“Anyone trying to get in?” Jackson asked.

  “Not in this area,” the man told him and waved a hand in the air. “No way the media missed what happened last night. Captain Denning held a press conference this morning, warning people to stay away. Not quite anything like ‘trespassers will be shot,’ but a serious suggestion that they might be arrested. He has a way with words. So, no problems here.”

  Jackson thanked him, and they slowly headed toward the Robertson tomb.

  Angela linked her arm with his, looking about as they moved along.

  “There!” she said suddenly.

  Jackson paused, looking in the direction she’d indicated with a nod.

  And there, legs folded beneath him and perched on an aboveground tomb, was a man.

  One that most probably wouldn’t see.

  He was clad in the uniform of a Continental soldier, the basic blue coat and white shirt that George Washington had ordered in 1779. Even at a distance, Angela knew the uniform from a few of the deceased she’d made friends with throughout the years. This uniform had a red facing with white lining and white buttons, typical of those worn in Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia.

  “That couldn’t be... Ethan Robertson?” Jackson murmured.

  “That would be too lucky,” Angela said.

  “Probably, but I think we are in luck,” Jackson said.

  “Oh? Right! If it isn’t Ethan,” Angela said, smiling grimly at her husband, “I think it’s far more than likely he indeed knew Colonel Robertson, Virginia hero of the Revolutionary War.”

  Chapter 3

  One of Angela’s best assets, Jackson thought, was her ability to appear as if she were just a friendly, interested person. It didn’t hurt that she was a naturally beautiful woman with her inquisitive, bright blue eyes and fall of long, blond hair.

  Nor did it hurt that her caring was real. Of course, there was that division. They had to care. But they had to keep their emotions at a distance during many investigations.

  But as they approached, the ghost watched Angela curiously, his eyes on her rather than Jackson. As he realized they could see him, he smiled through a frown, surprise evident.

  “Hi, sir,” Angela said. “I’m Angela Hawkins Crow, and this is my husband, Jackson. We’re delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  For a moment, the ghost looked around as if assuring himself they were actually speaking to him.

  “You are seers,” the ghost said. “My dear Lord, I have not met such gifted people in... ah, well, let me see. A hundred years or so.”

  “Really? Oh. Well, we do exist. In truth, we have many friends and coworkers who are... seers, as you say.”

  “What do you call it?” the ghost asked.

  “We’re never sure,” Angela told him with a grin. “Sometimes, people think we’re gifted. Others sometimes think we’re cursed, but... well, I imagine you know. We don’t talk about our abilities to those without them because they—”

  “They think you are mad and should be locked away,” the ghost said knowingly.

  Angela shrugged with a grimace. “There are just so few in the world’s population who are gifted. But we try our best to let our talents work for us.”

  “You are police officers?” the ghost asked.

  For a moment, Jackson was surprised. The first police force in the United States had been formed in Boston in 1838—years after this man’s death, he imagined.

  Apparently, the ghost read the question in his expression. “I have been here a very long time,” he said softly. “And I learn all I can about the world and this country as the years go by. Shifts occur, people change, and there is always something new to learn.”

  “We’re FBI,” Jackson told him. “A special unit. As far as our official doctrine goes, we handle unique cases where people think a place is haunted or where criminals use demonology or the like to commit their crimes.”

  “Ah, well. Of course. You cover up the truth for your sanity,” the ghost said knowingly. “That is fascinating and wonderful.”

  “We hope you can help us,” Angela said softly.

  The ghost offered his hand. “Colonel George Clayborn, Continental Army,” he told them.

  They touched air, but shaking the man’s hand was proper since he’d offered the gesture. While they couldn’t feel him, the air was just a little bit... different.

  “Colonel,” Jackson acknowledged, and Angela smiled and nodded to acknowledge the introduction.

  “FBI,” Clayborn said. “Yes, you see, I know about that, too. Founded July 26, 1908. The investigative force of the Department of Justice.”

  “Yes. You’re well-informed,” Angela told him.

  The ghost shrugged with a grin. “I’ve always enjoyed reading. Even with the internet these days, people are always forgetting newspapers in the cemetery. And since television, there’s an old pub down the road that carries the news most of the time. As I said, I like to keep up to date.”

  In a serious tone, he added, “You are obviously here now because of the murders. I assumed you were police or law enforcement because no one else is allowed in the cemetery right now.”

  Jackson nodded. “We were—”

  “Hoping to meet someone like you,” Angela finished.

  Clayborn sighed. “I wish I could help you. I can tell you that the Robertson vault is famous in its way. People hear about the patriot Ethan Robertson’s mausoleum being here, and some know the vault was built by a famous architect of the day, Gervais Conte. So, yes, people do come sometimes.”

  “Have you seen anyone going into the vault? A young woman claims she saw a figure with a knife, and the door wasn’t fully closed or locked. That’s how we found the victims. There were three bodies in the tomb that didn’t belong there. They were killed at three different times. You never saw anything?” Jackson asked.

  “I saw all manner of people when the last Robertson was interred,” Clayborn said and then winced. “But I never saw anyone enter and not leave. The groundskeepers go into the vaults now and then. At this cemetery, they check structural integrity. I am afraid I don’t pay much attention. It is as it has been for years and years.”

