knew what he did for a living; he knew about her professional work for Drs. Fuller and Miro. They respected each other’s professions and discussed things when they could—or when the other might have a useful insight. Or when, as occasionally happened, they became involved in the same case.
Fuller and Miro worked with the police and the FBI. They often gave their considered opinion of a suspected criminal’s state of mind or behavior.
They’d been involved, all four of them together, in a situation before—the so-called Diamond Affair.
But now...
He wanted to hold her and yet he couldn’t; he was here professionally. He strode past her, his eyes on Shaw.
Even as he approached the booth where John Shaw was seated, he was still hating the fact that the church where Jeannette had been found was directly behind Finnegan’s. He’d come to terms with being in love with Kieran—and the fact that she, too, dealt with criminals.
However, it was still difficult for him to accept that she was sometimes too quick to put herself in danger in defense of others.
Yes, it seemed to be a Casablanca moment.
Of all the old abandoned dug out holes in Manhattan, the damned catacombs just had to be close to Finnegan’s!
Too close... This place was too close to where a young woman lay dead, where her body had been stashed with the bones of those long forgotten.
Craig knew John Shaw, and Shaw knew him; they’d met at the pub several times when the professor had come for his professional meetings or get-togethers—or when he just wanted to sip one of his ultra-lite beers and chill.
“Craig!” John said, looking up at him with surprise. “I—Oh, my. You’re coming to see me. So I guess it should be Special Agent Frasier. Not Craig. Look, I’m not sure what else I can say to anyone. All I know is that we opened that coffin and...and there she was.”
Craig slid into the booth and smiled at him. “You must be pretty rattled.”
“Yes. You’re here officially? The police told me not to say anything yet. They need to contact the poor girl’s family. I mean, that’s why you’re here—coming to me and not Kieran, right?”
“Yes, John, this is official. The NYPD detectives are on the case, of course, but we’re taking part, as well. We’ve put together a task force. This as a very high-profile murder.”
John nodded, his white hair—something of a strange mullet cut—flapping beside his ears. His glasses slid down his nose with his effort, and he pushed them back with his forefinger.
“Of course. This needs to be solved fast,” John said. “But...” His expression grew even more perplexed. “I don’t know how I can help any more. I don’t know how I can help, period. Professor Digby—Aldous Digby, one of my associates—and I were there, and three grad students. Oh, and two of the construction guys. The guys were watching—waiting to get back to work. I didn’t let them touch the coffin. Nice guys, but, you know, that coffin might be two hundred years old and, well, you need to have a delicate touch. And Ms. Gilbert... The second I saw her... I have to admit I screamed. I was rattled, as you said. But I made sure everyone got out. We did and then went up to the church—the club area—to wait for the police.”
“Right. So there were seven of you. I have the names,” Craig said. He was certain that the meticulous Detective McBride had sent his email.
He’d also seen Jeannette Gilbert’s body at the site.
He winced, the picture of her still so clear in his mind. Her lovely, pale, perfect face. The white dress. The red rose.
John nodded. “Seven of us were in there—and seven of us got out quicker than a flash. And we were all interviewed.” He sighed loudly. “Hell of a thing for the owner of that place. They’ve barely been open what, a month or two? Then they have to stop work and close up because an engineer finds the coffins in the dirt and then the catacombs. They bring us in, and... Sad. So sad. By God, she was beautiful! Poor thing.”
“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,
