Grave Secrets (12 page)

I’d read that in a recent
Human Rights Watch
.

“And we’re not talking ancient history. All but four of those murders have taken place since the civilian government was established in eighty-six.”

I felt a tingle of fear in the pit of my stomach.

“What is your point?”

“Death investigation here ain’t day care work.” His eyes were dark with bitterness. “Produce an autopsy finding or a police report that implicates the wrong people, life’s no longer clean and easy. Reporting results can be hazardous if the recipient of your report happens to be affiliated with the bad guys even though he’s holding a prosecutorial office.”

“Meaning?”

He started to say something, then his eyes backed away.

The tingle coalesced into a cold, hard knot.

IT WAS MY DAY FOR FLOWERS. BACK IN MY ROOM I FOUND AN

I laughed for the first time in over a week.

After showering, I studied myself in the bathroom mirror, much as I would a stranger on the street. What I saw was a middle-aged woman with a delicate nose and cheekbones, starburst wrinkling at the corners of the eyes, jawline holding firm. Chicken pox scar above the left brow. Asymmetric dimples.

I brushed bangs from my forehead and did a two-handed tuck behind my ears. My hair was fine, blonde turned brown now galloping toward gray. I’d always coveted my younger sister’s thick blonde hair. Sprays and volumizing gels never entered Harry’s thoughts, while I’d spent thousands on mousse alone.

For a moment I stared directly at myself. Tired green eyes stared back, each underbrushed with pale violet. A new furrow winged down at the inner edge of my left eyebrow. Lighting? I shifted to my right, back a half step. The line was real. Great. One week in Guatemala and I’d aged a decade.

Or was it worry over Galiano’s warning?
Was
it a warning? I squeezed Crest onto the toothbrush, began on my upper molars.

What
was
the point of the conversation in the Gucumatz? Just a prompt to be alert? To be careful where I went and with whom? Walking back we’d talked mostly about the septic tank case. Galiano had little to report.

A visit to the Zone 1 family planning or APROFAM clinic had produced zilch. Ditto for a private clinic, Mujeres por Mujeres. Though reluctant, the doctor on call, Maria Zuckerman, had agreed to check her patient database. She found two Eduardos, Margarita and Clara, both in their thirties. No Lucy Gerardi, Claudia de la Alda, or Chantale Specter. If any of the missing women had made an appointment or been examined by a doctor, she’d done so using a false name.

Big surprise.

Galiano also learned that nonappearances at the clinic raised no flags. Many patients booked, then failed to show up. Some came once or twice, then vanished. Many were in the age range of the lady in the tank. Many were pregnant. With no picture or descriptive information, Dr. Zuckerman refused to allow her staff to be “bothered” with questioning.

Galiano had requested a list of everyone who’d phoned or been seen over the past year. As expected, Zuckerman had refused, citing patient confidentiality. Galiano intended to pursue a court order when more descriptors were available.

I swished and spat, feeling another wave of guilt. If I’d done a better prelim at the tank, we’d
have
more descriptors.

I’d asked Galiano about the attack on Carlos and Molly. He’d heard about the shooting, but knew little since the investigation was being handled in Sololá. He’d promised to find out what he could.

I pumped cream onto my palm and spread it over my face.

We’d also talked about Andrew Ryan. I’d told Galiano about Ryan’s work with the SQ. He’d shared new tales from their bad-boy years together.

As he was leaving, Galiano told me that his partner would be visiting the Eduardos and De la Aldas in the morning, and he’d be calling on the Gerardis and Specters. Given the discovery at the Paraíso, they felt Sunday visits were warranted. I asked to be included.

Wouldn’t be dangerous, I argued, and an outsider’s eye might even be useful. Though skeptical, he agreed.

I clicked off the light, opened the windows as far as they would go, set the alarm, and climbed into bed.

It seemed hours that I listened to traffic and hotel noises and watched the curtains fill and deflate. I finally fell asleep with my head under the pillow. I dreamed of Ryan and Galiano partying in the Maritimes.

Galiano picked me up at eight. Same greeting. Same shades.

