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.”
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?”
“Yes, I believe she was. We don’t have anything on Roger Gleason—yet,” Craig said.
“You hear about the find...and a day later, bring a girl down here to bury. According to the autopsy, she was dead already,” Mike mused aloud.
“Yeah. He must have planned to leave her somewhere else. I wonder where,” Craig said. “I still can’t fathom how he got down here.”
“The security footage is somehow jimmied.”
Craig looked over at him. “Egan has our people working with their people. None of them can figure out how the tape was fixed. And if it wasn’t fixed, there’s another way in here.”
“Yeah? Under the ground?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, under the ground.”
Mike groaned. He was older; he actually had the seniority. But the two of them had been working together for years, and they had a great relationship.
Mike walked down the rows of tombs—those sealed and those not—muttering as he leaned over the shelves of the dead, pushing at the walls.
Craig did the same. It was eerie work; he tried not to look at the skeletal remains beneath their decaying shrouds. He thought about Shaw and the historical people.
They probably wouldn’t be happy. They worked with delicate chisels and tiny brushes, and he was pushing aside nearly two-hundred-year-old remains in his attempt to find what he was looking for.
It seemed, however, that he hit nothing but the solid granite on which the city sat.
“Special Agent Frasier!”
He nearly bumped his head, startled by the uniformed officer who had come to talk to him.
“There’s a rep here from the mayor’s office. She’s with Henry Willoughby, Aldous Digby and Roger Gleason. They’re waiting to talk to you in the storage area,” the officer told him.
“Yeah, of course,” Craig said. He glanced at Mike and shrugged.
The body was gone. Jeannette had been taken to the morgue.
The forensic team had gone over the area with a fine-tooth comb.
It had to be opened back up to the archaeologists, anthropologists and historians who would record the find and see that the remains were reinterred in a cemetery in Brooklyn or the Bronx.
He and Mike walked back out past the broken wall to where Roger Gleason was waiting with Henry Willoughby and Aldous Digby and a young woman in a smart pin-striped business suit. Her heels were too high for the marble steps that led to an uneven basement floor, but she represented the mayor, so he figured her attire had to be proper.
“Special Agents,” she said, addressing him and Mike and offering her hand in a shake. “I’m Sandra Adair from the mayor’s office. Naturally, we’re grateful for the federal interests here. And we’re appalled about the murder of Ms. Gilbert. But, gentlemen, we’ve spoken with Assistant Director Egan, and we’ve all agreed that it’s time to let the historians get back to work. Are we all in agreement?”
“Yes, I believe it’s all right for the work to continue,” Craig said politely. “With Ms. Gilbert now in the tender hands of the medical examiner, Professor Shaw and Professor Digby may continue their documentation of the long dead.”
He kept his voice modulated, trying to hide his irritation.
Willoughby lowered his head, smiling, no doubt aware of Craig’s feelings. Sandra Adair seemed oblivious, and Roger Gleason apparently didn’t care one way or another; he wasn’t reopening for business yet.
“Well, then, thank you, and, naturally, we’ll be anxious to hear that you’ve solved the murder of Ms. Gilbert,” Adair said. “Mr. Willoughby, I’ll leave it to you to call the experts back in. Oh, by the way, Special Agent Frasier. I don’t believe your phone has been working down here. I have a message for you from Detective McBride. He wants you to call him.”
“Thank you,” Craig said.
She turned to head back up the old marble steps. He gritted his teeth and then stepped forward to help her. She was annoying, but he didn’t want to see her flat on the ground with a broken ankle.
“We’re okay?” Digby asked. He let out a sigh. “To be honest, I’m anxious to do this work, but I’m equally anxious to get in and out.”
“Yes, we’ll need John Shaw,” Willoughby said as Craig headed up the stairs.
Craig turned back to Digby. “Professor, you were here when Ms. Gilbert was found. Is there anything in particular you noted? Anything you could tell us that might help in any way?”
Digby was thoughtful.
“The floor,” he said.
“The floor?”
“People had already been in, of course. But, there’s always a kind of a film—time and decay—on the floor. Now that I’ve had time to think, there was something a little off. It seemed to me that much of it was...too clean.”
“Was that before or after the body was found?” Craig asked him.