One Grave Less (21 page)

“You want to sue her and the station?” said Prehoda.

“Yes,” she said.

“What would you consider a remedy?” he asked. Prehoda was all business when he was talking about a case. She liked that in him.

“At the moment I can’t think of one strong enough. I would like to strip her and the station of everything. And I want a retraction without weasel words running all through it.” Diane paused. “Make it worth your while at the same time I clear my name.”

“Let me work on it and I’ll get back to you.”

“Thank you,” said Diane.

“I’m puzzled by this,” Prehoda said. “Why would they go with a story with so many holes in it that are easily checked out?”

“I don’t know. Their source must have been convincing. I’ve had several run-ins at crime scenes with Pris Halloran. That may have something to do with her role in it. She had been working for that small station. I don’t know how she got in with a big network affiliate.”

“Surely, reporters expect to be run off from crime scenes,” said Prehoda.

“She didn’t take it well,” said Diane.

“If we can show it was payback, that’s even better for us,” he said.

“I’ll be available if you have any questions,” she said.

“I’ll have many. I’m sorry about Ms. Stewart,” he said.

“Thank you. Her death was so unexpected,” said Diane.

Thankfully, he didn’t pursue any questions about it.

“Okay,” said Diane when she was off the phone with Prehoda. “Now to track down Brian Mathews.”

Garnett pulled his chair closer and leaned forward in his seat. Diane turned her monitor so he could see it and Googled Brian Mathews’ travel blog. True to what she had been told, he was traveling in Peru, visiting historical sites and parts of the ancient Inca trail, and posting both a written and video blog.

She looked at his itinerary. Assuming he was on schedule, he was supposed to be staying at the Cuzco Catedral hotel today. Surely she wouldn’t get that lucky. She dialed the hotel number and asked for Brian Mathews. To her surprise they rang the room. She put the phone on speaker so that Garnett could also hear. A male answered. Surprise again.

“This is Dr. Diane Fallon, director of the RiverTrail Museum in Rosewood, Georgia. Is this journalist Brian Mathews?”

“Yes, Dr. Fallon. I believe we met briefly at one of your museum functions.”

“Call me Diane, please,” she said. It sounded good so far. He didn’t sound like someone who was accusing her of drug running.

“If you will call me Brian. What can I do for you?”

Diane had given a lot of thought as to how to approach this. She did not want to sound accusative. She didn’t want him to get defensive. She wanted to keep it conversational. She had been at a loss on how to accomplish that until she heard Garnett’s conversation with the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
reporter. Might as well stay consistent.

“After several disturbing incidents, I’ve discovered that I’ve had my identity stolen,” she said.

“My brother had that happen. It took him a couple of years to get the thing straightened out.”

“I hope it won’t take that long. It’s getting more and more serious. Whoever is doing it is someone I’ve apparently offended grievously in some way or other. I won’t go into everything that has happened, but one incident involved someone claiming to be you.”

“Me? Well, damn. How so?” he said. “Just a minute, honey, I’m on the phone. Sorry. We’re going out in a little while. We were supposed to attend a lecture about
Paleo-Indian Migration Through the Americas
by a professor visiting from the University of Georgia, but she was a no-show. Now the wife and I are going out on the town. So someone was pretending to be me, really?”

“That’s what I assumed and am calling to verify. Someone who identified himself as you called one of our board members—Dr. Martin Thormond from Bartrum University—and asked Dr. Thormond about my involvement in drug smuggling in South America.”

“What? I don’t know a Martin Thormond, and I’m a travel reporter and rather enjoy it. Not interested in crime reporting. I’m more of an explorer. I don’t like someone using my name. What was their purpose—just sticking their finger in your eye?” He chuckled. “That is, if you weren’t drug smuggling.”

“Not even close,” said Diane. “I used to do human rights investigations in Porto Barquis. As I said, there have been incidences. The first instance that I’m aware of was the call, purportedly from you, to a board member.”

“This is malicious, but how is it identity theft?” he asked.

