Part 29 (1/2)

”I don't know. The flow of information between me and the marshals only goes one way,” said Diane.

”I hear you there,” he said. ”Are you staying with Frank?”

”Yes, until I can find a place. I might buy a house, I just don't know,” she said.

”Have a safe trip,” he said.

She got off the phone and told Frank the police were going to question Eric Tully.

”I hope that puts an end to his hara.s.sment,” she said. ”I can juggle only so many b.a.l.l.s at once before they all come cras.h.i.+ng down around me.”

Chapter 45.

It wasn't a long flight, but Diane didn't like flying. Intellectually she understood how planes stay up in the air, but in her heart she really didn't believe in the Bernoulli effect or momentum transfer. Flight might as well be magic as far as she was concerned, and the magic could be withdrawn at any moment. She wasn't exactly white-knuckled, but she was on the lookout for the goblin on the wing.

”You don't like flying?” said Kingsley.

”Not very much, and if you start a lecture on how safe planes are compared to automobiles, I'll hit you. Automobile accidents are survivable; airplane crashes are not,” said Diane.

”And you have no control up here,” he said. ”I think that is the source of your discomfort.”

Diane looked from the window over at him and found him grinning.

”I may hit you anyway,” she said. ”Why aren't we in one of those neat little FBI jets?” she said.

”You know, TV has really ruined my job for me. Planes are expensive to fly and I don't have access to one at the drop of a hat. Nor can I do perfect on-thespot profiles by glancing at a crime scene. I have to research it, think about it, and sometimes I'm wrong. Profiling isn't supposed to be an exact science, just a tool to use in the furtherance of criminal apprehension.”

”Oh, you don't like to fly either, do you?” said Diane.

”Not particularly, no,” he said.

The flight attendant brought drinks and both Diane and Kingsley accepted a bottle of water.

”I did some homework yesterday,” he said. ”I have more detailed information on how Clymene's husbands died. I thought you might be interested.”

Anything to take my mind off flying. ”Yes, I would,” she said.

He gave her several sheets of paper. ”I've summarized each husband's death. Grant Bacon is the first we know about and one of the most interesting.”

Diane read Kingsley's notes. ”It says he got hung up in his boat's propeller while he was trying to repair it. How can that happen?” she said.

”They don't exactly know. According to the police report, he was untangling his mooring line, or whatever you call it, and somehow the boat's motor got started. He was tangled in the rope and fairly chopped up when they found him. The whole thing is a mystery.”

”Was Clymene-or rather, Kathy Bacon-suspected?” asked Diane.

”No, she wasn't. This is the interesting part. Everyone reported that the wife, as she was often referred to, was a mouse. Grant Bacon was a batterer and he liked submissive women. By all accounts, she was very submissive.”

”If she was battered, that would make her a suspect,” said Diane.

”She had an ironclad alibi. She was with a number of notable people at the country club when it happened,” he said.

”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 b.u.mp 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 offsh.o.r.e 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, Was.h.i.+ngton. 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 Was.h.i.+ngton, 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.”