  “It’s a pity that Ethan Robertson isn’t here,” Angela murmured.

  “Ah, Ethan was here. He had to see the end of all we fought for. All he had died for,” Clayborn said. “But one glorious day, we bid him farewell after he saw the Fathers put down freedoms in writing. When he saw that our General George was heading the country but not as a king, rather as president. So, I’m afraid it’s been a while. Still...” he said and then paused, frowning. “I don’t think the Robertson mausoleum was closed after the last interment. There were so many people at the funeral. Some came in honor of the dead, grieving, finding prayers and a funeral to be a step in that process. Others wanted to peek inside and see shrouds covering the bones of many of those long dead.”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. “As he left that day, Benjamin Robertson seemed distracted. There was a writer fellow who came, one who wanted to interview him about the decorations that would be set out for Halloween. They were talking and, well, perhaps he forgot to lock the vault. I was there, and I don’t remember him with his keys.”

  “That was three months ago, give or take a day?” Angela said.

  The ghost nodded seriously. “I heard some of the conversation, much of what went into the article. I managed to read it when a tourist forgot a pile of her papers along with the article. She left them on old Rory’s grave over there.” He nodded toward another of the aboveground tombs. “People are always leaving things in cemeteries.”

  Angela glanced at Jackson. He knew they were both likely thinking two things: The writer of the article needed to come in, and they might find something by the tomb.

  One would imagine this murderer would be careful, but...

  He’d started killing at least three months ago. Until now, he’d seemingly gotten away with it. But that might mean he was getting comfortable. Possibly careless.

  He couldn’t have returned to the mausoleum to check once the news had gone out that his victims were discovered. The police had closed the place, and they were being vigilant.

  “I can ask around,” Clayborn told them. “There aren’t many of us here. And as you can imagine, we spend most of our time away from here among the living, watching over our descendants. But we sometimes gather at night when nothing much else is going on. You are welcome to check back with me.” He grinned. “I hang here. This is my tomb. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be here. Hang. Funny expression, but I hear it all the time.”

  “So they weren’t saying that during the Revolution, eh?” Angela teased.

  He grinned. “They were not. But every decade, every year it seems, we have new expressions. New problems. And, sadly, old problems keep reemerging. Seek me out again. It’s been quite lovely to spend time with you.”

  “It’s been our pleasure, sir,” Jackson assured him. “And we thank you, sincerely.”

  “I am here to do what I can,” he said.

  Angela smiled and thanked him again, then turned and walked toward the Robertson mausoleum. Jackson joined her after nodding to Clayborn.

  “He must have been an incredible man,” Angela murmured.

  “An amazing man, an amazing soul,” Jackson said. “Of course, the dead don’t naturally haunt the cemetery or graveyard where they lay. Not much sense in that. But... hopefully, he will find someone who saw something.” He grinned. “While hanging around.”

  “Right,” Angela said. “Oh, and technically, this started off as a graveyard. There was a church, which moved when the congregation grew too big. It’s called a graveyard when there are burials around a church. Cemeteries really came into being during Victorian times. And while we refer to the family mausoleums as vaults, a vault is usually in a cliff. It’s a tomb or mausoleum when it’s free-standing on grounds such as these.”

  A smile graced his lips. “Always a font of knowledge.” Arching a brow, he asked, “And?”

  “Right. That doesn’t help us at all.” She laughed. “Just talking. And here we are.”

  They stopped at the entrance to the Robertson tomb. The door remained ajar, just as the crime scene units had left it.

  But Jackson started walking the area in front of the heavy metal doors.

  A patch of grass and a small walkway led down to the winding gravel lanes that went through the cemetery. He moved slowly, studying every tiny stone, speck of dirt, and blade of grass. Of course, he reminded himself that the area had been trampled in the time between now and when the killer had left their last victim. Forensic experts had been in the vault along with the medical examiners. But their concentration had been on the tomb and the newly dead.

  Nothing, nothing, nothing...

  Then, something just a little off-color in the grass and dirt caught his attention—amber rather than white or the brownish color of the dirt or the green of the grass.

  He bent low, reached into his pocket for an evidence bag, and carefully extracted what he had found.

  It was the butt of a cigarette.

  The MEs and crime scene techs would never have been smoking at a crime scene, even if they did smoke. Of course, anyone might have been walking in front of the tomb. But it might well lead them to someone they already had on their radar.

  He wanted the DNA from it.

  “Angela?”

  With the butt safely in the evidence bag, he stood and looked around. She was nowhere to be found. He circled the tomb again, then realized the door was further ajar.

  She had gone on in. He hurriedly entered himself.

  She stood by the dais and coffin where Ethan Robertson lay, a frown furrowing her brow.

  “What is it?” Jackson asked.

  The tomb’s air held a strange stillness, and the faint scent of decay and decomposition remained, even though the recently murdered and ghoulishly displayed victims were gone and at the morgue for their autopsies.

  “Did they miss anything?” Jackson asked her, wondering at her expression.

