‘‘I agree with all your points, but this concerns me how?’’ asked Diane.
The waitress brought their meal and neither spoke for several minutes as they ate. After several bites and comments on the quality of the meal, Kingsley put down his knife and fork.
‘‘Right now, most of this profile of Clymene is just educated guessing on my part. I only have one real murder to go on—that of Archer O’Riley. Before I can go much further on Clymene, I have to know who she is—who she was before she married Robert Carthwright. I need to have more history, more information—probably more victims. I want you to find out her real identity for me.’’
‘‘No,’’ said Diane.
‘‘See, I told you you would say no at first. Am I good or what?’’ Kingsley grinned at her.
‘‘I don’t have any spare time—I have two full-time jobs and a couple of outside interests that I would like to keep.’’ Not to mention a guy that I really love that I’d like to see occasionally, she thought.
‘‘Yes, I remember your caving,’’ said Kingsley. ‘‘You really like that, do you?’’
‘‘Yes, I really do. There are very few things more relaxing,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Relaxing is not a word I’d use—but if that does it for you.’’ Kingsley smiled and looked, as many did, as if he couldn’t fathom the calming effects of caving. ‘‘And if I remember correctly, you are also seeing an Atlanta detective—white-collar crimes?’’
‘‘Yes. When I can,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Something I’d also like to continue. And you were right. Your offer to relieve me of having to talk to the DA about my visit to the prison doesn’t even come close to equaling so great a task as you are asking of me. Besides, you have the resources of the FBI behind you. Why do you need me?’’
‘‘She’s a closed case,’’ he said. ‘‘She’s in prison for life. They aren’t going to invest scarce resources running down theories and hypotheticals. If Clymene has other victims out there, I’d like to know, but the DA and the FBI have no official interest in her until evidence of other murders comes to light.’’
He shook his head and gestured as if he were grabbing at something intangible. ‘‘We usually discover serial killers by the body count of victims and a pattern in their murders. Some serial killers we don’t catch because they choose the most vulnerable and the most invisible—runaways, prostitutes, illegal aliens—and the body count is less visible, less connected. But even then we get lucky fairly often.’’ He stabbed a piece of prime rib with his fork.
‘‘I believe there are more like Clymene out there who are just so clever, we never connect them to a murder,’’ he said. ‘‘And in some cases we don’t even know there was a murder. One of the things I want to do is to develop a method to spot those hidden serial killings. To do that I need every detail I can gather about known killers. I need to learn about Clymene’s background and if there are any more husbands out there.’’ He stopped and took a bite of his speared meat.
Diane shook her head, uncertain. ‘‘Even finding who she really is doesn’t mean we will discover all of her identities. One possibility we discussed is that she may change identity after each kill and then move on to another victim.’’
He nodded. ‘‘Yes, and I still think that is a good possibility. But the closer we get to the real Clymene, the closer we will get to the other identities she established.’’ He took a long drink of his tea. ‘‘I can see you have a busy schedule, but there are advantages to making me beholden to you,’’ said Kingsley.
‘‘And what would those be?’’ asked Diane.
He smiled and cut another piece of meat. ‘‘If I’m reading the newspapers correctly and picking up on the vibes from your staff, you are going to be visited by the FBI shortly because they have jurisdiction over art and cultural property crime. Now, while I don’t have a lot of pull, I do know the agent assigned to this region and I can help ease the way for you.’’ He speared the piece of meat and put it in his mouth.
‘‘That would be worthwhile. But a friend would do that for me anyway,’’ said Diane, grinning back at him.
‘‘True, and I will. However, I can’t imagine you not doing a favor in return,’’ he said.
‘‘I’ll need all the evidence,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Is this a yes, then?’’ he asked.
‘‘Yes. I’ll give it a try,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Everything we have will be delivered to you.’’
‘‘I know I’m going to regret this,’’ said Diane, wondering when she would find the time. Of course, there was all that wasted time when she was sleeping. ‘‘You know, it seems that someone from her past would have recognized Clymene and come forward by now.’’
‘‘I would have thought so,’’ said Kingsley. ‘‘And she must have worried about that. You know she avoided having her picture taken. Her face in those scrapbooks was usually half covered with a cap or something. She didn’t accompany her husband anywhere they might be photographed.’’ He reached inside his jacket. ‘‘Did the waitress leave the check?’’
‘‘It’s all right,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Consider it recompense for having to wait all afternoon.’’
‘‘You sure?’’ he asked.
Diane nodded.
‘‘Thanks. I should have had a bigger steak.’’ He smiled and put his wallet back in his pocket. ‘‘Did you ever meet her before the investigation? I know O’Riley came to some of the museum functions here,’’ said Kingsley.
‘‘No, I didn’t. The one time Archer O’Riley came to a function here, he was with his son and daughterin-law. That was the only time I ever met him.’’ Diane thought for a moment. ‘‘There are her mug shots. I saw them in the Atlanta and Rosewood papers.’’