Over a quick breakfast, he told me he intended to put pressure on Mario Gerardi, Lucy’s older brother.

“Why Mario?” I asked.

“Bad vibes.”

“Groovy.” I hadn’t heard about vibes since the Beach Boys faded.

“Something about the kid bothers me.”

“His socks?”

“Sometimes you go with your gut.”

I couldn’t disagree with that.

“What does Mario do?”

“As little as he can.”

“Is he a student?”

“Physics degree, Princeton.” Galiano scooped the last of his eggs and beans onto a tortilla.

“So the boy’s no dummy. What’s he doing now?”

“Probably working out alternatives to Planck’s Constant.”

“Detective Galiano knows quantum theory. Impressive.”

“Mario is rich, good-looking, a regular Gatsby with the ladies.”

“Detective Galiano knows literature. Next category. How about ‘Why doesn’t Bat like young Mario?’”

“It’s his socks.”

“Curious that Lucy and Chantale Specter disappeared at virtually the same time.”

“More than curious.”

Ignoring my protest, Galiano snatched and paid the check, then we headed toward Zone 10.

Creeping with the slowly moving log jam on Avenida la Reforma, we sat for a full ten minutes by the Botanical Gardens of San Carlos University. In my mind’s eye I saw Lucy Gerardi walking down that sidewalk, long dark hair framing her face. I wondered about that day.

Why did she go to the gardens? To meet someone? To study? To dream girl dreams she’d never realize?

Were hers the bones Díaz had taken from me? I turned from the window, feeling guilty again.

“Why are we seeing the Gerardis first?”

“Señora Specter is not an early riser.”

I must have looked surprised.

“I believe in holding firm on the big issues and letting the little ones slide. If her ladyship likes to sleep, let her. Besides, I want to get to the Gerardis while Papa’s still there.”

Just past the American embassy, Galiano turned onto a narrow, tree-shaded street and pulled to the curb. I got out and waited while he answered a call. The May sun felt warm on my head.

Had Lucy gone to the gardens because it was a sunny day? To feed the squirrels? To watch birds? To wander without purpose and observe what was there? To be alone with all the possibilities of youth?

The Gerardi residence was centered within manicured hedges surrounding a manicured lawn. A flagstone path led from the sidewalk to the front door. Brightly colored flowers lined both edges of the walkway, and crowded gardens wrapped around the house foundation.

A driveway, complete with Mercedes 500 S and Jeep Grand Cherokee, ran along the right side of the property. Chain-link fencing formed a small enclosure on the left. Inside the fence, a schnauzer the size of a woodchuck raced from end to end, barking frantically.

“I guess that would pass for the dog,” Galiano said, pressing the bell.

The door was answered by a tall, gaunt man with silver hair and black-rimmed glasses. He wore a dark suit, blazing white shirt, and yellow silk tie. I wondered what calling required such formality on a Sunday morning.

“Buenos días, Señor Gerardi.”
Galiano.

Gerardi’s chin raised slightly, then his eyes shifted to me.

“Dr. Brennan is the anthropologist helping on your daughter’s case.”

Gerardi stepped back, indicating that we could enter, and led us down a polished tile corridor to a paneled study. Beshir carpet. Burled walnut desk. Big-ticket collectibles aesthetically positioned on mahogany shelves. Whatever Gerardi did, it paid well.

We’d hardly crossed the threshold when a woman appeared in the doorway. She was overweight, with hair the color of dead leaves.

“Buenos días, Señora Gerardi,”
Galiano greeted her.

Señora Gerardi regarded him with fear and revulsion, as she might a scorpion in the bathroom sink.

Gerardi spoke to his wife in full-throttle Spanish that was lost on me. When she started to reply, he cut her off.

“Por favor, Edwina!”

Señora Gerardi clutched one hand with the other, reversed grip, reversed again, knuckles bulging white under flaky, pink skin. Indecision battled in her eyes, and for a moment, I thought she would object. Instead, she bit down on her lower lip and withdrew.

Señor Gerardi gestured at two leather chairs facing the desk.

“Please.”

I sat. The leather had the smell of a new Jag. Or what I imagined the scent of a new Jag would be, having never ridden in one.