“I’ve had my e-mail account hacked and embarrassing e-mails sent out in my name. Someone is using my name and doing some rather bad things. The call to Thormond was just the first strange thing that happened. It didn’t have the ring of truth to it, so I didn’t believe it was from a real reporter,” she added, hoping to get in really good with him.

“I appreciate your telling me. Let me or my editor know if this kind of thing happens again,” he said.

“I will,” said Diane. “Thank you for speaking with me. Have you been approached by any strange people?”

“Are you kidding?” He chuckled again. “Not by anyone who didn’t want to sell me something, or guide me somewhere.”

Diane eyed Garnett to see if he had a question. He shook his head.

“Thanks again,” said Diane. “Have a good evening on the town. I’ve been to Cuzco and it’s a lot of fun. Around the Plaza de Armas and San Blas are many good places to go—I’m sure you’ve been told.”

“I believe we are starting out at a disco bar just off Plaza de Armas. Thanks.”

“So,” said Garnett when she was off the phone, “he didn’t make the call.”

“No. I’m no closer to understanding what is going on than I was in the beginning.”

She heard a light tap on the door that sounded like Andie’s when Andie was being hesitant.

“Come in,” she said.

Andie poked her head in. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Dr. Fallon. Liam is here and he has a little information, he said.”

Diane raised her eyebrows. “Please, send him in.”

Liam Dugal was older than Andie’s twenty-four years, well into his thirties. Had a handsome face, broad shoulders, soft brown eyes, and brown hair. Diane had only recently met him, but she liked him. He had helped her when she had needed help most. Recently out of the military, he was now a private detective and Diane often tossed work his way when she could.

He smiled and nodded to Diane and Garnett as he walked in. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Garnett.

“Please say you understand what is going on,” said Diane.

“I wish I could. But I do have some information. You may already have it.”

“I doubt it,” said Diane. “I am in total darkness. If you have even a small candle, I’ll be grateful.”

He pulled out a notebook, opened it, but didn’t look at it.

“The, ah, murders didn’t happen in Río de Sangue. That’s simply the nearest large village with a telephone. The phone’s in a bar on a dock on the river. The river is how they get their supplies and mail.” He leaned forward with his forearms resting on his knees. The dead men listed on the warrant—Aaron Bowhay, Pico Nune, Luis Portman, and Razer Arizmendi—were local thugs in the area. Aaron Bowhay was the only outsider. He was from Indiana, a dropout military guy, soldier-for-hire type.”

Liam stopped a moment and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Diane saw that his eyes were almost twinkling.

“Diane apparently brutalized them,” he said. “Two were shot, one was beaten with a club of some sort, another was crushed to death. Two were mauled after that.” Liam grinned. “And what was it the doctor in the movie
Seven
said? ‘And they still have hell to look forward to.’ ”

Diane stared openmouthed. “You have to be kidding. And they think I did all that?”

Garnett snorted and shook his head.

“One of the men lingered for a while. As he was dying he named you,” said Liam. “Apparently you wield a mean club.”

Diane was speechless. She felt the absurd need to say out loud that she was innocent, that she was here in Rosewood when the men were murdered.

“I talked to the woman who keeps the bar,” said Liam. “Doroteia Pitta. She said all the men were thugs who ran with minor strong men who are hiding out in various small villages, bullying the locals to take care of them. Two of the dead men, Portman and Bowhay, currently worked for a man named Julio Corday. The other two worked for a man named Marco Calvo, who, I take it, is an enemy or competitor of Corday’s.”

“The woman told you a lot,” commented Garnett. “All this over the phone?”

“My Spanish isn’t too good,” said Liam. “And she spoke mainly Portuguese. She may have misunderstood who I was.”

Garnett and Diane smiled.

“She had no idea how Interpol got involved. She didn’t even know what Interpol is. When I told her, she didn’t understand why the international police would be interested in these guys. She said they were nobodies.”

“Why me?” said Diane. “Why were they focused on me? What is this about?” She turned to Garnett. “Do you think this is related to Simone being here and what happened to her?”

