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 bitch 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. Tetanus 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 rehearsed, 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.
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.
‘‘Clymene O’Riley escaped from Greysfort Prison shortly after your visit,’’ said Deputy Marshal Dylan Drew. There was enough expression in his stony stare to convey the impression that he might think Diane had something to do with it.
Diane and Kingsley both sat dumfounded, even though Diane had an inkling of what their presence might mean as soon as she learned they were U.S. Marshals. That was because Clymene was the one thing she, Kingsley, and U.S. Marshals might have in common. But it was still a surprise to hear it stated as real.
