Dead Hunt dffi-5

by Beverly Connor

  ‘‘Just as long as they don’t think I invited her and we had a falling out,’’ said Diane.

  Frank shook his head. ‘‘That’s a long stretch.’’ He looked at his watch. ‘‘I’ll drive you over. Neva said I should let you off at the loading dock at the side entrance to the museum. You are to go to Mike’s office in geology first,’’ said Frank. ‘‘And I would imagine avoid being seen if you can, though she didn’t say.’’

  ‘‘What? Did she say why I’m to be so mysterious?’’ Diane asked.

  ‘‘No, but apparently it’s important,’’ said Frank. He grinned. ‘‘I have a pretty exciting job, but around you it pales by comparison.’’

  He let her off at the museum side-door loading dock and extracted a promise for her to call as soon as she could. Diane thought there was just a little too much cloak-and-dagger about the whole thing. However, she slipped into the building, taking back staircases and service hallways to Mike Seeger’s office in the geology lab.

  Mike was the head curator for geology, one of Diane’s caving partners, and a good friend. He also worked part-time for a company that searched for and collected extremophiles, organisms that live in the most extreme environments on earth. It wasn’t just his knowledge of geology that made Mike valuable to the company, but his skill as a rock climber and a caver. He had recently returned from one of his expeditions. Mike was also Neva’s boyfriend. He, Diane, Neva, Jin, and another friend frequently went caving together. Diane knocked on his door. He opened it immediately and Diane slipped in. He closed the door behind her.

  ‘‘God, I love working here,’’ he said with a broad grin. ‘‘There’s always something adventurous going on.’’ He gave her a quick hug and stepped back to look at her. ‘‘You okay, Doc? I haven’t had a chance to talk with you since I got back.’’

  ‘‘I’m muddling through business as usual,’’ she said. Mike’s office was crowded with crates of rocks— probably volcanic. Each trip, he brought back geologic samples for the museum. These were from his latest. Along the walls he’d hung huge posters of rock formations and caves from around the world. On a bookcase stuffed with geology books was a photograph of all of them at the entrance to a cave.

  Mike had the body of a rock climber—lean, no fat between his skin and hard muscle. His boyish face was getting a slight weathered look from all his outdoor activity. He wore jeans and bright white Richard III Tshirt. He pulled up a chair for her and one for himself.

  ‘‘What’s this about, Mike?’’ asked Diane. He reached for some papers on his desk. ‘‘Neva said the DA told her and the others not to

  talk to you or show you the crime scene report.’’ He grinned. ‘‘Of course he didn’t tell her not to talk to me, nor did they tell me not to show you their notes.’’

  That was Diane’s team all right. On occasions like this you had to explain exactly all the things you didn’t want them to do, or they would find a loophole in the instructions. She reached for the pages.

  ‘‘My team can be very sneaky,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I’ll say. They made the notes and gave them to me with instructions before they spoke with the district attorney. David said they would be warned off from talking to you once the DA had been informed. He was right.’’

  A small laugh escaped Diane’s lips. ‘‘David should write a book—a practical guide to paranoia.’’

  ‘‘Jin wanted you to know that he hated calling Garnett,’’ said Mike.

  ‘‘He had to,’’ said Diane. ‘‘He didn’t have a choice once he identified the blood.’’

  ‘‘Well, he’s real bummed out about it,’’ said Mike. ‘‘He kept muttering about how he gets this brand-new DNA lab and the first person he gets in trouble from it is you.’’

  Diane shook her head and smiled. ‘‘He did the right thing.’’

  She scanned the first page. The information was written in David’s neat hand, listing what was found in her apartment. First was the blood. It was Clymene’s. Jin had mapped the entire pool and took samples from Diane’s clothes. All of it was Clymene’s and it was all fresh blood, not stored blood. The blood trail led down the back stairs of Diane’s apartment and out to Diane’s car, where Clymene’s blood was found in the trunk along with one of Diane’s serrated kitchen knives. The knife had been washed clean with kerosene.

  They had so far found no trace evidence that was helpful. The police were alerted by a call from a man using a cell phone who identified himself as a neighbor. However, all the neighbors said they heard nothing until the police arrived. And last: Diane’s tox screen came back positive for a barbiturate—not a high dose, but enough to make her sleep well. No container was found with any barbiturate residue and there were no pills in her house.

  She looked at the next page and sucked in her breath. It was the report on the crime scene in White County that Neva and Jin had worked the day before—the body was that of the Reverend William Rivers.

  ‘‘Oh, no,’’ Diane said aloud. ‘‘She killed him.’’

