Dead Hunt

wanting to believe in people who were
constantly disappointing him.
‘‘So am I,’’ she said. ‘‘Clymene is intelligent and
gifted. You can’t help but wonder what she might have
become if she had taken a different path in life.’’ ‘‘We’ll never know,’’ he said. ‘‘She tells people that
too much was made of her creative scrapbooking.
She’s never mentioned the cotton ball.’’
‘‘You know Clymene loves horses,’’ said Diane.
‘‘She went to a lot of trouble to make sure that hers
went to a good home. Yet she never made a scrapbook of her riding or of her horse.’’
Rivers looked at her, frowning, as if trying to understand what that had to do with anything.
‘‘The scrapbooks were just tools of her trade, part
of the con. Her horse and her riding were true loves
for her. She kept them out of the lie.’’
He nodded and stood. ‘‘I’m seeing the picture now.
Thanks for telling me.’’ He reached out and shook her
hand as she stood.
‘‘Thank you for speaking with me.’’ Diane wanted
to say she was sorry but felt anything she said might
be embarrassing to him. Clymene had won him over
before he had even realized it. Diane was more convinced than ever that Archer O’Riley wasn’t the only
person Clymene had killed. She was just too good at
her job to have done it only once.
Rivers walked her back to the gate, where she was
again let out of the maximum-security section. She
was glad to leave the prison and didn’t want to go
back anytime soon. She had quit human rights work
because she was just too sick of mass graves. That’s
what prisons were like to her—a mass grave of the
living. It was too depressing.

Chapter 6
    Diane pulled into her parking space in front of the RiverTrail Museum of Natural History. The building almost always impressed her with its massive granite stones and nineteenth-century gothic architecture, looking like a medieval palace. On any ordinary day she would have paused to appreciate the many cars and tour buses that signaled good attendance at the museum. But not today.
    On her way back from the prison Diane had stopped at a convenience store to get a cold drink when she saw the headlines on the Rosewood newspaper.
    MAJOR SCANDAL AT RIVERTRAIL MUSEUM
    Prominent Board Member Says Assistant Director to be Fired.
Director Diane Fallon Not Available for Comment.
    Diane grabbed the paper and stood in the store reading it, oblivious to customers squeezing past her to get out the door.
    ‘‘Son of a bitch,’’ she muttered under her breath, then paid for the paper, walked out, and got into her car, slamming the door.
    Carrying the newspaper rolled up like a club, Diane entered the museum. There weren’t any visitors in the lobby at the moment, but a tour was going on just beyond in the Pleistocene room. The voice of the docent telling a group of Japanese visitors about mammoths drifted into the lobby. A blond young woman wearing a white Richard III T-shirt sat at the information desk talking with a lanky, dark-haired young male docent in a matching T. Amber and Hunter, Diane noted mentally. She made it a point to remember the names of all her employees.
    ‘‘Dr. Fallon,’’ Amber called as Diane walked by. Diane stopped. ‘‘Yes.’’
Amber spotted the paper in Diane’s hand. ‘‘I guess
    you’ve seen that,’’ she said.
    Diane noticed that Amber had a copy of the newspaper just below the desktop. Undoubtedly she and Hunter had been discussing it. Their eyes stayed fixed earnestly on her.
    ‘‘Yes, I’ve seen it,’’ said Diane.
‘‘It’s not—’’ Amber began.
‘‘No,’’ said Diane, ‘‘it’s not true.’’
‘‘I told you,’’ she said to Hunter before turning back
    to Diane. ‘‘There’s a man from the FBI looking for you. I directed him to your office. I didn’t know what else to do with him.’’
    Diane could see the worry in both their faces. ‘‘What is his name?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘Kingsley. Ross Kingsley.’’ Amber enunciated his
    name carefully. ‘‘He doesn’t look like he is from the FBI. Don’t they always have short hair?’’
    ‘‘He had a beard too,’’ offered Hunter, as if maybe the guy claiming to be from the FBI was an imposter, possibly a reporter.
    ‘‘It’s not about the museum,’’ said Diane.
    She watched them both relax as they realized it had something to do with the crime lab on the upper floor of the west wing. The museum staff called that part of