One Grave Less

by Beverly Connor

Diane looked over at him, frowning.

  “I know. I share your distaste for spying on them,” Gregory said, “but I don’t see we have a choice. We’ll particularly look for movements of large amounts of money. Money itself, not simply the love of it, really is the root of all evil. Especially these days when there is so much of it to be made from doing bad things.”

  “I know that. Still . . . ,” said Diane.

  “They are our friends. I understand,” said Gregory. “But something is going on and we have to find out what it is.”

  He took a notebook from his pocket and began writing. Diane knew he was listing the names of all the people they had worked with in South America—the interviewers, the crime scene personnel, Diane’s assistants. It was not a short list. Most of them had survived the massacre because they had been in the field with Diane.

  Others, like Oliver Hill, Simone’s fiancé, were in the mission when it was attacked. They were support personnel who had administrative duties, handled paperwork. They were all casualties, and they’d had the least dangerous jobs.

  “Do you have an office I can use?” asked Gregory.

  “Yes, I’ll have David set you up,” said Diane. “Knowing David, he already has one set up.”

  “Oh, good. I’ll get to be M to his Q, then,” he said.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” said Diane.

  “How is David doing?” Gregory asked.

  “Good,” said Diane. “Often remarkable.”

  “That’s good to hear. I did worry about everyone,” he said, almost to himself.

  “None of it was your fault either,” said Diane. “I think we all blamed ourselves for not seeing some warning. But in truth, there was none.”

  “I’ve turned my memories over and over looking for a sign I might have missed. There was nothing in the intelligence I was getting. I tracked Ivan Santos constantly while we were working there. He was always well away from us.” Gregory shook his head. “But there was obviously something I missed—something that Simone or Oliver turned up. We will have to find it.”

  “Who did Simone confide in?” asked Diane.

  “Unfortunately, the people she was close to—Oliver, Sister Katherine, Marta—were all killed.”

  “No best friends here in the United States?” asked Diane.

  “Friends, yes. However, she said to me that none of them understood her choice of career. I don’t believe she would have confided in them. Family either.”

  “How are we going to find out what she discovered?” asked Diane as she turned onto Museum Road.

  “With luck, we’ll ask her when she is able,” said Gregory.

  The huge multistoried granite structure had come into view.

  “My goodness,” he said.“This place never fails to impress. It’s a palace compared to my not insubstantial offices.”

  “We’re very fortunate. It suits us well and we have a lot of room to grow,” said Diane as she pulled into a parking space.

  Diane and Gregory climbed the steps and were let in by the security guards on duty. They took the private elevator down to the restricted part of the basement where the DNA lab was located and where David had his own private office and research space.

  “You gave him a lab, did you?” said Gregory.

  “I did. And he’s done some interesting things,” said Diane, laughing.

  “Indeed, has he? I can’t wait,” said Gregory.

  David was just coming out of the DNA lab when the elevator doors opened.

  “I have you an office set up,” said David.

  “That was fast,” said Gregory. “Did you sleep last night?”

  “Enough,” said David.

  David led them first into his own inner sanctum, a cave-like room lined with books and computers, with a darkroom through one door. David taught photography courses, the old-fashioned way, as well as digital, for the museum on occasion. And for that, Diane had given him office space in the basement that was undergoing renovations. Like the proverbial camel, David had, inch by inch, claimed more space. And he had put it to good use.

  David opened one of the other doors and stood back for Diane and Gregory.

  “Good God,” exclaimed Gregory upon entering.

  He had come face-to-face with the enormous mandibles of a spider.

  “That’s Arachnid,” said David.

  “No kidding. What a screen saver,” Gregory said.

  “He means the program,” said Diane. “It’s one of David’s pet projects, and quite secret. There are only a handful of us who know of its existence.”

  Gregory glanced over at David and narrowed his eyes. “Taking this secrecy thing a bit seriously, aren’t you? What does it do?”

  “David has combined web image search with facial recognition software,” answered Diane. “At least that’s what it did the last time we used it. He’s been tinkering with it.”

  “You have to admit that it worked quite well,” said David.

  “Yes, it did,” said Diane. “The problem is, when we find anything useful, we have to figure out what other way we could have come by the information so we can keep his secret.”

  Gregory shook his head. “David, I’d forgotten how much I have missed you.” He chuckled. “Isn’t this a bit of Big Brother? Must cause you a bit of a split in your conscience.”

  “I do have a lot of guilt over it,” he said.

  And Gregory laughed again at his seriousness.

  “I have you an office here.” David opened another door.

  This room had two computers with printers, a couple of telephones, a fax machine, an oak desk and office chair, and a large flat-screen television. Two stuffed chairs sat in the corner with a small table between them.

  “I could rule the world from here,” said Gregory.

  “Not yet,” said David.

  Just as Gregory looked at him to see if he was joking, Diane’s cell rang. It was Andie.

  “There’s these two DEA agents for you,” she said. “I have them here in my office.”

  “Offer them coffee. I’ll be right up,” she said and flipped the phone closed.