  Diane read Neva’s notes. Rivers was found in his garage next to his car. Blunt-force trauma to the back of the head. One blow. Nothing found at the scene. No unaccounted-for trace on his body. No sign that Clymene had killed him, but Diane believed she had— what kind of coincidence would it be for him to be murdered by someone else on the day Clymene escaped? One interesting item: Neva noted that his car had been vacuumed. The bag from his vacuum cleaner was missing.

  Diane had forgotten about the White County crime scene in all the commotion. She just realized that Jin and Neva couldn’t have gotten any sleep.

  ‘‘Well,’’ said Diane when she finished reading. ‘‘I suppose I’d better go face the music.’’ She stood and handed Mike the pages. ‘‘Better burn these.’’

  Mike laughed. ‘‘I’ll eat them right after you leave.’’ He stopped smiling. The perpetual crease between his eyebrows deepened. ‘‘Can I do anything?’’

  ‘‘What do you have in mind?’’ asked Diane, smiling at him.

  ‘‘We could run away together. I know some wonderful exotic places.’’ He grinned again.

  Mike made a running joke about having a thing for Diane. She didn’t believe it, or rather, she didn’t believe it much. It was more of a friendly flirtation on his part. She never returned it and he never took it beyond talk, which she was glad of. She didn’t want Neva hurt, nor did she want to lose Mike as a caving partner.

  ‘‘The marshals would hunt us down—not to mention Neva and Frank,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Guess you’re right, Doc.’’ He walked with her the short distance to the door. ‘‘Good luck.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, Mike. I know intrigue isn’t in your job description,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Isn’t it? I think it is.’’ He opened the door.

  ‘‘It should be, with everything that’s going on,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘I read today’s paper,’’ he said. ‘‘How is Kendel taking it?’’

  ‘‘Today’s paper? There’s something in it about the museum? Damn. Do you have one here?’’ she asked.

  He retrieved a newspaper from the recycling bin and handed it to her. ‘‘I’m sorry, Doc. I shouldn’t have mentioned it, with everything else on your shoulders.’’

  ‘‘That’s okay, Mike. I need to know.’’

  She took the newspaper. It was the Atlanta JournalConstitution and she had made the headlines.

  LOOTED ARTIFACTS AT RIVERTRAIL MUSEUM: IS DIRECTOR BACKPEDALING?

  Diane scanned the article. It wasn’t as bad as the one in the Rosewood paper, but it wasn’t good either. Well, for now she’d settle for not as bad.

  ‘‘Everything is going to be all right,’’ said Diane as she went out the door. ‘‘I’ll make it all right.’’

  Chapter 21

  District Attorney Curtis Riddmann, Deputy Marshals Chad Merrick and Dylan Drew, and Chief of Detectives Douglas Garnett were sitting at the round table in the crime lab when Di
ane arrived. Her staff was nowhere to be seen. They were probably in the DNA lab in the basement waiting, thought Diane. David was probably kicking himself for not thinking to bug the crime lab so they could hear what was going on. She smiled inwardly at the thought.

  The crime lab wasn’t cozy. With all the glassed-in rooms, white walls, and metal doors, it had a cold, icy look. Diane pulled out a chair across from them and sat down. She wore an off-white linen pantsuit with an ice blue blouse. She saw a blurred reflection of herself in the glass of a cubicle and thought she looked as cold and sterile as her lab—a thought that pleased her at the moment.

  The four law enforcement officials sat looking somber. They were seated at the table close together so Diane would be across from all of them. None appeared to be speaking to the others.

  The marshals were in jeans, navy T-shirts, and jackets today. DA Riddmann and Garnett were in suits— Garnett looking dapper as usual, and the DA trying hard to. DA Riddmann was not a man who wore suits well. His shoulders and chest were too thin, his hips too wide, and his legs too skinny. Riddmann did have a nice head of brown hair, but it tended to overwhelm his lean face.

  I should probably have an attorney, she thought. But lawyering up is tricky when you have to consider publicity—it wouldn’t be good for the crime lab or the museum. Right now headlines and potential headlines were running everything in her life. She had to figure out how to change that.

  Diane had called David before she got to the museum and put him in charge of the crime lab while she was under suspicion. She hadn’t liked the sound of those words coming out of her mouth—under suspicion. Damn. Well, that’s what happens when you have a ton of someone else’s blood all over your living room floor.

  ‘‘Gentlemen,’’ said Diane, ‘‘how can I help you?’’ Deputy Marshal Chad Merrick spoke first. ‘‘We were wondering if there is anything more you can tell us about your meeting with Clymene O’Riley.’’ His smile actually did look friendly.

  ‘‘No. I told you everything we talked about. It was a short meeting,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I got no indication that she was planning an escape.’’

  ‘‘Did you leave the prison immediately?’’ asked

  Deputy Marshal Dylan Drew.

  ‘‘No. I went by to speak with the prison counselor,

  Reverend William Rivers,’’ said Diane. Of course they

  knew that already.

