“We did?”
“I did,” he corrected. “Kieran, I was the so-called ‘mystery man’ she was dating! I might have been the last one to see her alive.”
* * *
The NYPD had been called in first; that was proper protocol, since New York City was where the body had been found.
She’d last been seen by her doorman entering her apartment; she was a longtime Manhattan resident. She had, in fact, grown up in Harlem, a little girl who’d lost both parents and gone on to live in a household filled with children and an aunt who hadn’t wanted another mouth to feed.
By the age of seventeen, however, she’d had an affair with a rock star.
While the rock star denied any kind of intimate relationship with her at the time, he’d gone on to put her in one of his music videos soon after.
An agent had picked her up and it had been a classic tale—little girl lost had become a megastar. By twenty-five, she was gracing runways all over the world and, because of her modeling, doing cameo spots on television shows and even appearing in small roles in several movies. She was considered a true supernova.
Jeannette’s physical appearance had been called perfect by every critic out there.
She could walk a runway.
She had beautiful skin, luscious hair, long legs and a body that didn’t quit.
Craig Frasier had learned all this about Jeannette in the last few hours. Before that, she’d only been a face he might have recognized on a magazine cover.
But he’d made it his business to read up on her quickly.
Because her death had suddenly become the focus of his life.
He’d been in his office, reading statements from witnesses about the murder of a known pimp, when he’d been summoned, along with his partner, Mike Dalton, to Assistant Director Richard Egan’s office.
Craig and Mike had been partners for years. Craig had been assigned a young, new agent when Mike was laid up on medical leave—a shot to the buttocks—about a year ago. He’d learned then how much he appreciated his partner; they knew each other’s minds. They naturally fell into a division of labor when it came to pounding the pavement and getting the inevitable paperwork done.
And there was no one Craig trusted more to have his back, especially in a shoot-out.
Egan, a good man himself, was hard-core Bureau. His personal life had suffered for it, but he never brought his personal life into the office. He was the best kind of authority figure, as well—dignified, fair, compassionate. And efficient. He never wasted time. There were two chairs in front of his desk, but he hadn’t waited for Craig and Mike to sit down. He’d started talking right away.
“I had a back-burner situation going on here,” he’d told them. “We’d been given information, but the local police down in Fredericksburg, Virginia, were handling the case. A girl—a perfect-looking girl, an artist’s model—disappeared about six months ago. A few weeks later, her body was found in a historic cemetery outside Fredericksburg, in a mausoleum. She’d been stabbed in the heart, then cleaned up, dressed up and laid out in a family mausoleum. She was discovered when the family’s matriarch died, since she’d been put in the matriarch’s space. As I said, it seemed to be a local matter, and the Fredericksburg PD and Virginia State Police had the murder. We were informed because of the unusual aspects.”
Egan had paused, running his hands through his hair. Then he’d resumed speaking. “We’re all aware of the high-profile disappearance of Jeannette Gilbert.”
Mike had nodded. “Yeah, we were briefed with the cops about her disappearance when she went missing. We weren’t really in on it, as you know. But we were on the lookout.”
“Ms. Gilbert’s been found. An archaeological dig at old Saint Augustine’s.”
“You mean—” Mike began.
But Egan had cut him off. Yeah, he meant the new nightclub. Egan wasn’t a fan. He’d gone on and ranted for a full minute about the destruction of old historic places. In his opinion, that suggested New York City had no real respect for the past.
Craig knew Mike hadn’t been asking his question because of the club; he’d been trying to ascertain if she’d been found dead.
Mike had glanced over at Craig, who shrugged.
They’d both just let Egan rant, figuring it was obvious. The poor girl was dead.
Egan had ended by saying, “Yes, she’s dead. And it is bizarre—as bizarre as that Fredericksburg case, maybe even more so. Because in this case, the perp had to know she’d be found quickly. He placed her in a historical site where anthropologists and archaeologists were expected to arrive imminently. Later, you can go over the info on the Virginia case, do some comparisons. We’re part of the task force on this, but we’re taking the lead, and you two are up for our division. Because, gentlemen, I believe we have a serial killer on our hands.”
They’d asked about the security tapes at the club.
Techs were going over those now, Egan had said.
“That’s a bitch!” Egan had exclaimed. “Try looking for something out of the ordinary when every damned customer in the place looks like an escapee from a B Goth flick or worse! Not to mention that the club closed down when the crypt was discovered. There’s no club security overnight other than the cameras, but cops have been patrolling the place since the historic folks stepped in.”
From the office, he and Mike had gone straight to the church. The ME on duty was Anthony Andrews, a fine and detail-oriented doctor, but he hadn’t really started his examination of the body yet.
Photographers were still taking pictures, trying to maintain the scene just as it had been after Professor Shaw had opened the first coffin and seen Jeannette Gilbert.
A half-dozen members of a forensic team were moving around, but Dr. Andrews delicately stopped the photo session to show Craig and Mike what he’d discovered. Gilbert had been killed in another location, stabbed through the heart, and then bathed and dressed and prepared before being placed in the old coffin.
Seeing her was heartbreaking. Craig hadn’t known the woman or really anything about her until today, but she’d been young and beautiful, and her life had been brutally taken. She lay in the old coffin, dressed in shimmering white, a wilted rose in her hands. With her eyes closed, it looked as if she slept.
Except, of course, she’d never wake again.
“Defensive wounds?” he’d asked Andrews.
“Not a one. She was taken by surprise. Whoever killed her stood close by—had to be someone who seemed trustworthy. Maybe someone she knew,” the ME had speculated. “Or she could’ve had some kind of opiate in her system. Anyway, she didn’t expect what was coming.”
“Time of death?” Mike had asked. “She’s been missing about two weeks.”
“I’m thinking one to two weeks,” Andrews replied. “And I don’t believe she’s been embalmed—but she was somehow preserved. Maybe in a freezer while he worked on her or made arrangements or...” He sighed. “I need to get her on the table.”
Two patrol officers, the first on the scene, had closed off the area. Luckily, the club had been closed, pending the investigation of the newly discovered crypt. Detective Larry McBride, with the major crimes division, had been the first to arrive. Craig and Mike had worked with him before. He was particularly mild mannered, but he had a brilliant mind and nothing deterred his focus.
“Glad you guys are lead on this,” McBride had told them. “This is... Well, I believe we have a real psychopath on our hands. Bizarre! Wherever he killed her, he bathed away the blood. I’ve got officers who’ll be doing rounds