Grave Secrets (18 page)

Mateo’s attention shifted between the mirror and the windshield. Mine remained focused on the cruiser behind us.

The light expanded, became a red whirlpool. The siren grew louder.

Mateo eased into the slow lane.

The cruiser rushed toward our bumper. Crimson swirled inside the Jeep. The siren screamed. Mateo kept his eyes straight ahead. I stared at a rust spot on the dashboard.

The cruiser pulled left, shot past, disappeared into the mist.

My heart didn’t slow until we were locked inside the gate at FAFG headquarters.

Galiano was not in when I phoned his office but returned my page within minutes. He was tied up until evening, but was eager to know what I’d learned from Molly. He suggested dinner at Las Cien Puertas. Great food. Moderate prices. Good Latin music. He’d sounded like a shareholder.

I devoted the next three hours to Chupan Ya, returned to my hotel at six-fifteen thoroughly dejected over the agonizingly senseless loss of life. It seemed I would never get away from death.

As I changed clothes, I forced my mind in another direction. I thought about Galiano.

Where were his wife and young Alejandro?

I applied fresh deodorant, dabbed blusher on my cheeks.

Was I keeping Galiano from his family?

Ridiculous. Dinner was strictly professional.

Was it?

It was a scheduling issue. We were both busy during working hours.

I dug mascara from the bottom of my makeup kit. Black flakes floated to the sink as I unscrewed the applicator.

Were these dinners with Galiano justified?

Strictly business.

Then why the long lashes?

I jammed the applicator back in its place and returned the unused tube to my kit.

Galiano picked me up at seven.

The restaurant was located in an arcade typical of Zone 1. Though beautiful once, the colonial grandeur and dignity had long ago yielded to peeling paint and crude graffiti.

But Galiano was right about the food. It was excellent.

As we ate, I described my visit to Sololá. Galiano agreed with my suspicion that Molly might have been mistaken for me, insisted I take measures to protect myself. No argument there. I assured him I would stay vigilant. He suggested I carry a gun, offered to provide one. I declined, claiming trigger ineptness. I did not tell him that guns frighten me more than the thought of unknown assailants.

Galiano agreed that obstruction of the Chupan Ya investigation could well have been a motive for the shooting. If so, perhaps no further attacks would occur, since the excavation was complete. Still, he recommended that I not make trips to remote places. Recommended? Insisted.

Galiano was dubious about my Specter theory.

“It could explain why I haven’t been allowed full access to the Paraíso bones.”

“Why?”

“Someone’s putting pressure on the DA.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

His skepticism irritated me. Or perhaps it was my inability to provide answers.

Irrationally, my thoughts turned to the stumbling episode. Was there such a thing as tactile memory? Did my cheek
really
tingle where it had grazed his chest?

Of course not.

I listened in silence as he told me about the investigation of Claudia de la Alda’s murder. Galiano’s English was unaccented, but spoken with a Latin cadence. I liked his voice. I liked his crooked face.

I liked the way he looked at me. I liked the way he looked.

Business, Brennan. You’re a scientist, not a schoolgirl.

When the check arrived I grabbed it, dug out my Am Ex card, and thrust it into the waiter’s hand. Galiano did not object.

Back in the car, Galiano turned sideways and dropped an elbow over the seatback.

“What’s bugging you?” A neon sign pulsated blue and yellow slashes across his face.

“Nothing.”

“You’re acting like someone who’s just learned that people were trying to kill her.”

“A penetrating observation.” Though a misdiagnosis.

“I’m a sensitive guy.”

“Really.”

“I read
Venus and Mars.
”

“Hm.”

“Bridges of Madison County.”

He reached out and ran a thumb around the corner of my mouth. I turned my head sideways.

“Took notes.”

“Where is Mrs. Galiano this evening?”

For a moment, he looked confused. Then he laughed.

“With her husband, I presume.”

“You’re divorced?”

Galiano nodded. He lifted my hair and drew a finger down the side of my neck. It left a smoldering trail.

“What about Ryan?” he asked.

“A working relationship.”

True. We worked together.

