"Okay, what is it?" asked Diane.

"I'm working on a book about Clymene and some other cases," he said.

"Clymene told me," said Diane.

Kingsley stopped, coffee halfway to his lips. He sat looking at Diane for several seconds.

"Okay, that's a surprise. I never told her," he said.

"Did you tell Rivers?" asked Diane.

"No. No one outside the FBI knows except you." He shook his head and finished his sip of coffee. "It must have been something in the way I asked questions, or my organization of the questions." He shrugged. "I told you she is a natural profiler. Anyway, I'm writing a book-"

"I didn't think FBI agents could do that," said Diane. "Some prohibition against profiting from your work?"

"I'm writing a textbook to be used for training profilers. The idea is to do in-depth case studies of different types of serial killers," he said. "The cla.s.sic killers that we already know so much about compared with killers like Clymene who are harder to detect and catch because their patterns aren't as obvious."

"Clymene was motivated by profit," said Diane. "Would she really be called a serial killer even if it turns out her body count is high?"

Kingsley nodded. "I think so, but there is debate about that. Motivation makes a big difference."

The wind picked up, sending them a cool breeze. Diane's paper napkin blew off the table and into the air. She jumped up and s.n.a.t.c.hed it before it got away entirely. She had seen them take off like kites and sail out of sight.

"Let's go inside the restaurant," she said.

Kingsley looked at his watch. "Why don't we have an early dinner?"

"That's fine," said Diane, hoping because it was almost the end of the day that nothing else would happen concerning the Egyptian artifacts.

She nodded to the waitress, who followed as Diane went to an out-of-the-way booth in the back of the restaurant. Kingsley ordered prime rib. Diane ordered marinated salmon. After taking their orders, the waitress brought them both iced tea.

Kingsley took a drink of his tea and set it down. He pursed his lips together as though trying to recall what he was talking about.

"Yes, Clymene is a for-profit killer. I believe she married and killed her husbands for money. But she is distinguished by her modus operandi. Some serial killers get off on a particular killing fantasy, and the method of murder comes from that fantasy. Your typical for-profit serial killer will choose a single method like poison to use in all their murders because once they have used it successfully it is easy and safe for them. Where Clymene differed is she let circ.u.mstances dictate the method. The husband's manner of death had an integral connection to some typical activity in which he was often engaged."

Kingsley rested his elbows on the table and steepled his hands. "If we believe that Clymene killed Robert Carthwright, then she did it by causing the antique car he was working under to fall on him and crush him to death. Not an easy or safe method."

"What about the murder of Archer O'Riley-the only murder of which we have proof?" asked Diane. "Did she think his family and friends would believe he simply contracted teta.n.u.s while on a dig in a foreign country?"

"Why not?" said Kingsley. "Americans find it perfectly believable that a person might die of some bacterial infection in a foreign country, particularly if the victim is digging around in ancient contaminated soil."

"I suppose so," said Diane. "His son didn't suspect anything sinister."

"It was Clymene's bad luck that Archer O'Riley was a friend of Vanessa Van Ross," said Kingsley. "I doubt the police would have paid any attention to the suspicions of a Vanessa Jones, waitress, or even a Vanessa Smith, bank president. But Van Ross is one of the founding families in Rosewood, and the name carries a lot of weight. She convinced O'Riley's son that something wasn't right about the death and the two of them convinced the police. I don't have to tell you that it's only on television that all untimely deaths get the full treatment of a crime scene investigation unit. That you were called in was unusual. That you found the incriminating cotton ball was another bit of bad luck for Clymene. I'm sure she thought she had been very careful to clean away all evidence."

"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 ident.i.ty 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 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?" 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, prost.i.tutes, 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 ident.i.ties. One possibility we discussed is that she may change ident.i.ty 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 ident.i.ties 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 a.s.signed 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 sc.r.a.pbooks 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 ident.i.ties, if she had other ident.i.ties, 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 sc.r.a.pbooks. 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 a.n.a.lyze 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 b.i.t.c.h 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. Teta.n.u.s 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 rehea.r.s.ed, 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, s.h.i.t.

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.