Krewe of Hunters 3 Sacred Evil (4 page)

“Well, hell, yes, I’m glad for anything that can help,” Jude said.

“You want not just this murder solved, but the other two as well. I know you, Crosby. You’ve been beating the pavement and harassing Tech Support every day for help on the two victims you pulled in the last couple of weeks.”

“We don’t know that these killings are connected in any way.”

“Stabbings with sharp knives or utensils, same place on the bodies, each attack growing more violent…”

Jude looked down, not wanting Green to see that he was irritated about being called off the street at the prime moment to make discoveries.

“We do have good cops. Our forensics people are cops, too, Jude. They won’t let you down. You know you aren’t going to find clues on the street…you know this is a serious situation being created by an extremely organized killer. This is going to take time, manpower and all the behavioral profiling help we can get.”

“I can be a team player, and you know it.”

“That’s why you’re in charge, Jude. Have you seen the news already?” Green asked.

“Oh, yeah.” He looked at Green across the desk. “Yes, the media is giving the bastard just what he wants. Notoriety.”

“That’s true. Now, as to the team… This unit was established by a man we worked with down here years ago. Adam Harrison. Similar crimes. Attacks on historical properties, and a perp who was in love with Edgar Allan Poe and started killing people like the victims in Poe stories. Anyway, it’s a different thing to go after a man like this, and the head of this team is an agent who worked the behavioral sciences aspect of crimes for years. One of the team is already in transit—the others will be here tomorrow. I’m setting them up with an apartment in Blair House. You’ll actually meet…” He paused for a minute, looking at a memo on his desk. “You’ll meet Miss Whitney Tremont at Blair House at two, get her settled in and then head for the autopsy.”

“I’m taking her to autopsy?”

“Yes.”

“I thought Blair House was closed for renovations.”

Green nodded. “It is—the preservationists won’t let the place be torn down, and it’s not due for construction crews to begin work for another few weeks. I want the team in the area. I’ll set up a meeting for you tomorrow with the team and the team head, Special Agent Jackson Crow.”

Jude stood. It was decided, and he knew it. So much for his social life. Wait—he didn’t really have a social life. Since he and Jill had parted last spring, he’d enjoyed three one-night stands and a two-week dating whirl. Actually, he’d had three one-night stands—enjoyed two.

“All right. I want Hannah Mills in Tech.”

“She’s yours.”

Jude nodded again. “And I have priority at autopsy—now, and if this does go further?”

“I just called Fullbright. He’ll be your man, and he will be ready to meet with you at three this afternoon—the autopsy is already scheduled.”

Jude nodded again. “I’m going back to the scene until then. I’ll meet your Miss Tremont at two, and we’ll be at autopsy together at three. And don’t give me that resigned look. I’ll call Ellis and get his team moving, too.”

“You’re the best I’ve got, Jude. And I’m giving you priority all the way,” Green told him.

Jude wasn’t sure he was the best that the deputy chief had. Hell, he’d just watched his partner get shot in a situation that should have never ended as it had.

But this was what he did; he’d known all his life that, like his father and grandfather—and great-grandfather before that—he’d wanted to be a cop. He’d been lucky; he’d gone to college and gotten degrees in criminology and psychology, something his father and grandfather hadn’t been able to acquire. But they’d both been good cops. The kind who put the bad guys away.

This was one bad guy they were going after and they all knew it.

“I’ll do my absolute best, sir,” Jude said.

“I know you will.”

He had been dismissed. He headed straight to Tech Support, where he discovered that Green had put through a call to Hannah Mills. Hannah was excited; she’d never actually spoken directly to Green before.

She was a whiz with computers, and if a piece of information was available anywhere, Hannah could find it. At one time in history, she would have been called a spinster. She was a slender woman with bottle-thick wire glasses, brown hair worn in a bun each day and a mind that could work as quickly as a computer.

“I’m making printouts for you, they’ll be popping out as we speak,” she told Jude.

“She was with the movie crew?” Jude asked.

“She was portraying prostitute Mary Green. She was an extra, I believe, but she had a fair amount of screen time. Maybe even a line or two. Anyway, I have a list for you. The producer, the director, the name of the off-duty officer patrolling…a liaison with the movie and television unit. I think it’s all here. And when you want more, you call me, day or night!” She stood up in her little cubicle and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Jude! Thank you for asking for me.”

“Thank
you
for being a good tech. I do have something for you. I want you to find out all you can about a Captain Tyler, a Vietnam vet.”

“Oh, that Tyler. I thought you meant one of the thousand others on the island of Manhattan.”

“Very funny. This one would have been in and out of local veterans’ hospitals.”

“On it,” she assured him.