  Chapter 20

  Diane sat at her desk. The two DEA agents, Stewart and Bailey, sat in the stuffed leather chairs in front of her desk, looking a lot like the Men in Black. Diane expected more of an L.L.Bean kind of look—casual jacket with DEA patch and maybe Dockers.

  There were subtle differences in the expressions on their faces—one countenance looking vaguely sympathetic, the other looking vaguely bad cop-ish.

  So this was not a law-enforcement-professional-to-professional visit. It was to be an interview with someone they considered a person of interest—her. Diane relaxed in her chair and picked up a pencil. Gregory once gave her that bit of advice. He told her that you can sometimes acquire a psychological edge by putting a desk between you and them and trifling with a pencil. “In Western cultures,” he had said, “it’s subconsciously associated with authority figures such as teachers, principals, doctors, psychiatrists, and lawyers.”

  Diane put on her best “I’m your teacher” face and rubbed the pencil between her palms.

  “How can I help you?” she said.

  If they were intimidated, they didn’t show it.

  “Do you know why we are here?” said the slightly good agent, Bailey.

  “No,” said Diane.

  “Really?” said the slightly bad agent, Stewart. “You have no clue?”

  “Why don’t you fill me in?” she said, steepling her hands in front of her with the pencil between them.

  “We’re here about the drugs found in the museum,” said Stewart.

  “There were no drugs found in the museum,” said Diane. “There was a cloth bag with drug residue, which we discovered and reported. My criminalist, Neva Hurley, contacted your department about it.”

  “Residue,” said Stewart. “Is that how you would describe it?”

  “I’ve seen the report and, yes, that is how I would
describe it,” said Diane.

  “Are you aware that soaking fabric in a liquid version of a drug is one way of smuggling it into the United States?” said Bailey.

  “I have heard of that method, yes,” said Diane.

  “We understand you were involved in drugs while you were in South America,” said Stewart.

  “No,” said Diane, “I was not.”

  Stewart raised his eyebrows. “That is not the information we received.”

  “Your information is false,” said Diane easily.

  “You don’t seem to be curious as to where we got the information,” said Bailey.

  “One of my board members received a call recently from a travel reporter from the AJC asking about something of the sort. In addition, someone hacked my e-mail account and sent romantic assignation requests to many of the male board members, museum contributors, and members of the Rosewood Police Department. An anonymous person called my fiancé and told him I entertain men at his home when he is gone. I have no idea where this blitzkrieg of slander is coming from, nor why. However, I have people looking into it. I assume that whatever information you received came from the same malicious source.”

  Diane sat back in her chair, trying to maintain the impression that she was completely comfortable. She had to make an effort to keep her face blank and free of emotion when, in fact, she hated this.

  “Why did you say you didn’t know why we’re here?” asked Stewart. “We are from the DEA. Drugs were found in the museum. You know of the accusation against you.”

  “No, you misstate the situation. Drug residue was found on an object some unknown person brought into the museum and was connected with the attack on the museum that is currently under investigation by the Rosewood Police Department. As to the answer to your question, if your interest had been about the fabric bag, I just assumed you would have gone to Chief Garnett, who is in charge of the investigation, or to the crime lab, but certainly not to the museum to discuss it. All the files related to the analysis are in the crime lab. The crime lab is under the purview of the City of Rosewood, not the museum.”

  They hesitated a moment too long and Diane continued.

  “Since you began by questioning me as if you had stopped me for running a red light, I had no idea what you wanted.”

  “The drug found in the bag is particularly bad. It has been knocking around Asia and Europe for about four years and is just now making its way into the United States,” said Bailey. “We are concerned that some found its way to you. Add that to the, ah, information we received about your time in South America. Well, you can see our interest.”

  “I’m sure you received no more than the barest hint of rumor about me. There is simply no information to be had unless someone made it up. I had no drug dealings in South America whatsoever, not on either side of the law.”

  “Weren’t you trying to apprehend a man who was known to deal in the drug trade?” asked Stewart.

  “No,” said Diane. “We weren’t trying to apprehend anyone. We knew where Ivan Santos was. We were gathering evidence of human rights violations—mass murders, in particular. We had no interest in what other criminal activity he was involved in.”

  The two of them looked briefly at each other and Diane could barely resist asking them if they had done this before.

  “Do you have any idea why someone might be trying to ruin your reputation?” asked Bailey.

  Stewart shot him an irritated glance. Diane supposed he thought that Bailey was letting her off the hook.

  “None whatsoever. If you received one of these calls, I was hoping you could track it down, if only to get more information about me.”

  “She’s in a meeting.”

  Andie’s voice outside her door brought all their heads around. The door opened and Edmond Carstairs walked in with a bouquet of flowers. Diane dropped her pencil and put her head in her hand for a moment.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Fallon,” said Andie.

  “Diane, dear, I won’t interrupt you long. . . .”

  “Mr. Carstairs,” said Diane. “I didn’t send you any e-mail. Someone hijacked my account and sent those terrible e-mails to everyone, and I’m sorry about the inconvenience. Please, let Andie show you what you can do with those lovely flowers.”