Galiano leaned close. I felt the warm wetness of breath on my cheek. Then his lips slid behind my ear. Onto my neck. My throat.

Oh, boy.

Galiano took my face in his hands and kissed me on the lips.

I smelled male sweat, cotton, something tangy, like citrus. The world kicked into slo-mo.

Galiano kissed my left eyelid, my right.

Galiano’s cellular shrieked.

We flew apart.

He yanked the phone from his belt and clicked on, one hand lingering in my hair.

“Galiano.”

Pause.

“Ay, Dios.”

I held my breath.

“When?”

Longer pause.

“Does the ambassador know?”

I closed my eyes, felt my fingers curl into fists.

“Where are they now?”

Please, God. Not another body.

“Yeah.”

Galiano disconnected, ran his hand across my head, and dropped it onto my shoulder. For a moment, he just stared at me, the Guernsey eyes liquid in the darkness of the car.

“Chantale Specter?” I could hardly get the question out.

He nodded.

“Dead?”

“She was arrested last night in Montreal.”

“
SHE’S ALIVE?” I KNEW IT WAS STUPID AS SOON AS I SAID IT

“Lucy Gerardi was with her.”

“No way!”

“They were nailed shoplifting CDs at the MusiGo at Le Faubourg.”

“Shoplifting?” I sounded like a moron, but this wasn’t making sense.

“Cowboy Junkies.”

“Why?”

“Guess they’re into folk rock.”

I rolled my eyes, another pointless response in the dark.

“What could have brought them to Montreal?”

“Air Canada.”

Asshole. This reply I held back.

Galiano started the engine, pulled out of the lot.

On the drive back I sat with feet up, knees hugged to my chest. The protective posturing was unnecessary. The news about Chantale Specter had squelched any amorous intentions either of us might have harbored.

At the hotel, I popped the door before we stopped rolling.

“Call me as soon as you know anything.”

“Will do.”

I flapped a hand in the air between Galiano and me.

“Will this be a problem?” My face burned.

Galiano grinned. “None at all.”

Too agitated to sleep, I checked my messages in Montreal and Charlotte. Pierre LaManche had called to say that a mummified head had been found in an attic in Quebec City. Newspaper wrappings suggested it dated to the thirties. The case was not urgent. However, a putrefied human torso had drifted ashore in Lac des Deux-Montagnes, and he wanted me to examine it as soon as possible.

There were no anthropology cases in North Carolina.

Pete said both Birdie and Boyd were fine.

Katy was not in.

Ryan was not in.

I ate two doughnuts from a box I’d stashed in the kitchenette, turned on CNN.

Tropical storm Armand was threatening the Florida panhandle. Three Canadians had been arrested for a stock scam in Buenos Aires. A bomb had killed four in Tel Aviv. A train accident near Chicago had left over one hundred hurt, most with soft tissue injuries. Happy lawyers.

Next I bathed, deep-conditioned my hair, shaved my armpits and legs, plucked my eyebrows, and creamed my entire body.

Hairless and smooth, I crawled into bed.

My mind was still humming, and sleep wouldn’t come.

Claudia de la Alda was a homicide victim here in Guatemala. Patricia Eduardo was still missing but she might be the girl in the septic tank. Chantale Specter and Lucy Gerardi were alive and busted in Canada.

What had drawn Chantale and Lucy to Montreal? How had they gotten there without leaving a trail? Where had they been hiding out, and why?

Was the septic tank girl linked to the murder of Claudia de la Alda, or were the cases unrelated? Was Galiano’s serial killer theory evaporating? Who had phoned about Claudia’s body?

Who was taking care of Claudia’s family? Was someone there to help ease their unbearable heartbreak?

Where was Patricia Eduardo? Was it indeed her body in the tank? A strangely disconnected thought: who was caring for Patricia’s horses?

Who had phoned Galiano about Chantale Specter? I’d been so surprised by the news, I hadn’t thought to ask.

Galiano.

Mental cringe. I felt like a kid caught necking on the couch.

And what about Ryan?

What
about
Ryan?

Ryan and I were seeing each other. We’d gone to dinner, visited the Musée des Beaux-Arts, attended a few parties, played tennis. He’d even talked me into bowling.