“And one more—I want everything you can find about a government group put together by a man named Adam Harrison. Team head is Jackson Crow.”

“The name is familiar. I’ll get right on it.”

Jude returned to lower Broadway, opting to walk back to the scene. On a television screen, through an appliance-shop window, he could see that Deputy Chief Green himself was speaking to the media. He urged citizens to calm down and be vigilant.

He put a in call to Ellis and let him know that he and his group were to join Jude and the feds. Before he had reached the scene of the crime again, he had everyone in motion; they would start with initial interviews of everyone on the movie set. He looked at the list Hannah had given him; he could get one of the feds to make sure that this list and the list that Smith was able to garner matched. Like it or not, he was working with the feds. Might as well make use of them.

With careful steps, he walked from the set to where the body had been found, reimagining the victim’s probable search for a cab, and how the killer had come upon her. All the while he searched for Captain Tyler as well. But though he made new acquaintances with several of the homeless people on the streets, he didn’t find Tyler.

He felt a growing sense of anger.

Someone out there was either amusing himself at the expense of the police, or sincerely thought himself the reincarnation of a legendary killer.

The victim probably hadn’t had time to scream. New York had been teeming with life just blocks away—the population was huge.

Just as it had been in the crowded tenements of Whitechapel and the East End of London.

The killer had probably surprised her; choked her to unconsciousness before slitting her throat.

His phone rang. It was Hannah.

“What’s up? What have you got?”

“Info, but not on the victim—on your
team,
” Hannah told him.

There was a strange excitement in her voice.

“They’re a special team, all right. They’ve barely been around a year, but they’ve already solved a number of really bizarre cases. Jude—they’re a paranormal team. They don’t just investigate, they appear to talk to ghosts. They’re highly respected for what they’ve done, but they’re also a bit on the outside, even of the FBI itself. Only the head guy, that Jackson Crow, has been a special agent for a long time. But he’s supposed to be one of the best behavioral guys out there. They sound good, really good. But weird, too. You must have heard something about this group. They solved a creepy murder in New Orleans that had to do with all kinds of political corruption.”

“I might have heard something,” he said. He winced. Leave it him to wind up with the “special” team. Which reminded him…

“Thanks, Hannah. I have to meet one of the agents now, and it’s good to be forewarned.”

He hung up. On to meet his spiritualist or medium or whatever. He’d been told he had to work with the team; he would. He’d be polite. He’d spend the days and nights reminding himself that all help was needed at the moment.

The days and nights ahead suddenly seemed extremely long.

Be polite. Collect the “special” agent. And then on to autopsy.

B
lair House.

It stood behind a wall and next to an area where a massive construction project seemed to be under way—except that the construction crews didn’t appear to be out. The house was barely a block away from Wall Street, and another block from Broadway, within easy distance of St. Paul’s, Trinity and the World Trade Center site.

Blair House itself was as out of sync with the current pulse of the city as the churches with their early American graveyards.

As far as the financial concerns of humanity went, it only made sense to tear down the old to make way for the new.

But, Whitney Tremont had been glad to hear, Blair House was not going to be torn down. It was slated for a great deal of renovation; federal money was coming in to tend to a federal project—it was said that among the many places George Washington slept, Blair House was one of his favorites.

A low brick wall obscured much of the facade, while wrought-iron detail, tangled with ivy, rose from the wall. She could see the house from the sidewalk only because the driver who had picked her up from the airport had provided her with keys, and she had opened the gate while awaiting her NYPD liaison, Detective Jude Crosby.

The brick path to the house was overgrown, as was the house’s yard area. To the left, there was a charming pagoda overrun with ivy and flowering plants and to the right, a fountain that no longer trickled water was in a similar state.

The house itself was Greek Revival—several steps led up to a porch with fine Ionic columns. The front door was double-wide with etched-glass porticoes.

The off-white paint was peeling. The columns obviously needed help as well.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

She turned, startled. She had been giving the house so much attention that she hadn’t noticed the tall man who had walked up to her on the sidewalk.

He was actually hard not to notice; he was a good six foot three and built like a linebacker.

“I wasn’t thinking that it was bad,” she told him. “I was just thinking that it’s beautiful, and I’m glad they’re not tearing it down.” She offered him a hand. “Special Agent Whitney Tremont, Detective Crosby. Thank you for being here.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Sure. The situation is bad. Whatever it takes. Need a hand with your bag?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. We can just head on in.”

He hadn’t exactly been warm and cuddly, but he wasn’t being rude, and he seemed to be sincere. Other agencies sometimes resented FBI involvement in a case—they weren’t always fond of the fact that someone over them had invited the feds in.

