight before I left. I didn’t touch or open anything. I stepped over the hole—where the wall broke when they were working on the foundations—into the crypt beyond. Digby and my grad students and I were there. We make drawings and assessments and plan before we start the actual work, so, yes, I’d say it was midnight. By then, of course, the vampire dancers were gone and all the club people had been told to go home. Once they made the find—the second crypt—they closed down, of course, but people were hanging around. It’s...it’s history being reclaimed! Roger Gleason, the owner, seems like a nice guy. He has a conscience and some perspective on what’s important. We didn’t have to get court orders or anything. He simply agreed to close for a few days. They had patrol officers covering the place, making sure that once the news about the crypt got out, some Goth freak or necrophilia-pursuing creep didn’t try to break in.”
Craig nodded. He knew the answers to most of what he was asking; he just wanted it from Shaw and he wanted to ensure that their facts were straight.
“Yesterday,” Shaw said, “you understand, was discovery day. I planned where to put some lights. I judged the space for people and decided on equipment. I did all the assessments, got my ducks in a row, you know what I mean?”
Craig nodded again. “This morning when you arrived—were things exactly as you’d left them?”
“What?”
“Had anything you’d done been changed? Were tools missing, anything like that?”
Shaw frowned. “I...I don’t think so. I don’t get it. I’d roped off different areas in the basement for my people. We had our little brushes and chisels and...no, I’m positive that our work tables were the way we’d left them,” he said. He leaned forward. “Didn’t Ms. Gilbert disappear about two weeks ago? She didn’t look as if she’d just been killed. She...she was beautiful as she lay there, but decay had set in. I guess down there, with the cool temperature, natural decay wouldn’t be what it would up here.” He briefly closed his eyes. “If she was embalmed, she wasn’t embalmed well, but she was dressed up. As if she’d been prepared for a viewing. Seeing her gave me chills! Chills! And I work with the dead all the time. When did she die?”
“The medical examiner is estimating her death to have been between one and two weeks ago. He’ll tell us more definitively when he’s done the autopsy.”
“So, you think that—”
“I don’t think anything yet,” Craig said. “We need more information from the experts before I can even speculate. Go on, please, tell me about this morning.”
“Okay,” John said. “This morning.” He looked longingly at his scotch glass.
It was empty.
“You want another?” Craig asked.
“Yeah,” John said huskily. “Yeah. The long dead are one thing. Fresh corpses...or not so fresh corpses...”
Craig knew what he meant.
He had seen the body.
He scanned the bar area but didn’t see Kieran. Declan Finnegan, however—looking like an old-time Irish bartender as he dried a glass, decked in a white apron tied around his waist—was behind the bar.
Craig walked over to him. Declan, he knew, had been fully aware that Craig was in the pub and that he’d been talking to John Shaw.
“You want another scotch for him?” Declan asked.
Declan was the oldest of the Finnegans; he wore his sense of responsibility and dignity well. All the Finnegan family were attractive and charming people with different degrees of red in their hair, and they all had eyes in varying shades of blue. Even a casual observer had to note that they were related.
Declan tended to be the most serious in demeanor. He didn’t ask questions, not of Craig; he knew he’d learn what was going on if and when it was appropriate.
“Thanks,” Craig said. “Any idea where Kieran is?”
“She and Kevin were helping out before. I’m not sure where they went.” He poured the scotch. “Anything for you?”
“Soda water.”
Declan quickly poured him a glass from the fountain, and Craig returned to the table. Where the hell had Kieran gone?
She