Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

“That diary is like a deathbed confession,” said Hank Zacharius.

“She’d just finished writing this when she gave it to me,” Belle said. “She had no reason to lie.”

Nunn took a breath, looked directly at Peter Heusen, and said, “We have to assume that Rosemary did tell the truth. Which means that she did not kill her husband.”

No, she didn’t. But thanks to you, Detective, she’s dead.” It was Ben Thomas, Rosemary’s son. Although at first glance the young man seemed to have an almost uncanny resemblance to his father, the eyes that now bored into Nunn’s looked very much like Rosemary’s. His sister was standing beside him looking at the floor, her rich brown hair partially covering her face. Few of the guests had seen the Thomas children since the trial. They’d been away at school and later college.

Ben walked over to Nunn, his demeanor cool. “So now you know what we’ve always known, that our mother did not kill our father. What did it have to take for you to realize that?”

Nunn was quiet. The entire room had gone quiet.

“What did it have to take for you to do your job and investigate our dear uncle Peter ?” Ben turned around and glared at Peter Heusen.

Peter sighed impatiently. “Why would I want to kill your father?”

Leila Thomas looked up. “Why? Mom says why in the diary. Money. It’s always been the only thing you’ve cared about. It’s never been enough for you.” She looked at her brother. “He used to dip into our trust funds before we were old enough to ask questions.”

Peter polished off his drink and cleared his throat. “That’s a lie!” he shrieked. Then he took a deep breath. “Listen, no one knew your mother better than I, and no one loved her more, and you know that. But Rosie had gone nuts in that jail cell, day after day, waiting to die. We can’t take those ramblings of hers seriously.” He looked at Stan Ballard. “She cracked up, remember?”

Ballard just nodded.

Leila had crossed the room and was standing across from her uncle, looking him directly in the face. “Don’t you ever stop, Uncle Peter? Our mom was a wonderful and loving person, she was framed for a murder she didn’t commit, and she suffered so many disgraces in her life-” Leila stopped, her gaze shifting to Justine, who looked down, avoiding the younger woman’s eyes. Leila turned to look at Peter again. “And now you’re disgracing her in her death.”

She reached up and slapped him, hard, across the face.

Peter’s eyes flashed with resentment. He stared at his niece for a moment, then turned and left the room.

Ben Thomas moved over to stand beside his sister.

Tony Olsen came forward, took the diary from Belle, closed it with care, and handed it to Ben. “This belongs to you, to both of you. It’s a living legacy, and your mother would want you to have it. You’re its rightful owners.”

Ben accepted the diary.

Leila blinked away tears. “Thank you.”

Tony walked over and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You know, I never believed your mother had anything to do with it.”

“I know,” Leila said.

“I was secretly hoping we’d expose a murderer, tonight. And we might have,” he whispered in her ear.

The girl looked up at him and nodded.

Nunn knew he had to get away for a few minutes. He needed to be alone, needed to mull over what had just happened, so he headed for the ramp to the lower exhibit gallery, and the exit. A guard had been stationed at the ramp but he was now gone. When Nunn got to the ground floor, he wandered through the darkened halls, preoccupied by his thoughts about what he’d just heard, until he found himself in the Arms and Armor Room.

He walked around the room, then stopped when he walked past one of the display cases. Something was wrong. The case contained daggers and swords. Each was labeled with information about the artifact. One of the labels read RONDELL DAGGER, FOURTEENTH CENTURY, but there was a space where the dagger should have been.

He was walking over to the case so he could examine it more closely when he heard a scream echoing through the marble halls of the museum.

Hank Zacharius couldsense a news story when other reporters were oblivious to what was going on around them, but he didn’t need any special instinct to know that a hideous scream at a museum was out of place.

He was off and running. He made the turn into the corridor and was surprised to see Tony Olsen walking down the hall toward him. Olsen’s shoulder was even with the door to the ladies’ room, and Hank thought he saw the door closing, but he couldn’t be certain.

“Did you hear a scream?” Olsen asked.

“Yeah, I thought it came from this hall,” said Zacharius.

“I already passed the offices,” Olsen said, pointing to the rooms on the other side of the hall from the restrooms, “and there’s no one in any of them.”

“That leaves the bathrooms.” Hank pushed open the door to the men’s room, which was empty.

“In here,” Olsen shouted from the ladies’ room.

Hank got his cell phone and darted inside.

Haile Patchett lay crumpled on the floor.

Hank snapped a quick photo of the young woman and a close-up of the blood that was coming from a nasty gash on the back of her head.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Olsen shouted.

Hank took a step closer to Haile but Olsen pushed him away.

“Go outside and keep everyone away from here,” said Olsen. “And get someone to call the police.”

Everyone was huddledaround the door to the ladies’ room.

Nunn pushed his way inside.

He found Tony Olsen and a horrified Haile Patchett, who was seated on the floor with her back pressed against the wall. Haile had a hand to the back of her head and blood was seeping between the matted strands of her red hair.

“What happened?” Nunn asked.

“I, I don’t know,” Haile said. “I was fixing my lipstick when I saw a shadow across the mirror. The next thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing him.” She pointed at Tony Olsen.

Olsen looked up at Nunn. “I was with Zacharius when I found her.”

Nunn nodded. “Do you think the attacker was already in here when you came in or do you think whoever it was followed you in?”

Haile just shook her head.

Two policemen rushed up the ramp toward the ladies’ room, and a few minutes later, Haile Patchett came out, a bandage on the back of her head.

“I’m fine,” she announced to a confused and worried crowd. “It’s just a scratch.” She was embarrassed everyone was staring at her.

Hank Zacharius had rejoined the group but hung back, whispering on his cell, calling the story in.

Crazy night, huh?” the crime scene officer, who’d just come, said to the security guard sitting behind the massive desk in the front lobby of the museum.

“Rates as one of the strangest,” the guard answered the cop, who along with his partner was assembling their gear. The two police officers who’d initially responded to the call had left, but not before asking him a few questions. The poor lady with the cut on her head had also left the museum, but in an ambulance. The guard glanced up at the crime scene officers again. They were wearing those outfits-jumpsuits and bootees and hats and masks-that made them look more like surgeons than cops. They’d come in to process the scene -he knew that was the term they used because he watched CSI .

The guard looked outside and noticed the crime scene van parked on the curb. Beside it another ambulance that had responded to the call.