  “But . . . ,” he began.

  “In fact,” said Diane, “these gentlemen from Home-land Security are going to help discover who is behind this dreadful misunderstanding.”

  “Mr. Carstairs,” said Andie, taking his arm, “please come with me. I’ll explain everything.”

  Andie managed to steer him out and close the door. Diane sat back and rubbed her hands down her face.

  “If you find the person who is fueling the drug rumor, I’m betting it will be the same person who is behind the other rumors. I can’t have acquired two stalkers at the same time. I don’t think it was the reporter, but he probably knows who his source is. If you find out who it is, give me some time alone with him.”

  Bailey managed a small smile. Stewart appeared to not know what to think.

  “Gentlemen,” said Diane, “I will be glad to share any information I have through Chief Garnett. The details of the evidence we process in the crime lab are not mine to share, even though the incident under investigation happened here in the museum. I’m not trying to be difficult, but rather, trying not to step on any Rosewood toes. As for any questions you have about me personally, at this point I know very little about what is going on. I know a great deal about what I did in South America. None of it involved drugs.”

  They glanced briefly at each other. Diane could see they weren’t satisfied, but she could also see they hadn’t collected enough information before they questioned her. She bet it was a last-minute decision. They had already spoken with Garnett and were going to the crime lab and got the idea they would surprise her. But they didn’t have enough information to carry out a thorough interview and now they would be kicking themselves all the way back to Atlanta. Or they wouldn’t go to Atlanta—they would try to interview Simone and speak with her parents. Garnett must not have filled them in on his interview with Simone’s parents or they would have asked her what job Simone was doing for her. Next time they came back, they would be better prepared, maybe, but it still would be with erroneous information.

  They left and Diane was about to call Andie in to see what she had done with Edmond Carstairs and his flowers when her in-house line rang. It was the groundskeepers. They had found a body.

  Chapter 21

  The man standing in the road pointing the gun at them was heavyset with a black beard and hair. His worn, disheveled khaki clothes drooped from his sagging shoulders and under his bulging belly and he dripped in sweat. Another man similarly dressed but with less hair and less beer belly stood off to the side. He also had a gun, but at least it was not aimed at them.

  Bandits.

  They would steal everything, possibly including their lives. Maria slammed on the brakes. She told Rosetta to get down on the floor. The little girl slid off the seat and snuggled up to her backpack. Maria put a hand on the gun beside her, glanced at the little face looking up at her from the floor, and stiffened her resolve.

  The bandit kept the gun pointed at Maria and began walking toward the truck. The other man was edging toward the other side of the vehicle.

  Was Rosetta’s door locked? She must have telegraphed her concern with her eyes, for the little girl’s hand snaked up and hit the lock on the door.

  Maria gripped the gun and kept a frightened look on her face—which wasn’t hard. Perhaps if the man saw she was afraid, he wouldn’t think her a threat. He wouldn’t be alert. She could beat him.

  The second bandit walked around to the passenger side. Whereas the first bandit, with his squinted eyes and the rigid set of his mouth, had the look of someone focused on a task, the second one grinned as if witnessing a joke. He muttered something to his partner.

  “He said, ‘We got two scared birds.’ An
d something I didn’t hear,” Rosetta whispered. “I don’t think it was good.”

  Maria could see in his face that he was someone who enjoyed scaring his victims. She switched the gun to her left hand to hide it from view between her door and her seat. The second bandit tried Rosetta’s door. It was locked. He said something in Spanish again and moved away toward the rear.

  The first bandit closed in on her. He held the gun up to the window and motioned for her to open the door. She tried rehearsing in her head how she was going to counter him, but she couldn’t make anything work. There wasn’t enough time to think.

  He jerked the door. It was locked. He pointed the gun at her and yelled.

  “He wants you to open the door,” said Rosetta.

  I’m sure he does, Maria thought. She put her hand on the door handle and hesitated. She was going to shoot as soon as the door cleared his body. She flipped the lock with her thumb.

  He jerked the door open partway and then slammed it back hard against her hand, causing Maria to drop the gun. He opened the door again and grabbed at her, pulling her out. She fell to the ground and reached for the gun with her other hand. He kicked it under the truck and aimed his at her head. He was going to shoot, she saw it in his eyes.

  Damn it, if she was going to die, it would be fighting. She was about to grab for his legs when a scream startled them both. The bandit turned his head toward the second man and Maria rolled under the truck and grabbed her gun. She shot the first bandit in the foot. He yelled and fell to his knees. She shot again, hitting him in the thigh. His hand with the gun appeared under the truck as she scrambled toward the front. He pulled the trigger and the sound was loud in the confined area, but she was out of the way. She moved quickly from under the truck. Dirt and plant matter scratched her face and got in her mouth. She ignored the discomfort.

  The screaming coming from the second bandit continued.

  The first one yelled something, but all Maria could make out was “la niña.”

  That was enough. With the driver’s door open, Rosetta was exposed.

  Maria hurried. Crouching, she moved around from the front to the driver’s side, where the bandit was aiming his gun inside toward Rosetta.