  Angela shook her head. “It’s not that... I mean, our people are good, and the city’s people are good, too. I’m sure they went over the inside of the tomb with a fine-toothed comb, so to speak.”

  “Then what is it?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Something about the tomb itself is bothering me,” she told him. “I have no idea what it is, but...”

  Angela paused, shrugging. “Maybe it will pop into my head at three a.m. or something. But... well, I’m sure we’ll be back here. I think I may study up on the architect who designed the mausoleum. You never know. Something in its history might—”

  “Maybe,” he told her. “Remember, we’re just beginning this investigation, and answers never really come easily.”

  “I know. And it has been a successful day. At the very least, we have a contact now in Colonel Clayborn. A good contact.”

  “That is true. And I don’t know if it will mean anything or not, but I found a cigarette butt just outside the entrance.”

  “It will be interesting if we can match it up to one of the people on our radar. Or if we see in the videos—those we found of the funeral—that no one was smoking. That would likely mean that someone was here at a different time. Again, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it could mean something. Every little detail matters,” Angela said.

  “I think we should head back, find out how the interviews have gone, and get the writer into headquarters.”

  “Right.”

  She remained, that strange frown knitted into her forehead.

  “Angela?”

  “Yep, yep.”

  But instead of heading out, she turned around and approached the side of the coffin in the center, moving from the door to walk around the rectangular inside of the tomb.

  Jackson followed her.

  In most modern mausoleums, coffins were sealed into the wall, the names and dates of birth and death recorded on the marble slabs that sealed the dead into their slots. But the Robertson tomb was very old. Coffins lay on shelves. And deteriorating shrouds covered other remains that had been reduced to little more than bones, dust, and bits of fabric. Pieces of metal were here and there, maybe a watch, a pendant, or something worn and cherished by the deceased that had been left with their remains.

  “I’m thinking of New Orleans, I guess,” Angela said. “You know, how remains are set in family vaults. The sun is so hot it naturally cremates a body in a year and a day. There can be horrid heat in this area, too, but they don’t sweep the remains into holding cells at the end here so another body can be put in its place. I guess they were out of shelving room. Maybe that’s why they created a dais for Benjamin’s father next to Ethan’s.”

  “Possibly,” Jackson agreed, studying each of the shelves himself.

  He didn’t see anything that appeared to be anything but what it should be.

  At last, Angela threw up her hands.

  “Let’s go. We may have to come back. Or whatever is driving me nuts might come to me later. Besides, you’re right. We need to question the living.”

  Colonel Clayborn was not sitting on his tomb when they exited the Robertson mausoleum.

  “Maybe he’s seeking help from a friend,” Angela murmured.

  “Let’s hope. We’ll look for him again tomorrow. I think he was probably a fine and ethical man in his day—and he has remained behind in hopes of being useful.”

  “Colonel Clayborn said that many stay to watch over their families, which we knew. But I feel bad. I forgot to ask if he has family in the area,” Angela said. “I noted the date of death on his tomb. He survived the Revolution and died in the early 1790s.”

  “He’s been gone for over two hundred years,” Jackson noted.

  “But that doesn’t mean he still doesn’t have family in the area. I may do some research on him, too. After we’ve gotten through a lot of other questions, of course.”

  Jackson nodded, heading for the car. “I want to get this cigarette butt I found to the lab. You drive. I’m going to put a call through to Patrick and ask him to get someone talking to Jefferson Moore. I want to speak to the man.”

  “Of course.”

  They returned to the car, and he called Patrick. He was with Mark and Colleen and had already listened to the interviews they’d conducted that morning. Now, the three of them were watching all the videos they could find on the big screen in the third conference room.

  “You’re on speaker,” Patrick told him. “Did you get anything?” he asked.

  “So are you,” Jackson said. “And, yes, we acquired a new friend.”

  “Ah. A dead one, I take it?”

  “Colonel George Clayborn. He couldn’t tell us much, but I don’t think Benjamin Robertson locked the vault when he left after his father’s funeral,” Jackson said.

  “Maybe that was it,” Patrick murmured.

  “That was what?”

  “I told you, I listened to the tapes of the interviews you did with Benjamin Robertson and Debbie Nolan. There was just something in the way they were speaking. They weren’t lying, but they weren’t telling you everything they were thinking, either. I couldn’t quite read what, though. Anyway, I think we should speak with them again. Maybe shake things up. One of us should maybe just drop in and tell them we’re reporting on what we have—which right now isn’t much.”

  “At least we know one thing. It doesn’t seem the key was stolen and copied from the office, then. Not if the door has remained open for the last three months,” Angela said.

  “Ragnar went to the cemetery’s office. And while she’s not official, he took Megan with him. She read between the lines, so to speak, as they talked with the people there, and it made it easy for Ragnar to say that he wasn’t accusing anyone of anything. They were just stopping by on the way to lunch, hoping that maybe someone could help.”

  The Law triplets—Colleen, Patrick, and Megan—each had something a little bit extra. More than just the ability to speak with the dead. Colleen could hear a whisper a mile away. Megan, who never entered law enforcement and was happy with her day job, had an uncanny ability to read between the lines of what a person was saying—just as she could read between the lines of a book.