Dust to Dust Read Online Free PDF Page A

said.
    “I’d like to see his face,” said Hanks.
    Whit nodded. He and Diane turned the body over and Whit rolled up the ski mask. The beam from the flashlight cast angled shadows across the contours of the lean face. He was young, perhaps early twenties, with a pale face showing a scattering of whiskers that he had hoped would make him look more rugged. He had a black eye that was fading to yellow. Diane didn’t recognize him. Neither did Whit.
    “Don’t know him,” said Hanks.
    Whit and Diane rose and stepped away from the body. Whit nodded to the paramedics.They transferred the corpse to the stretcher and rolled the gurney to the ambulance for transport to the hospital morgue in Rosewood.
    “What happened here?” Whit asked.
    Hanks explained in a brisk, no-nonsense way the night’s events leading up to the discovery of the body.
    “I don’t know how he was shot,” he said. “There was a lot of gunfire.”
    Whit nodded and eyed Hanks. “Looks like you need to go along to the hospital.”
    “Yeah, I suppose so,” he said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
    Hanks looked to be in considerable discomfort, but he sounded reluctant. Diane thought he would have welcomed the chance to receive some painkillers. After a few moments’ thought and with what appeared to be some regret, he left with the others, walking at a brisker pace than Diane thought she could have mustered under the same circumstances.
    Whit watched Hanks a moment, then turned back to Diane. “How are things in your life now that you have control of all the museum operations again?” he said.
    “So far, things are running smoothly,” she said.
    Diane walked with Whit around to the driveway where he was parked. Hanks’ car was there, and the patrolman’s. So were two other police vehicles. They watched the ambulance leave with its cargo.
    “What are you doing here?” asked Whit. “I was under the impression you didn’t do on-site crime scene work much anymore. Someone told me you had finally learned to delegate.” He gave her a wide grin.
    “I’m trying,” said Diane. “Marcella Payden is a consultant to the museum.”
    Whit’s eyebrows went up. “Dr. Payden? The archaeologist? Is this her home?” He glanced over at the house and back at Diane. “Sylvia and I heard her give a talk a few days ago on the analysis of pottery in archaeology. Not exactly my idea of a hot date, but Sylvia wanted to go. Dr. Payden was entertaining. She can make a dull topic sound interesting, even to us archaeology dummies.”
    He paused. “What happened? Is she—” He stopped and let the question hang between them.
    “I’m told she survived the attack, but I don’t know her condition. It happened early last evening,” said Diane. “I’m not sure why it took so long for my crew to be called in.”
    “I can answer that,” said Neva, who was coming from the van with a case, heading for the house. “One of the policemen was telling me and Izzy about it. Dr. Payden was unconscious when she was brought in. At first, the doctors thought she had fallen accidentally and hit her head. It wasn’t until they did a thorough exam and took some X-rays that they came to the conclusion she might have been attacked. That’s when they called the police.”
    “How was she discovered?” asked Diane.
    Neva shrugged. “That’s all the policeman knew.” She motioned toward the house. “Izzy and I have a path cleared if you want to come have a look around.”
    Diane nodded. “Thanks, Neva.”
    “How’s your dress?” Neva asked, eyeing Diane’s change of clothes.
    “About what you would expect after a trek through a briar patch, a little hand-to-hand with a thug, and rolling down a hill in it. Not good. It’s what I get for wearing a cocktail dress to a crime scene,” Diane said.
    Neva grinned and went on her way.
    “It must have been some exciting night,” said Whit.
    “More so than I would like,” said Diane.
    “About this