She’d never exactly intended to work for the federal government, but she didn’t mind. As long as they were left to work alone, it just didn’t matter. And since the head of their unit, Jackson Crow, had established himself as an agent with an exemplary record before he’d been given his current team, she was more than willing to accept the occasional snickers that came their way. Jackson could stare down any man and silence him within a matter of seconds.

“I believe they had a cleaning crew come in already—a good thing, since I don’t imagine that you and your team would want a lot of people around.” Jude Crosby told her. “Also, if I know my superiors, they had staples brought in, so you should have essentials.”

“Thanks.”

He studied her for a minute; his face gave nothing away. “Well, I guess we should get you settled.” He actually grinned. “You know it’s a haunted house, right?”

“What self-respecting house this old isn’t haunted?” she asked.

He was still sizing her up, of course, given the team’s reputation. She smiled, not saying anything. They were all welcome to wonder. Detective Crosby would meet Jackson Crow soon enough. Jackson had a tenet he lived by, and the team followed its simple sentiment—use logic, and then feelings.

“The rest of your team isn’t arriving until tomorrow?” he asked her. “That’s right.”

“So you’re staying here alone tonight?”

“Yes, and I’ll be fine. Let me take a quick look around, drop my bag and we can go to the autopsy.”

He pointed to the area next door. “That’s where they were filming the movie and that’s where the victim came from when she was leaving. I’m surprised that they sent you in alone.”

“You shouldn’t be. I went through a lot of sessions at the shooting range. I passed,” Whitney told him.

“Can you shoot a ghost?” he asked. The question seemed pleasant enough, but she realized she was being mocked. She wondered if he was more concerned that she was a ghost-hunting special agent, or that she was a small woman.

“I’m quite competent, thank you,” she assured him.

“All right, your call… Just remember, please, it’s an NYC case with NYC police heading the investigation. I’m impressed that a unit was asked in immediately.
Somebody
thinks that your ghost hunting—that your team—is top-notch. Thing is, there’s nothing really around you at night, unless you want to count the dead in Trinity’s and St. Paul’s graveyards. Last night, that crew working this area so late was unusual. But that’s film for you.”

He didn’t wait for her reply; he started up the walk.

Whitney stepped into the main hallway, which was long and extremely broad. A slim curving staircase against the western wall led to the floor above, and she could see down the hallway to the door that opened to the back. She wanted to stop, to try to sense the place, but she didn’t; not with Jude Crosby watching.

“They say the foundations of this old place date back to the last decades of the eighteenth century. There were lots of fires back then, though, and not a lot of control. I think the current structure is from 1810. I have to say, I’m glad they’re preserving it, too. Wonder what it was like back in the day. I mean, New York moves like a bullet. I love the city.”

“It’s a great city,” Whitney murmured.

Whitney noted that the hallway had probably been the grand meeting room of the house; parties had probably been held right there with indentured servants or slaves walking the room at times with silver trays. A grand piano sat against the wall at the rear; she wondered just how old it might be.

But she’d have to explore later.

Whatever happened with the New York City police, she wanted to make sure that she was there from the get-go, and that her prep work had been done. They were there to assist the police, not to take over an investigation, no matter how much pull they might have with different power structures. She’d spent the trip reading email on the current murder—preliminary notes only—and, since the cry was out that the murder seemed to be mimicking that of a long-ago Ripper victim, she had spent most of the time during her flight on her iPad, downloading the best books she could find on the elusive killer from the past.

“I’ve only been in this house a few times,” Jude told her. “When I was a kid on school tours, before it was closed down for renovations. I’m going to suggest you snag the first room up the stairs on your left. The last owners—who gave it to the government about twenty years ago—had a nice bathroom installed up there.”

“Thanks,” she told him.

“Go on, take a peek. I’ll carry your bag on up, and then I’ll get you down to the morgue.”

“Thanks,” she told him again.

He was an imposing presence. His features were as rugged as his muscled form—handsome, masculine, strong, with the right amount of rough around the edges.

Not a good thought, she told herself. She had to be blunt and strong herself; in fact, she was going to have to make sure that she remained smoothly professional in every way. They needed his respect. In her case, at five-three, she was fighting physical odds right from the start.

“I can really carry my own bag—”

“Simple courtesy, Agent Tremont. We’re not without it,” he said.

The bedroom was nice. She glanced in the doorway as Jude Crosby set her travel bag on the footrest at the end of the bed. She took a minute to dig into her overnight bag for her better camera to be added to the shoulder bag.

“You’re a photographer?”

“Film is the best record of what we see, isn’t it?” she asked.

The room smelled sweetly and lightly of lavender cleaning solution. It was a beautiful room, and she was convinced that it did have a feel for the past, just as venerated old churches and other historic buildings often seemed to have.

