One Grave Too Many

guess.”
    Chanell Napier came back with a black carrying case about the size of a small suitcase. “I called the police while I was down there.”
    “Good.” Diane set the case on a stool, opened it, and began searching through the materials for the things she needed.
    “Shouldn’t the police be doing that?” asked one of Korey’s assistants.
    “They won’t,” answered another assistant, before Diane could say anything. “My dad’s house was robbed a year ago. They took the television, Mom’s jewelry, and my brother’s computer. The police told them they probably wouldn’t get any of their stuff back. They didn’t even look for fingerprints or canvas the neighborhood.”
    “I thought they always tested for fingerprints,” said the first assistant.
    “No. And Dad was really pissed. When this fracas with the city council and the mayor started, he wrote letters to the editor about how sloppy the police were. If they won’t take fingerprints for a burglary, they sure won’t when nothing was stolen.”
    As they spoke with each other, Diane examined the print on the table, determining which of the various methods of obtaining a good impression would be best. She closed the case and asked Korey to bring her a camera.
    “You’re not going to take it after all?” The guard sounded disappointed.
    “I think the best method will be to photograph it and enhance the photo. Check the trash for any latex gloves that might have been thrown away. Whoever made this had on gloves.”
    “Then you can’t get a print anyway,” said an assistant.
    “For any of you contemplating a life of crime,” said Diane, taking the camera and tripod Korey handed her, “I’ll tell you a little secret. Surgical gloves fit like a second skin. Fingerprints can show through them.”
    Diane mounted the camera on the tripod Korey set up, set it for greatest depth of field and took several shots. “Korey, can you get that light and shine it under this ledge? If I’m not mistaken, there should be a thumbprint.”
    She and Korey looked under the edge of the table, but saw nothing.
    “Nothing visible,” said Diane. “You have a UV light, don’t you?”
    “Yeah, for detecting microorganisms,” answered Korey.
    “There’s one in the fingerprint kit,” said the security guard. “In the leather pouch.” She pulled out the pouch and retrieved the light. “Battery operated.” Diane looked at her. “I went through the kit.”
    Diane laughed as she reached for the orange goggles. “Okay, you guys without goggles step back.” She turned on the light and looked under the table. There it was: a large thumbprint—faint, but she could enhance it.
    “We don’t have any of that superglue stuff,” said Chanell.
    “Cyanoacrylate. I guess we’re going to have to make sure we have a better supplied security office.” Diane grinned at her. “I’ll use powder. I think that should do.”
    “Were you a crime-scene expert in another life?” asked one of Korey’s assistants.
    “Forensic anthropologist,” Korey answered for her.
    “Cool.”
    “Where I worked, it was a good idea to learn everything,” Diane said.
    She chose a magnetic powder and brush from the case. Holding a piece of paper under the table edge to catch the powder that fell, she dusted the print and removed the excess with a magnet. It was faint, but usable. Diane lifted it with tape, which she placed on a backing card.
    Just as she finished, the door to the conservation lab opened and Andie came in with two policemen and another man in a gray suit, matching hair and a sour expression.
    The mayor, Diane thought. She wondered why a little break-in at the museum rated the mayor’s assistance.

Chapter 17
    One of the policemen was Izzy Wallace, whom she’d met the evening before. The other one she had caught a glimpse of on the porch when he came with Izzy to the Boone house.
    Diane had an uneasy feeling in her gut, but didn’t know why. Something about Izzy’s demeanor the previous evening and the mayor’s expression now.
    “Will you develop this, Korey?” Diane handed him the camera and slipped the fingerprint card in the pocket of her blazer. “Chanell, take the fingerprint kit back to the office, please.”
    “Sure, Dr. Fallon.”
    Diane washed her hands at the sink and turned to greet the police. “Thanks for coming.” She held out her hand.
    “Nice to see you again,” said Izzy, giving her hand a firm shake.
    “How’s your guest?” asked