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 classic 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 snatched 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 circumstances 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 tetanus 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 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.’’
‘‘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.
‘‘
‘‘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