Would it be more than just the sacred feel of history?
she wondered.

“Great,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Jude arched a brow. “That’s it? You don’t want to look around longer? Settle in?”

“Nope.” She was grateful that she’d been able to come so quickly; they’d received the call almost immediately after they saw on the news that a gruesome murder had taken place in New York. While Jackson had calmly spoken about travel arrangements and equipment, explaining the circumstances in which they’d be working, she’d been online and discovered that if she left within the next ten minutes, she could be on a plane to LaGuardia that was scheduled for departure at ten, and would have her on the ground in New York by one. She’d jumped at the chance, although not without a few minutes of stern warnings from her associates. They mostly consisted of:
Be careful. We’ll be right behind you. You know not to take chances. Remember that we work best when we can earn the cooperation of the local police.

“Okay,” Jude said. “You need anything else?”

She tapped her shoulder bag, a big soft leather sling she hadn’t released since she’d gone through the security lines at the airport.

“I’m good. I have everything I need for the moment.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “You travel light for a woman.”

She felt her own smile tighten just a bit. Was he mocking her? She was fairly small and slim, she knew. Her appearance and gender often worked in her favor. She wasn’t threatening in size and, sometimes, that was good.

Get along with the locals,
she reminded herself.

“Don’t think of me as a woman, Detective. Think of me as an agent,” she said. “And I won’t think of you as a boy or a man—I’ll think of you as a top-notch NYPD detective.”

He laughed. Apparently, he did have a sense of humor. And he could laugh at himself.

As they left Blair House, Whitney found herself pausing to look at the large construction site next door.

“I’m assuming whatever was there wasn’t protected by any historical society,” she said.

“No, there had been an ugly building there from the 1920s, or something like that,” Jude said. “Before that, it had been some kind of society building—not like high society. I mean…I don’t know. Some people claimed that it was a spiritualist house, or a place for Satanists, or something like that. Odd, though. Construction there has had to halt several times. A few workers were injured. I think one was killed. And then, of course, last night happened. The film company had acquired permits to use the area. They bought mega-insurance for the shoot, but I don’t think it helps, because the murder was off-site.”

“And the woman who was murdered had been working there,” Whitney said.

“Yep, playing a gaslight prostitute, I believe. Honestly, it’s really no wonder that folks are crying ‘Jack’s back.’ Poor girl. There’s been some insinuation in early news reports that our victim didn’t always get along with the other actresses. But maybe that’s not a fair assessment—we haven’t even really begun the investigation. From what I’ve learned, the old Jack the Ripper found victims who were used up, missing teeth, old and ugly, but I guess none of his victims had a reputation for not being nice. Now, that’s an interesting question. Does being
nice
or
not nice
have much to do with being a victim?”

Whitney glanced at him. He was thoughtful, really thoughtful. She decided that he might have made a decent behaviorial scientist himself. “That
is
an interesting question,” Whitney said, still looking at the cheap mesh fencing and the occasional ugly green plastic sheets that surrounded the construction site. It appeared that the majority of the old structure had been demolished; there were planks over what looked like foundations that were still in the process of being dug out and cleared. There were also piles of new timber lying about—remnants, she presumed—of the sets that had been hastily constructed for the on-location shooting that had been done the day before.

She thought the site was empty and then she realized that there was a gate around the other side, and by the gate there was a small section with a tented roof. Sitting beneath it, watching the entrance and reading a magazine, was a guard.

“One guard watching the area,” Whitney murmured.

Jude pointed to a row of trailers on the other side of the street. “Yesterday, throughout the day, there was tons of security. That’s the tail end of the movie crew. There was no shooting today, and the producer announced, after the report of Miss Rockford’s murder, that they were done with the location.” He glanced her way. “I spent most of the day down here off and on, trying to get a real feel for what was going on, and what the situation was last night.”

“What is your feeling about it now?”

He glanced her way and actually smiled. “I have a feeling—ye olde cop gut feeling—that it does have something to do with the movie and the movie crew.”

Whitney mulled over his words as he drove her down to the morgue. She listened to the constant honking that was as natural as conversation in this city. She watched the rush of pedestrians along the busy streets. People flocking through the intersections, the occasional dog walker pausing along the sidewalk with a Baggie.

She’d been a film student herself in the city, and she knew the area. But now, she felt as if she was seeing it all through different eyes. She thought about the age and the history of the city; the city buildings forming a concrete tomb over the iniquity and depredation of what had been the Five Points region. Wall Street—once where the old wall built to protect the tip of the island had been. Few places rivaled New York City as a place where the sheer velocity of life trampled the pivotal spaces of history.