‘‘Her sisters helped her,’’ said Diane. ‘‘One of them must have.’’
‘‘That’s what I figure,’’ he said. ‘‘Either as the murderer or the alibi. Grant was into a lot of shady dealings, made a lot of money. But she didn’t gain much by his death because of a prenuptial agreement she had signed. So no one really looked at her as a suspect.’’
‘‘This doesn’t sound like Clymene,’’ said Diane.
‘‘It gets better. I talked to the lawyer who called you from Richmond, Emma Lorimer.’’
‘‘She talked to you?’’ said Diane.
‘‘The marshals had softened her up quite a bit. Besides, you don’t refuse to talk with an FBI agent, even if he is just a lowly profiler,’’ he said with a chuckle.
The plane hit a bump in the air, and Diane gripped the armrests.
‘‘What did she say?’’ said Diane, ignoring the churning in her stomach.
‘‘Lorimer is involved in helping abused women escape—you know, underground railroad. She said Kathy Bacon came to her in a panic with the story that Grant’s son had started abusing and threatening her. Lorimer said Kathy, or Clymene, asked her to tell her what to do. Lorimer put her in the escape system with a new birth certificate, social security number, and everything.’’
‘‘That was clever of Clymene,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Wasn’t it? Clymene disappeared into the system and the only one who wanted to know where she went was the son.’’
‘‘Why?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘Well, and this is the twist, it seems that all of his father’s offshore bank accounts had been emptied— about a hundred million dollars.’’
‘‘A hundred million?’’ said Diane. ‘‘That’s a lot of money. So the prenup didn’t mean a thing.’’
‘‘Not so far as Clymene was concerned,’’ he said. ‘‘The jurisdiction of the probate court didn’t extend to the Cayman Islands, and she apparently had the account numbers and the access codes.’’
‘‘Do you think Clymene knew he was an abuser before she married him?’’ Diane asked.
‘‘Clymene knows how to read people. Of course she knew, and she played the part for him,’’ said Kingsley. ‘‘She was married to Grant Bacon the least amount of time of all her husbands. She gave Emma Lorimer a huge sum of money for the underground railroad before she left. Lorimer said she tried not to accept it, but Clymene insisted, saying she could earn her way from here on out, and she wanted to give something back.’’
‘‘Was she sincere, or was that just part of the act?’’ said Diane.
‘‘I don’t know. At best, a little of both,’’ said Kingsley.
Diane looked at the page of notes on Glenn Redding of Seattle, Washington. There wasn’t much that she didn’t already know. Foul play wasn’t suspected at all in his death. At the bottom of the page Kingsley had a figure for how much money she had inherited from Redding—two hundred million.
‘‘She gave the daughter ten million and set aside another fifteen million to be given on completion of a university degree,’’ said Kingsley.
‘‘Did the daughter get a degree?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘She did—the University of Washington, in communications. She got her money. You can see why the lawyer, Trenton Bernard, didn’t suspect Mrs. Redding. It looked as though she was doing what she was asked by her late husband.’’
‘‘Clymene’s good,’’ said Diane.
‘‘I tallied up how much money she received from her husbands—three hundred and eighty-five million dollars,’’ said Kingsley. ‘‘That comes to about nineteen million dollars for each year from the time she was fifteen.’’
‘‘I didn’t realize it was that much. Clymene is a wealthy woman,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Her sisters must help her hide it. I know the Rosewood police couldn’t find any trace of her finances.’’
‘‘There is another clever move,’’ he said. ‘‘Our Clymene paid her taxes.’’
‘‘What?’’ said Diane, looking up from the pages to Kingsley. ‘‘She paid taxes on hidden money?’’
‘‘After each death she stayed around long enough to pay taxes before she disappeared. She learned from Al Capone’s mistake, I guess. As near as I can tell, we can’t get her or any of her aliases on income tax evasion,’’ said Kingsley.
‘‘What about the hundred million in the offshore accounts?’’ said Diane.
‘‘Her next tax return says she earned a million in an at-home business. She paid the taxes,’’ said Kingsley.
‘‘She’s full of surprises,’’ said Diane.
The plane landed and they disembarked at Craven County Regional Airport and rented a car. Diane drove. Kingsley was right; she much preferred being in a machine she could control. He read the map they had printed off the Internet while Diane found the route on the GPS that came with their rental car. emptied
hundred
Carley Volker did not live in the city of New Bern, but about ten miles out. Diane had never been to New Bern but she knew something of the area. It was a pretty town with a lot of history dating back to the 1700s. There were hundreds of sunken ships all up and down the coast, some of them visible from the shore. The Outer Banks of North Carolina were also Blackbeard’s stomping ground. There were many things she’d like to see, and here they were, looking for Clymene. All in all, she’d rather look for Blackbeard’s treasure.
‘‘What did you tell Carley?’’ asked Diane. Kingsley had called her while Diane was getting the rental, a Mitsubishi Outlander.
‘‘That we are from the FBI and the Rosewood, Georgia, police department and would like to see her. I
