Dead Hunt by Beverly Connor

possibility we discussed is that she may change identity after each kill and then move on to another victim.’’
He nodded. ‘‘Yes, and I still think that is a good possibility. But the closer we get to the real Clymene, the closer we will get to the other identities she established.’’ He took a long drink of his tea. ‘‘I can see you have a busy schedule, but there are advantages to making me beholden to you,’’ said Kingsley.
‘‘And what would those be?’’ asked Diane.
He smiled and cut another piece of meat. ‘‘If I’m reading the newspapers correctly and picking up on the vibes from your staff, you are going to be visited by the FBI shortly because they have jurisdiction over art and cultural property crime. Now, while I don’t have a lot of pull, I do know the agent assigned to this region and I can help ease the way for you.’’ He speared the piece of meat and put it in his mouth.
‘‘That would be worthwhile. But a friend would do that for me anyway,’’ said Diane, grinning back at him.
‘‘True, and I will. However, I can’t imagine you not doing a favor in return,’’ he said.
‘‘I’ll need all the evidence,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Is this a yes, then?’’ he asked.
‘‘Yes. I’ll give it a try,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Everything we have will be delivered to you.’’
‘‘I know I’m going to regret this,’’ said Diane, wondering when she would find the time. Of course, there was all that wasted time when she was sleeping. ‘‘You know, it seems that someone from her past would have recognized Clymene and come forward by now.’’
‘‘I would have thought so,’’ said Kingsley. ‘‘And she must have worried about that. You know she avoided having her picture taken. Her face in those scrapbooks was usually half covered with a cap or something. She didn’t accompany her husband anywhere they might be photographed.’’ He reached inside his jacket. ‘‘Did the waitress leave the check?’’
‘‘It’s all right,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Consider it recompense for having to wait all afternoon.’’
‘‘You sure?’’ he asked.
Diane nodded.
‘‘Thanks. I should have had a bigger steak.’’ He smiled and put his wallet back in his pocket. ‘‘Did you ever meet her before the investigation? I know O’Riley came to some of the museum functions here,’’ said Kingsley.
‘‘No, I didn’t. The one time Archer O’Riley came to a function here, he was with his son and daughterin-law. That was the only time I ever met him.’’ Diane thought for a moment. ‘‘There are her mug shots. I saw them in the Atlanta and Rosewood papers.’’
‘‘Yes, but even I would hardly recognize her from those,’’ said Kingsley. ‘‘Her mouth was turned down; she seemed to be . . . squinting, or something.’’ He waved a hand. ‘‘It was a terrible photograph.’’
‘‘Still, some people have an amazing ability to recognize people even from sketchy drawings,’’ said Diane.
‘‘All I know is, no one came forward. Not everyone reads the news, I suppose, and I’m not sure news coverage of the trial ever made it out of the region. I know her lawyer made sure Court TV didn’t cover it,’’ said Kingsley.
‘‘You know,’’ said Diane, ‘‘her other identities, if she had other identities, could easily have been in other countries. I know she speaks fluent French, and Rivers said her Spanish is quite good.’’
‘‘That’s a possibility. Do you think English is her first language?’’ asked Kingsley.
Diane nodded. ‘‘I do, but I’ll ask a forensic linguist to take a look at some of the journaling in her scrapbooks. I don’t suppose you have a tape recording of her speaking?’’
‘‘No. She didn’t want me to record our conversations,’’ said Kingsley.
‘‘Could you get one?’’ asked Diane.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘‘Legally?’’
‘‘Of course,’’ said Diane.
‘‘I don’t know. Let me think about