David, still grinning from ear to ear. “She got community service and a fine.”
Diane shook her head and smiled. “Who knew? She seems so harmless. We all did things in our youth. Where are Izzy and Neva?” she asked.
“Izzy’s out on his own, working a break-in. I’m sending him out by himself on some of the smaller things. He’s doing well, by the way,” said David. “Neva is in the museum at Document Analysis. She’s curious about the handwriting on the desk.”
Diane looked over at Jin. “What are you doing up here?” she asked.
“Visiting. You know, you always say that when I visit you guys up here. Like I’m never supposed to take a break.”
Diane looked at Jin a moment. “Touchy today?”
“His two new employees-the ones he went through such a long process of finding-are driving him crazy,” said David. “They’re as obsessive-compulsive as he is.”
“Being detail oriented is not OC,” said Jin. “It’s simply doing a good job. There’s a reason that, as young as we are, we are one of the most reliable labs in the country. You have to admit, the DNA lab pays for itself many times over.”
“I admit all of that,” said Diane. She stood up. “I’m taking a kit out to do some private work. Call if you need anything.”
“I can go with you,” said Jin. “You might need help.”
“It’s a freebie,” said Diane.
“I do pro bono,” said Jin.
“Why would you want to go?” asked Diane.
“My new employees are driving me nuts,” he said.
Chapter 15
They rode toward Gainesville with Ross Kingsley driving, Diane in the passenger seat, and Jin in the backseat talking a blue streak about his new lab technicians.
“I thought you liked Elvis,” said Diane.
“I do,” said Jin, “but I don’t come to work dressed like him, and I can’t recite all of his songs in chronological order.”
“But your technicians are doing a good job?” asked Kingsley.
“Oh yes,” said Jin, “they are great. I wouldn’t trade them in or anything. I just need a little break from them once in a while.”
“Both are quirky?” asked Kingsley.
“Well, they are twins,” said Jin. “And I have to say, they work well together. Very efficient. Very low error rate-amazingly low.”
They drove into the working-class neighborhood Stacy Dance had lived and died in. Many of the houses were empty, with foreclosure signs in the yards. It was a neighborhood that had seen better days. At the same time, many of the occupied homes were neatly kept, if a little worn around the edges. The neighborhood spoke of hard times and pride.
Harmon Dance’s house, the home of Stacy and Ryan, was backed up against a small copse of trees on a corner lot. The yard of the empty house next door was overgrown and the curtainless windows reminded Diane of dead eyes. She felt a chill.
Diane saw the second-story garage apartment right away. The garage sat a few feet away from the main house, with a dogtrot between the structures. A steep stairway on the side away from the house led up to the apartment. It was a short distance, maybe thirty feet, from the stairs to the road.
“He’s expecting us,” said Ross as he drove up the short drive and stopped in front of the closed garage.
They got out of the car and looked a moment at the single-story home. It was a white house in need of paint. On one end was a porch with square wooden columns and a swing. Two mailboxes attached to the side of the house next to the door were numbered 118 and 118?, one for Mr. Dance and one for his daughter.
“I’m going to start a ground survey of the property outside,” said Jin. “I’m wondering. You think we can go into that empty house?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” said Diane.
“Sure, Boss,” said Jin. With the carrying case containing his evidence bags slung over his shoulder, he left them on the porch and started a perimeter search of the area.
Diane missed having Jin along with her doing crime scene work. Since his focus was now on the DNA lab, it had been a while.
Kingsley knocked on the front door of the house. After only a few seconds, the door opened and Harmon Dance appeared. He stood in the threshold for a moment, nodded at Kingsley, and looked at Diane.
Harmon Dance had a rugged, deeply lined face. Creases around his mouth gave him a perpetual frown. Diane wondered whether he would ever smile again.
“Hello, Mr. Dance,” said Kingsley. “This is Dr. Diane Fallon, the forensic specialist I told you about.”
Dance nodded. “Thanks for coming.” He held the door open for them to enter, stopped, and looked beyond the two of them. “Not now,” he said under his breath.
Diane followed his gaze. A woman was walking with determination across the street toward them, her arms swinging in her hurry to get across ahead of an approaching car. She was middle-aged, portly, and had thinning, frizzy brown hair. Her jaw was set in a determined clinch.
“What is it, Mrs. Pate?” Dance said.
Mrs. Pate stopped at the foot of the steps with her hands on her hips and glared at the three of them. The skirt of her blue flowered housedress moved gently in the light breeze; her square-lens frameless glasses slipped on her nose.
“You gonna rent your girl’s apartment to that China-man?” she said. She nodded her head toward where Jin had walked into the woods.
“How is that your business?” Dance said, his own face settling deeper into granite.
“I won’t have it. Things are bad enough. Who are these people?” She looked as if she also disapproved of Diane and Ross standing on the porch. You real estate people? I want you to know this is a nice neighborhood, or it used to be before people started losing their homes. She glanced over at the empty house.
Diane saw that Kingsley was holding back a laugh. For herself, Diane felt a little irritated at the woman’s racism. Diane had to dig deep to find her compassion. The woman was probably scared. She was getting older and her neighborhood was changing… and there had been an untimely death just across the street. Trying to have some control in what must have felt like an out-of-control world probably bedeviled the poor woman and a belligerent demeanor was her only shield against it. But, then again, Diane was probably overanalyzing.
“These are not real estate people and I’m not renting out Stacy’s apartment. You can go back home now, Mrs. Pate.”
As irritating as Mrs. Pate was, she was a gem for investigators-a person who was always on the lookout.
“Mrs. Pate,” said Diane, “I’m Diane Fallon. May I ask you a few questions about the day Stacy died?”
The woman suddenly looked startled, as if a loud noise had gone off beside her. Her paranoia had focused on the possibility of new neighbors, not an investigation.
“What kind of questions?” she said, her hands suddenly clasped against her stomach.
“Where I live, in Rosewood, we have a Neighborhood Watch. Do you have one here?” asked Diane. She wanted to start out by making sure Mrs. Pate knew she was going to be judged well on her nosiness.
“Police ain’t much good here,” she said. “No use getting them to put up signs. We have to keep an eye out ourselves.”
“Did you see any suspicious people here that day?” said Diane.
“You people here to investigate her death?” Mrs. Pate darted a look at Mr. Dance. “I thought it was something else that killed her.”