‘‘Yes, but even I would hardly recognize her from those,’’ said Kingsley. ‘‘Her mouth was turned down; she seemed to be . . . squinting, or something.’’ He waved a hand. ‘‘It was a terrible photograph.’’
‘‘Still, some people have an amazing ability to recognize people even from sketchy drawings,’’ said Diane.
‘‘All I know is, no one came forward. Not everyone reads the news, I suppose, and I’m not sure news coverage of the trial ever made it out of the region. I know her lawyer made sure Court TV didn’t cover it,’’ said Kingsley.
‘‘You know,’’ said Diane, ‘‘her other identities, if she had other identities, could easily have been in other countries. I know she speaks fluent French, and Rivers said her Spanish is quite good.’’
‘‘That’s a possibility. Do you think English is her first language?’’ asked Kingsley.
Diane nodded. ‘‘I do, but I’ll ask a forensic linguist to take a look at some of the journaling in her scrapbooks. I don’t suppose you have a tape recording of her speaking?’’
‘‘No. She didn’t want me to record our conversations,’’ said Kingsley.
‘‘Could you get one?’’ asked Diane.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘‘Legally?’’
‘‘Of course,’’ said Diane.
‘‘I don’t know. Let me think about that,’’ he said.
‘‘A linguist would be able to analyze her speech and perhaps tell us at least if English is her first language and might gather a clue as to what section of the country she grew up in.’’
‘‘I’ll see what I can do,’’ he said. ‘‘If nothing else, perhaps a forensic linguist could interview her.’’
‘‘Have you considered that Robert Carthwright might have been her first husband to die and that his death was an accident? She could have liked the benefits a dead husband gave her so much that she decided to make a career of it,’’ said Diane.
He nodded. ‘‘I’ve thought about that, but I don’t think so. We were saying earlier how good she is at getting people to like her. I was interviewing another killer once—a marrying-for-profit murderer something like Clymene.’’ Kingsley’s half smile looked more like a grimace. He shook his head
. ‘‘The son of a bitch killed a woman’s husband in order to woo and marry her; then he killed her for the insurance. She had two kids. He killed two people and destroyed a family for a couple hundred thousand dollars and had no remorse whatsoever—total sociopath. I hated that guy. I had a very hard time being objective while I interviewed him. Even now, just talking about him, I hate him.’’
Kingsley leaned forward slightly. ‘‘Clymene killed her husband in a terrible way. Tetanus is a frightfully painful way to die. And she shows no remorse for it. Yet, my feelings about her are different—I don’t dislike her. I’m mainly neutral, but there are times when we are having a conversation, I actually like her. As you said, she has these ways of subconsciously getting to you. That takes not only talent, but practice and refinement. She does it to perfection. I think she’s killed many more times and I think she started her career earlier than we might have imagined. And I don’t think she’s unique. I believe there are others like her out there who aren’t even on the radar.’’
The waitress came and offered to fill their coffee cups. Kingsley nodded and pushed his toward her. Diane covered her cup with her hand. ‘‘Did I tell you she denied being a sociopath?’’ Diane said when the waitress left. ‘‘She said she isn’t one but Tully is and that he is dangerous not only to Grace Noel but to his own daughter. She wasn’t being defensive; it was almost like she was just stating a fact.’’
Kingsley sat for a moment looking thoughtful. ‘‘Maybe that’s why she’s so good,’’ he said. ‘‘She doesn’t have to fake certain emotions. The problem a lot of sociopaths have is they don’t know how normal people feel, or understand the normal behavior that comes from those feelings. They can fool a lot of people for a long time, but not everyone, and often it’s family members close to the target victim who are first suspicious of them. O’Riley’s son and daughter-in-law were totally taken in by Clymene.’’
He paused a moment and sipped his coffee. He put in another packet of sugar and sipped again. ‘‘I like coffee with my sugar,’’ he said. ‘‘Tell me, what was it Vanessa Van Ross saw in Clymene that she didn’t like?’’
‘‘She had a hard time conveying exactly what made her suspicious,’’ said Diane. ‘‘That’s why it took so long for the son to go to the police with her misgivings. It was something about Clymene always looking rehearsed, and one unguarded expression Vanessa saw that chilled her. Not much, I know. That shows you how much political weight Vanessa carries with the authorities in this city.’’
‘‘No, that’s not much, but it shows you how Clymene was caught by her own bad luck—not by victimology,’’ said Kingsley.
David approached the table and slid in beside her so abruptly and unexpectedly, Diane jumped. Kingsley looked startled.
‘‘This is David Goldstein. He’s one of my crime scene people. Supposed to be on vacation, but I’ve asked him to work on the artifact problem,’’ said Diane. ‘‘David, this is Agent Ross Kingsley.’’
‘‘The profiler,’’ said David. ‘‘I remember.’’
‘‘Were you able to charm Madge Stewart?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘I’m sure she thinks we’re dating,’’ said David. ‘‘But, the reason I sought you out is about Golden Antiquities.’’
‘‘That’s where Kendel acquired the artifacts,’’ Diane said to Kingsley.
