Beverly Connor - Dead Past

“Dr. Fallon, I’m sorry.”

It was Shawn Keith, her neighbor in the basement apartment. He was wrapped up in a brown sweater and muffler and was shivering.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I saw you drive up and I was waiting for you to come in. I wanted to apologize. I… you see… I had my mother with me.”

Diane stared at him a moment. What is he talking about? Then she realized-the carjacking, Blake Stanton.

“You mean that kid trying to take your car?”

He nodded. “I saw him walking to your car when I took off.”

“It’s all right, Professor Keith. You did the right thing. You called the police. They came and everything was fine.”

“I’ve been worried about it ever since it happened. I should have…”

“Done just what you did,” said Diane. “Really, you did the right thing.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” he said.

“It’s true. It looks like you need to get inside. You’re turning blue.”

“It is freezing out here. Thanks, Dr. Fallon.” He nodded his head up and down. “Thanks.”

Diane climbed the stairs to her apartment and unlocked the door, glad to be home. Just as she walked in, her telephone rang.

“Don’t let it be a murder,” she said to herself as she grabbed the phone and dropped to the couch.

“Diane, it’s Frank.”

Diane grinned to herself. She’d take Frank over a murder any day.

“Hello, Frank. It’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“I’m OK. I heard about Izzy Wallace’s son. I know Daniel. Is it true?”

“Yes. I’m afraid it is. I matched his dental records this evening. That, with the x-ray of his wrist, cinches it. But the family hasn’t been officially notified.”

Frank was silent a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve been so grateful for finding Star… ”

“I know. I’ve had those same emotions. How is Star? How did her test go?”

“She said she thought she did well. She thinks she’s going to make above a three-point this semester.”

“Wow, good for her. When can I see you?” Diane hadn’t meant to say that. She was just feeling very lonely.

“How about tomorrow night?”

“I’d like that.”

“You sound beat.”

“It’s just all the bodies from the explosion and everything that goes along with it. I’m having problems at the museum. Someone is stealing some of our rare items.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Any leads?”

“No. We’re just now discovering what’s missing. Many of the items weren’t from the exhibits, but from the vaults.”

“So it’s someone who knows the museum.”

“It looks like it.”

“That narrows it down considerably.”

“I don’t want it to be someone from the museum.”

“I know.”

“Frank…” The call waiting signal beeped. “Just a moment. Let me get this call.”

She switched to the other call. “Diane, it’s Garnett. We’re at a crime scene in the Briarwood Apartments. Better get your crew over here.”

Briarwood Apartments were upscale dwellings catering more to the professional crowd than to students of Bartram University. Diane met David, Neva, and Jin in the parking lot in front of section C, four duplexes clustered together.

“I looked at these when I moved here,” said David. “Nice apartments. I liked them. Very quiet, good neighborhood. A little expensive for my budget.”

They got their crime scene kits out of their vehicles and followed the sidewalk to apartment 131. Garnett met them at the door, frowning when they saw him. Diane knew what he was thinking-Councilman Adler was going to make hay out of this. Murders in good neighborhoods scare people.

Diane sent Jin and Neva to search outside the apartment-under the windows, any nooks and crannies where someone could lie in wait or leave evidence. She and David slipped covers over their shoes and hair and walked into the room. The body was in the living room, lying face up, blood pooled under her head. She was a young woman. Long blond hair partially covered her battered face. Her blue eyes were open.

Allan Rankin was there. He was taking her liver temperature. He pulled the thermometer out and scribbled in his notepad before looking up.

“Hi. Diane. Apparently we must not see enough of each other.”

“Apparently,” she said. “What do we have here?”

“The name on her mail says J. Cipriano. Female, twenty-six years old. Been dead no more than thirty minutes,” Rankin said.

“Sexual assault?” asked Garnett.

He had walked up behind them. Diane looked down at his feet. They were covered.

“Neva gave them to me,” he said, following her gaze.

“No visible signs of sexual assault. I’ll know more later.” He stood and looked down at the body. She was dressed in a blue sweater and white wool skirt. “At least she’s not charred,” he said.

“Cause of death?” asked Garnett.

“She bled out. Took a beating, fell, and hit the back of her head on the corner of this glass table.” Rankin pointed to the bloody table edge.

Diane looked around the room. It was tossed. All the books in the room were pulled off the shelves and lay on the floor in piles. Diane could see into the bedroom from where she was standing. Books were lying on the bed and floor. Odd.

“Some kind of book maniac, I’d say,” said Rankin.

“What did she do for a living?” asked Garnett. “Does anyone know?”

Rankin shook his head. “A lady in one of the other apartments-I think I heard her name was something Bowden-she may know the victim. She’s the one who called the police.”

“Bowden,” said Diane. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“It sounds familiar to me, too.” Rankin thought a minute. “The coffee tent. There was a woman from the church named Jere Bowden.”

“I remember,” said Diane. “Very kind lady. She’s related to my upstairs neighbors.”

“You want to come while I talk to the witness?” asked Garnett. “Maybe it’s the same woman.”

Diane nodded and looked at David.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “It’s a small apartment, one person ought to do.”

“I’ll be back and help,” she said.

Diane left the apartment and slipped off her shoe and head coverings. Garnett was asking the policemen at the scene where the witness’ apartment was.

“One thirty-two,” said Garnett. “It’s across here.”

They knocked on the door. After a few moments a woman answered. She was indeed the woman from the coffee tent, Jere Bowden.

“Oh,” she said. “Dr. Fallon. We will have to meet sometime under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Yes, we will,” said Diane. “You know Chief Garnett, don’t you? He was at the other crime scene.”

Jere held out her hand. “Yes, I do. Please come in and sit down. Can I get you some coffee?” She smiled. “Or tea or something?”

“No, thank you. We just need to ask about your neighbor.”

Jere nodded. “Please, come sit down.” She gestured toward the living room up a small flight of steps from the foyer. “My husband is in Michigan ice fishing, of all things. I told him he should have just stayed home. We seem to be having the required weather.”

Diane sat on a cream-colored love seat, Garnett on a stuffed dark blue chair. Jere sat opposite them on a sofa that matched the love seat.

“What is the victim… the young lady’s name?” asked Garnett.

“Joana Cipriano. That’s with one n in Joana. She teaches music at the university. Very nice young woman.”

She stopped and her eyes teared and almost overflowed. Diane and Garnett waited.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I told myself that I wasn’t going to do this. You need information to catch the man who did… what he did.”