Heather Graham - Sacred Evil

“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.

Blair 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?”