Galiano remained standing. So did Gerardi.

“Unless you have news, this session is pointless.” Gerardi held both arms rigid at his sides.

“How ’bout a skeleton?” The tone told me Galiano was coiled.

Our host showed no reaction.

“Would Lucy have had reason to be in Zone One?” Galiano asked.

“I made clear in my statements that my daughter did not frequent public places. She went—” His lips pursed, relaxed. “She goes to school, to church, and to our club.”

“Have you remembered the names of any friends she might have mentioned? Fellow students?”

“I have already answered that question. My daughter is not a frivolous young woman.”

“Was Lucy close to Chantale Specter?”

“They saw each other occasionally.”

“What did they do together?”

“This is all in my statement.”

“Humor me.”

“They studied, watched movies, swam, played tennis. The ambassador and I belong to the same private club.”

“Where is your son, Señor Gerardi?”

“Mario is taking a golf lesson.”

“Uh. Huh. Did Chantale Specter spend time in your home?”

“Let me clarify something for you. Regardless of her father’s position, I did not encourage my daughter’s relationship with the Specter girl.”

“Why was that?”

Gerardi hesitated a moment.

“Chantale Specter is a confused young woman.”

“Confused?”

“I do not feel she is a good influence for my daughter.”

“What about boys?”

“I do not allow my daughter to date.”

“I imagine she was ecstatic about that.”

“My daughter does not question my rules.”

I folded my hands in my lap, looked at them. Lucy, I thought. Your daughter’s name is Lucy, you cold, arrogant prick.

“Yes.” Galiano grinned cynically. “Anything else you might have remembered since our last conversation?”

“I know nothing more than what you know. I made that clear on the phone.”

“And I made clear that I wanted to talk to Mario today.”

“These lessons are scheduled weeks in advance.”

“Wouldn’t want to compromise the boy’s chip shot.”

Gerardi fought to suppress a twitch of anger.

“Frankly, Detective, I had hoped for progress by now. This affair has been dragging on for over four months. The strain is unbearably difficult for my wife and son. This recent attack on our pets was barbarous.” Allusion to hair sample collection by the police, I presumed.

Galiano made a clicking sound with his mouth. “I’ll talk to the schnauzer.”

“Don’t patronize me, Detective.”

Galiano leaned across the desk and brought his face to within inches of Gerardi’s.

“Don’t underestimate me, señor.”

Galiano stepped back.

“I will find Lucy,” he said, regarding our host coolly. “With or without your cooperation.”

“I have cooperated fully, Detective, and I resent your implication. No one is more concerned about my daughter than I.”

A clock bonged somewhere outside the room. For the full ten count no one spoke. Galiano broke the silence.

“I keep getting caught up in one thought this morning.”

Gerardi’s face was a closed door.

“I tell you a skeleton surfaced and you show about as much interest as you would in a weather report.”

“I assume that if this skeleton has relevance to my daughter’s disappearance you will say that.” A red wash was spreading upward from Gerardi’s perfectly white collar.

“Seems you’ve also assumed a lot about your daughter’s life.”

“
Is
this person you’ve found my daughter?” Gerardi’s upper lip was white with anger.

Galiano did not reply.

“Obviously you do not know.”

My face felt hot with embarrassment. Correct, Mr. Gerardi. Because I was queasy and intimidated by pink spectacles.

Gerardi aligned his vertebrae even straighter than they had been. “I think it’s time you leave my home.”

“Buenos días, Señor Gerardi.”
Galiano nodded to me
“Regresaré.”
I’ll be back.

He strode toward the door.

I rose and followed.

“¡Hijo de la gran puta!”
Galiano reached out and twisted a knob on the police scanner. The static receded to a sputter.

“Tell me what you really think of him.”

“He’s a pompous, overbearing, self-righteous ass.”

“Don’t hold back.”

“What sort of parent sees adolescent friendship as frivolity?” Galiano’s voice dripped disdain.

“My thought exactly. What does Daddy do to afford the Mercedes and Beshir?”

“Gerardi and his brother own the largest auto dealership in Guatemala.”