Were we a couple?

No.

Could we be?

The jury was deadlocked.

Where did Ryan and I stand? I liked him very much, respected his integrity, enjoyed his company.

Heat rippled across my stomach.

Found him sexy as hell.

So why was I attracted to Galiano?

Another ripple.

Easy one, slut.

Ryan and I had reached an accord. Not an accord, really, an agreement. A tacit agreement. Don’t ask, don’t tell. The policy worked for the United States military, and so far it was working for us.

Besides, I wasn’t going to get involved with Galiano.

Look on the bright side, I told myself. You haven’t done the deed with Ryan or Galiano. There’s nothing to tell.

That was the problem.

After thrashing about for another half hour, my frustrated libido and I drifted off.

The phone woke me from a deep sleep. Dim light filtered through the curtains hanging limp across my open window.

Dominique Specter sounded wired.

“You’ve heard?”

“I have.” I squinted at the clock. Seven-twelve.

“C’est magnifique.
Not the stealing, of course. But Chantale is all right.” Her voice was high and taut, the accent more pronounced than I remembered.

“It’s wonderful news.” I sat up.

“
Oui.
My baby is alive.”

“Do you know if Chantale has been charged with anything other than shoplifting?”

“No. We must go and bring her home.”

I didn’t point out that a judge might have different thoughts on that.

“If drugs are involved I will find a new program. A better one.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“We will insist.”

“Yes.”

“She will listen to you.”

“Me?”

Suddenly, I was fully awake.

“Mais, oui.”

“I’m not going to Montreal.”

“I have booked two seats on this afternoon’s flight.” Mrs. Specter was a woman unaccustomed to refusal.

“I can’t leave Guatemala now.”

“But I need you.”

“I’m committed to a project here.”

“I can’t do this alone.”

“Where is Mr. Specter?”

“My husband is at an agricultural conference in Mexico City.”

“Mrs. Spect—”

“Chantale was furious the night she left. She said terrible things. She said she never wanted to see me again.”

“I’m sure—”

“She may refuse to talk with me!”

Bring on the Valium.

“May I call you back?”

“Please, don’t turn your back on me. I need your help. Chantale needs your help. You are one of the only people who knows the whole situation.”

“Let me see what I can do.” For lack of a better remark.

I threw back the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

Why wasn’t the ambassador rushing to be with his wife and daughter? The woman sounded seriously distraught.

I stared at a spot where I’d nicked my knee.

Given the situation, would I be any different? Probably, but not relevant.

I shuffled to the kitchen, scooped grounds, dumped them into the coffeemaker, added water. Then I took out the doughnuts and ate one while Mr. Coffee perked.

I could see Ryan.

I mashed powdered sugar on the countertop, sucked it from my fingertip.

LaManche wanted my opinion on the Lac des Deux-Montagnes torso. Said the case was urgent.

I pictured Chupan Ya, thought of the skeletons lying on tables at the FAFG lab. That work was so important. But the victims had been dead for almost two decades. Was my need to be here as urgent as my need to help LaManche? With Carlos and Molly out of the picture, Mateo was already working shorthanded. But couldn’t he get along without me for a couple of days?

I poured coffee, added milk.

I pictured the body in the ditch and felt the familiar sadness. Claudia de la Alda, age eighteen. I pictured the bones in the septic tank and was overcome by guilt.

And frustration. The harder Galiano and I worked, the farther we seemed to be from answers.

I needed to accomplish something concrete.

I wanted an opinion on cat hair.

I looked at the clock. Seven-forty.

And one other thing. But had Fereira been able to pull it off?

There were two doughnuts left in the box. How many calories would that be? One million or two? By tomorrow they’d be stale.

A trip to Montreal would take only a few days. I could get Mrs. Specter situated with Chantale, then return to the Chupan Ya victims.

I ate the doughnuts, finished my coffee, and headed for the bathroom.

At eight I dialed the lab in Montreal and asked for the DNA section. When Robert Gagné came on, I outlined the Paraíso case and explained what I wanted. He thought it could be done, agreed to give it priority if I hand-delivered the sample.