“I don’t know. I would say yes, just because of the South American connection, but I haven’t any idea what this is about.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me either,” said Liam. “If someone were trying to mess you up, why didn’t they pick someone in Atlanta to frame you with? I mean . . . Brazil?”

“How reliable is the story of the deathbed statement?” asked Diane.

Liam shrugged. “I don’t know. The whole story sounds like it’s gone through a couple rounds of exaggeration. But she did know your name. She said it first, not me.”

“This just makes no sense,” said Diane.

Garnett focused his attention on Liam. “My people couldn’t even reach Río de Sangue. I’m impressed with what you’ve done.”

“It helps having recently been in the military and knowing people who know people who know people. The six-degrees thing works pretty well. You can get to just about anyone anyplace in the world. I found a guy who pilots one of the boats that drops off supplies and mail at Río de Sangue. He’s the cousin of a guy who knows a guy I served with. I had to make a few calls in the process, however, before I located him.”

“Six-degree thing?” said Garnett.

“You know, six degrees of Kevin Bacon,” said Liam.

“The actor?” said Garnett. “What does he have to do with this?”

“It’s kind of a game. You don’t have to go more than six degrees away to connect any actor living or dead to Kevin Bacon. Usually it’s less than six.”

“Why Kevin Bacon?” asked Garnett.

Liam shrugged.

Garnett stuck his chin toward Liam as if making a dare. “Rudolph Valentino,” said Garnett. “He died well over eighty years ago. Maybe even ninety.”

“Too easy,” said Liam after sitting silently for a few seconds, thinking. “Valentino was in
The Son of the Sheik
with an actor named Montagu Love. Love was in
All This, and Heaven Too
with June Lockhart—Lassie and Timmy’s mom. She was in
The Big Picture
with Kevin Bacon. Three degrees.”

Garnett stared at him.

“I spend a lot of time on the Internet Movie Database,” Liam said.

Garnett looked like he was about to try to think of an even older or more remote actor. Liam shook his head.

“Don’t even try. It’s all been done.” Liam grinned at him.

“It’s based on the six degrees of separation idea,” said Diane. “That the world is so small and interconnected that each of us is no more than six steps by direct line of association away from every other person on earth.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” said Garnett.

Liam and Diane exchanged glances, smiled, and looked at Garnett.

“If you wanted to write a letter and get it directly into the hands of the Queen of England, how would you do it?” said Diane.

Garnett shrugged. “Mail it to the palace.”

“It might get into the hands of her secretary,” she said. “Wouldn’t guarantee the queen would get her hands on it.”

Garnett shrugged again. “Then I have no idea. I have no connection to the Queen of England.”

Diane smiled. “You would give it to me and I would give it to Gregory and he would give it to the queen at the next royal social event he went to. Gregory was knighted recently and his brother is a duke. He’s one of those second sons you hear about. And he’s been involved in charity work that the queen is also interested in. He knows her. He couldn’t walk up to the palace and knock on the door and ask to see her, but he could talk to her at some social event and hand the letter over to her.”

Garnett looked taken aback. “I’m two degrees of separation away from the Queen of England.”

“Not so strange,” said Diane. “She knows a great many people and those people know people and it increases exponentially. Nice little network analysis canon.”

“Okay,” said Garnett. “I get it about the famous. They know a lot of people. How about someone from a remote tribe in Africa or South America? They don’t know anyone.”

“Not exactly true. Even the most remote tribes have been visited by missionaries, Doctors Without Borders, or studied by anthropologists. I could probably make a connection in six or fewer steps—given enough information.”

“Am I the only one who didn’t know about this rule?” Garnett said.

“I believe so, yes,” said Diane. She and Liam smiled with expressions of amusement.

Gregory’s notebook, thought Diane. All those names and connections he’d been drawing. The name of the perpetrator was probably on that list or no more than a couple steps away—within their grasp. And she had more names he could add. If they could connect any of the names to one of the four dead men, or to these Julio Corday or Marco Calvo persons . . .