‘‘It burned down last night,’’ said David. ‘‘The owner, Randal Cunningham, was killed in the fire.’’
Diane stared at him for several moments. ‘‘Are you serious?’’ she said.
David nodded. ‘‘Dead serious.’’
‘‘Do they know what happened?’’ asked Kingsley.
David shook his head. ‘‘Not that I was able to find out.’’
Diane started to speak when she saw two more men in dark suits approaching. Kingsley and David followed her gaze.
‘‘Not FBI,’’ whispered Kingsley. ‘‘I know my kind.’’
David seemed to slump down in his seat.
‘‘Diane Fallon?’’ asked one of the men, who looked to be in his late thirties and a lifetime weightlifter with no sense of humor.
‘‘Yes,’’ she began.
‘‘Are you Agent Kingsley?’’ the man interrupted. ‘‘We need to speak with you too.’’
Kingsley raised his eyebrows.
‘‘We are federal marshals...’’
Federal marshals didn’t worry about antiquities, thought Diane. They worried about fugitives.
Well, shit.
Chapter 13
Diane, Kingsley, and the two well-dressed deputy marshals sat at the round oak table in the conference room of Diane’s museum office suite. Deputy Marshal Chad Merrick was the larger of the two. He was easily six five, Diane guessed. He had neatly trimmed light brown hair, amber eyes, a broad, plain face, and flawless skin that any woman would envy. Deputy Marshal Dylan Drew was a good five inches shorter than his partner, which put him at six feet—still taller than both Diane and Kingsley. Drew had a shaved head, sharp features, a dark umber skin tone, and hazel eyes—an interesting face. Both men were focused.
‘‘Clymene O’Riley escaped from Greysfort Prison shortly after your visit,’’ said Deputy Marshal Dylan Drew. There was enough expression in his stony stare to convey the impression that he might think Diane had something to do with it.
Diane and Kingsley both sat dumfounded, even though Diane had an inkling of what their presence might mean as soon as she learned they were U.S. Marshals. That was because Clymene was the one thing she, Kingsley, and U.S. Marshals might have in common. But it was still a surprise to hear it stated as real.
Kingsley found his voice first. ‘‘How did she escape?’’
Drew glanced over to Merrick, who nodded, and back to Kingsley. ‘‘As nearly as we can tell at this point in the investigation, she feigned illness and was taken to the infirmary, which is outside the maximum security section. From there the picture is a little hazy, but prison staff thinks she escaped on a delivery truck.’’
‘‘That seems rather common,’’ said Kingsley. ‘‘I would have thought prisons have pretty much blocked that escape route by now. How was she not detected?’’
‘‘They have not been able to establish that,’’ said Drew. He turned his attention to Diane. ‘‘According to prison records, you were her last visitor. Why were you there?’’
‘‘She asked me to visit her,’’ said Diane.
‘‘And you just dropped everything and obliged?’’ asked Drew.
‘‘No, not at all,’’ said Diane.
‘‘I asked her to go,’’ interjected Kingsley.
‘‘You’re the FBI profiler?’’ said Merrick as if profilers were the academics of the law enforcement world, and who knew what silly things they might be up to.
Kingsley nodded.
‘‘What did she want to see you about?’’ Merrick asked Diane.
Diane told them about the content of the letter and repeated her conversation with Clymene for the second time that day. The marshals took notes and listened with interest and what looked like a good deal of skepticism.
‘‘And you didn’t think it suspicious that she claimed to be motivated by concern for one of her guards?’’ asked Merrick. The look on his broad, fair face plainly said he did not believe that could be her real motive.
‘‘It didn’t matter,’’ said Diane. ‘‘She could have wanted to tell me the warden was possessed by aliens and it wouldn’t have mattered. It was a rare opportunity to see what she had to say.’’
‘‘Why was that important?’’ asked Drew. This time he directed his question to Kingsley.
‘‘Because she shows signs of being a serial killer that we know almost nothing about. She appeared seemingly from nowhere and killed in a very calculated fashion. We don’t even know her true identity,’’ Kingsley said. ‘‘We’re searching for clues.’’
‘‘What does that mean?’’ asked Merrick. ‘‘She’s not Clymene O’Riley?’’
‘‘We don’t know who she is. The murder investigation found no record of her existence prior to her marriage to Robert Carthwright—the husband who died in a tragic accident before she married Archer O’Riley,’’ said Kingsley.
The two deputy marshals exchanged worried glances. Diane understood—they just realized the object of their hunt was a lot more sophisticated than they had imagined and their job was going to be much harder than they expected.
‘‘No match on her prints, I assume,’’ said Merrick.
‘‘None,’’ said Diane. ‘‘She was run against every available database.’’
‘‘I see,’’ said Merrick. He looked around the room, then back at Diane. ‘‘Let’s back up for a moment. I’m aware that the crime scene unit is in this building and you are director of the unit. Why are we in the main office of the museum? Do they give you a key?’’ ‘‘Yes, they do,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I’m director here too.’’
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