LITMIR.BIZ

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in a day.”

      “Still, we can find out who has been to Virginia,” McBride said. “Or if any of our suspects left the city around that time.”

      “Not if they took side roads,” Mike noted.

      “Hard to get in or out of New York City without hitting some kind of a camera,” McBride said.

      “True—but there are ways,” Craig said. “But I don’t believe that Jeannette Gilbert went off with just anyone. She knew her killer. She trusted him. That makes me believe that the killer is from or lives in New York City since, even though she traveled for work, Jeannette spent her entire life here.”

      “The other victim trusted her killer, too,” McBride said.

      “But Jeannette Gilbert was a media star. She was known. Right now, I’d like to look at this case as if it is a separate situation. We need to focus on possible suspects right here in the city, people who were close to Jeannette Gilbert.”

      “Sure,” McBride said glumly.

      “Naturally, everyone at the church-nightclub was questioned immediately, but only Gleason had actually ever met Ms. Gilbert, and that was because of an ad done at the club. He made no attempt to hide and didn’t avoid any questions. He’ll remain on our radar. Number one suspect—according to the tabloids—is her manager, Oswald Martin,” Craig said. “I have officers out trying to find him now.”

      “Can’t convict a man via the tabloids,” McBride noted.

      Mike had a sheaf of notes in front of him. “She had a row with a photographer a while back—Leo Holt. High-fashion photographer. It was covered in the tabloids. And they lived in buildings on the same block by Central Park. However, there’s nothing to link him to her disappearance.”

      “We really have nothing to link anyone yet. Thing is, I don’t think we’re going after the usual—because of Virginia. I don’t think it’s someone with whom she just had a petty argument. I don’t think it’s a scientist working at the scene, either.” Craig shook his head. “But I like charts and lists, so I’ll add Holt’s name.”

      “Going in that direction, there’s John Shaw himself,” McBride offered. “He’s creepy enough, crazy enough. My gut says no, but you could write him down, too.”

      Craig did. “Then,” he added, “we have the owner of the club. Roger Gleason.”

      “Definitely slimy,” Mike said.

      “Can’t convict on slimy,” McBride put in.

      “No, but we have to start somewhere,” Craig said. “The first one who usually comes under suspicion is the significant other. In our case—the mystery man.”

      Mike cleared his throat. “We don’t know who he is. That’s why he’s a mystery man.”

      “We’re going to find out. We have statements from friends and associates and coworkers already, since she was listed as a missing person,” Craig said. “It will come out.”

      “We have to add in every one of the people involved with Shaw,” Mike said. “His colleague, Professor Digby. Henry Willoughby had been there, too, representing the historic preservation group. And then the grad students.” He referred to his notes. “Allie Benoit, Joshua Harding and Sam Frick. All of them go to the university here, and all have worked with Dr. Shaw before.”

      “There’s her family,” McBride said. “The aunt... She’s just kind of a sad sack. And the step-uncle, Tobias Green—a total asshole. Never bothered with the girl, begrudged every piece of food she put in her mouth as a kid—and threatened to sue the NYPD if we didn’t find her!”

      “Add the asshole step-uncle to the list,” Mike said.

      “I don’t think you should write asshole on that board of yours. Probably against Bureau policy,” McBride said wearily.

      “He probably is an ass,” Craig agreed, “but I’m not sure if that puts him with the kind of man we’re looking for. Gilbert wouldn’t have feared him, but how would he have gotten to know our other victim?”

      “And you can’t convict a guy for being an asshole,” McBride said sadly.

      “We’ll still want to talk to him,” Craig murmured.

      “Construction workers, bar employees—we’re missing people,” Mike said.

      “Yeah, well, we could be missing suspects that include all of Manhattan and beyond, since the news was out about the find,” McBride said wearily. “What have we got off security tapes? Did Tech finish with them yet?”

      “We got nothing,” Craig said.

      “How can you have nothing? I saw the cameras there.”

      “The techs studied the tapes over and over. Roger Gleason stayed late—until Professor Shaw was all set up for today. You see him and Shaw leaving together—in fact, you see Gleason setting the alarm. And, yes, the alarm company has been questioned and nothing went off last night. The cameras recorded through the night. You see no one go in and no one go out.”

      “That’s impossible,” McBride said.

      “It was a church,” Mike argued. “There’s more than one entrance. The door to the left leads to the offices—at least what was offices when it was a church. The door to the right led outside.”

      “I tried it, Mike,” Craig replied. “It doesn’t open now. The next building is flush against it.”

      “There has to be another way out,” Mike said. “I feel like an idiot. I went through every room at the place. I don’t remember another door, but—”

      “There are two side doors next to the main pointed arch entry,” Craig said. “Locked from the outside, on the same alarm system. In an emergency, they open out.”

      “I had Forensics inspect those doors. They weren’t jimmied. They weren’t opened,” Mike said.

      “Shouldn’t pass a fire code that way,” McBride grumbled.

      “That’s just it. An alarm to the fire department goes off when they’re opened,” Mike said.

      “Something had to have happened—a technical failure?” McBride posited. “And of course there are no alleys.”

      “It’s Manhattan,” Mike said. “Buildings wind up flush together because real estate is prime. No alleys,” he added, looking at Craig.

      “No. No alleys,” Craig agreed.

      “The cameras had to have been tampered with. Someone had to have jimmied the alarm system,” McBride said. “It’s looking like the owner himself might be guilty in this thing. Who the hell else could have done all that?”

      Craig had to admit that it seemed the detective was right.

      How had someone gotten into the church, carried the body downstairs and gotten it into the coffin without being seen?

      “She was killed by a ghost,” Mike muttered.

      “Seems that way,” McBride said, shaking his head. “But she’s still a real corpse. A ghost would have had to have carried in a real corpse!”

      Craig’s buzzer rang then; he hit the intercom.

      “Special Agent Frasier,” one of the secretaries said, “Dr. Fuller and Ms. Finnegan are here. I’ve taken the liberty of sending someone down to get them. Do I hold them out here or send them in?”

      “Send them right in,” Craig said.

      “Good. The shrinks can explain how ghosts work and make victims invisible, too,” McBride said, his sarcasm a cover for his exasperation. “Something’s wrong—film, tape, digital images. They had to be manipulated.”

      “We have

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