  ‘‘Why?’’ asked Drew.

  ‘‘I wanted to hear what his opinion was on Clymene

  O’Riley. It was a strange story she was telling me,’’ said Diane. ‘‘He’s had more contact with her than

  anyone since she went to prison.’’

  The marshals didn’t even blink. But Diane noticed

  that the DA looked down at the table. Garnett’s expression didn’t change either.

  ‘‘And what did he think?’’ asked Drew.

  Like Diane, the marshals didn’t gesture with their

  hands as they spoke. Merrick had his fingers laced

  together in front of him. Drew had his arms folded.

  He sat back comfortably in the chair. Merrick leaned

  forward slightly. Diane’s hands were laced together in

  front of her also. They looked each other straight in

  the eye as they spoke. The whole thing reminded her

  of her visit with Clymene—all trying not to give anything away.

  ‘‘Rivers wanted to know what the evidence was that

  convicted Clymene. I went through it with him,’’

  said Diane.

  ‘‘And why did he want that information?’’ asked

  Merrick.

  ‘‘He didn’t say,’’ said Diane. ‘‘But Clymene had

  been a model prisoner and very helpful to the other

  inmates, according to Rivers. He had heard from her

  and perhaps from other prisoners that the evidence

  against her was not very good. I believe he had begun

  to doubt her guilt. But I don’t know that for sure.’’ ‘‘Do you think he would have helped her escape?’’

  asked Drew.

  ‘‘I don’t know. I have to tell you, though, Clymene

  is very gifted. I daresay she could make you like her,’’

  said Diane.

  The two deputy marshals looked mildly startled and

  greatly skeptical. From the smirks on their faces, Diane

  knew they thought she greatly overrated the powers of

  Clymene O’Riley. Diane smiled back at them. ‘‘And how about you?’’ asked Merrick. ‘‘Do you

  like her?’’

  ‘‘I don’t dislike her. It would be a stretch to say

  that I like her,’’ said Diane. ‘‘She is, after all, a calculating, cold-blooded murderer.’’

  ‘‘So, do you think she could have made Rivers help

  her escape?’’ said Merrick.

  ‘‘I don’t know. She’s not a wizard. She can’t make

  people do things they don’t want to do. She can make

  them predisposed to believe her,’’ said Diane. ‘‘How does she do that?’’ asked Drew, frowning

  now like he seriously wanted to know the source of

  her power.

  ‘‘You’ll have to ask FBI agent Kingsley. He would

  know more about the psychology involved. He says

  she’s a natural profiler. She has an uncanny ability to

  size people up,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Why didn’t you call me after your visit with her,

  as I requested?’’ asked DA Riddmann. Diane could

  see the marshals were annoyed at the interruption. Diane glanced at Riddmann. She could also see he

  was clearly angry with her. ‘‘Agent Kingsley said he

  was going to call you,’’ she said.

  ‘‘He didn’t,’’ said Riddmann.

  ‘‘Then something must have come up,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘I’m sure he will.’’

  ‘‘Did Clymene perhaps get to you?’’ asked Riddmann.

  ‘‘No,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Maybe—’’ he began, but Merrick cut in. ‘‘I understand you had a bit of trouble early this

  morning?’’ he said.

  Riddmann started to open his mouth, but Merrick

  cut him a harsh look. Clearly the marshals weren’t

  letting their jurisdiction go just yet. Probably because they didn’t have a body. Probably wondering where I

  hid it, Diane decided.

  ‘‘Yes, I did,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Would you go over it with us?’’ asked Merrick. Diane looked surprised only because it would have

  looked suspicious if she hadn’t.

  ‘‘You think what happened to me has something to

  do with Clymene?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Just tell us about it,’’ said Drew.

  Diane again repeated the incident of awaking in the

  wee hours of the morning to the sound of knocking

  at her door and slipping in the blood.

  ‘‘Tell me,’’ said Riddmann, glaring over at the marshals. ‘‘How much blood is in the human body? You

  would know that, being a forensic anthropologist,

  right?’’

  ‘‘We each have about ten pints,’’ said Diane. ‘‘And how much can you lose and still live?’’ DA

  Riddmann asked.

  ‘‘Less than three and a half pints. Any more than

  that and you are dead,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘How much blood would you say was on your

  floor?’’ Riddmann asked, leaning forward. From the

  glitter in his eyes, Diane could see he was warming to

  the way he was building up his argument.

  ‘‘I would say four pints or more,’’ said Diane not

  taking her eyes off his.

  ‘‘Can you distinguish,
say, blood from a blood bank

  from fresh blood?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Yes. An anticoagulant preservative is added to

  stored blood,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Among other things.’’ ‘‘Okay, now . . . ’’ He sat up in his chair and

  straightened his tie.

  Going in for the kill, thought Diane. What she didn’t