Grave Secrets (28 page)

Ryan pulled out four books. All were familiar. Guatemala: Getting Away with Murder; Las Massacres en Rabinal; State Violence in Guatemala: 1960 – 1999; Guatemala: Never Again.

“Maybe Nordstern really was researching human rights work,” I said.

Ryan opened a zippered pocket.

“Hell-o.”

He fished out a plane ticket, a key, and a spiral notebook. I waited while he checked the ticket.

“He flew to Montreal last Thursday on American.”

“The twelve fifty-seven through Miami?”

“Yep.”

“That’s the flight Mrs. Specter and I took.”

“You didn’t see him?”

“We rode up front, got on last, got off first, waited in the VIP lounge between flights.”

“Maybe Nordstern
was
dogging you.”

“Or maybe he was following the ambassador’s wife.”

“Good point.”

“Round-trip ticket?”

Ryan nodded. “Open return.”

As Ryan inspected the key, I stared at Nordstern’s belongings. Obviously the man expected to return to the St. Malo. Had he realized the danger he was in? Had he considered the possibility of sudden death?

Ryan held up the key. A plastic tag identified its owner as the Hotel Todos Santos on Calle 12 in Zone 1.

“So Nordstern was going back to Guatemala,” I said.

When Ryan opened the spiral, a square white envelope fell to the floor. The sound told me what it held.

I retrieved the envelope and slid a compact disk onto my palm. It had five letters penned on a homemade label: SCELL.

“What the frig is scell?” Ryan asked.

“Punk rock?” I was still discomfited by my ignorance of the genre.

“Igneous rock?”

“Maybe it’s a code in Spanish.” It didn’t sound right even as I said it.

“Skeleton?” Ryan suggested.

“With a ‘c’?”

“Maybe the guy couldn’t spell.”

“He was a journalist.”

“Cell phone?”

“‘S’?”

We both said the name at the same time.

“Specter.”

“Jesus, you think Nordstern tapped the kid’s cell phone?”

I remembered Chantale’s mother in migraine mode.

“Did you catch Mrs. Specter’s reference to her husband’s games?”

“Think hubby has a zipper problem?”

“Maybe Nordstern had no interest at all in Chantale.”

“Was using her to hook a bigger fish?”

“Maybe that’s what Nordstern meant when he said I was off track.”

“A philandering ambassador isn’t much of a scoop.”

“No. It isn’t,” I agreed.

“Doesn’t seem like enough to get a guy capped.”

“How about hair from an ambassador’s pet turning up in the jeans of a murder victim?”

“Fifty-pound perch.”

“Holy shit.”

“What?”

“I just remembered something.”

Ryan gave me a “bring it on” gesture.

“I told you that two members of our team were shot while driving to Chupan Ya.”

“Yes.”

“Carlos died, Molly survived.”

“How is she?”

“Her doctors anticipate a full recovery. She’s gone back to Minnesota, but Mateo and I visited her in the hospital in Sololá before I left Guatemala. Her recall was fuzzy, but Molly thought she remembered her attackers talking about an inspector. Mateo and I speculated they might have been saying Specter.”

“Moby fucking Dick.”

I slid the disk back into its sleeve.

When I looked up, Ryan’s eyes were on mine. They were not smiling.

“What?” I asked.

“Why was a Chicago reporter trailing people in Montreal based on a story in Guatemala? Think about that.”

I had been.

“Nordstern was into something so hot it got him assassinated in a foreign country.”

I’d definitely been thinking about that.

“You keep your head up, Brennan. These people were willing to burn Nordstern. They’re ruthless. They won’t stop there.”

I felt goose bumps crimp the flesh on my arms. The moment passed. Ryan smiled, returned to cop flippant.

“I’ll give Galiano a heads-up on the Todos Santos,” said Ryan.

“I also suggest you get down and dirty on Specter while I finish my facial reproduction. Then we’ll play the disc, read Nordstern’s notebook, and get some sense of what he was up to.”

Ryan’s grin broadened.

“Damn. The rumors are right.”

“What rumors?” I asked.

“You are the brains of the operation.”

I resisted the urge to kick his ankle.

The call came as I was still shaking rain from my umbrella. The voice on the other end was the last I wanted to hear. I invited its owner to my office with an enthusiasm I reserve for IRS auditors, Klansmen, and Islamic fundamentalists.

Sergeant-détective Luc Claudel appeared within minutes, back rigid, face pinched into its usual look of disdain. I rose but remained behind my desk.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Claudel. Comment ça va?”

I did not expect a greeting. I was not disappointed.

“I must pose a few questions.”

Claudel viewed me as an unfortunate necessity, a status grudgingly granted following my input into the successful resolution of a number of CUM homicide cases. Claudel’s demeanor toward me was always cool, reserved, and rigidly francophone. His use of English surprised me.

“Please have a seat,” I said.

Claudel sat.

I sat.

Claudel placed a tape recorder on my desk.

“This conversation will be recorded.”

Of course I have no objection, you arrogant, hawk-faced prick.

“No problem,” I said.

Claudel activated the recorder, gave the time and date, and identified those present at the interview.

“I am heading the inquiry into last night’s shooting.”

Oh happy day. I waited.

“You were present?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have an unobstructed view of the events that transpired?”

“I did.”

“Were you able to hear words exchanged between Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan and his target?”

Target?

“I was.”

Claudel kept his eyes on a point halfway between us.

“Was the man armed?”

“He had a Luger nine-millimeter.”

“Did the man indicate that he intended to discharge his firearm?”

“The sonovabitch shot Nordstern then turned the gun on Ryan.”

“Please. Do not get ahead of me.”

The air space between my molars reduced to zero.

“Following the shooting of Olaf Nordstern, did Lieutenant-détective Ryan instruct the gunman to relinquish his weapon?”

“More than once.”

“Did the gunman comply?”

“He grabbed a woman cowering on the sidewalk. She asked to be excused because of parental responsibility, but I believe the request was about to be denied.”

Claudel’s eyebrows formed a V above his eyes.

“Dr. Brennan, I am going to ask you once again to allow me to do this in my own manner.”

Steady.

“Did the gunman attempt to take a hostage?”

“Yes.”

“In your opinion, was the hostage in clear and present danger?”

“Had Ryan not acted, her life expectancy would have dropped to about three minutes.”

“When Lieutenant-détective Ryan discharged his weapon, did the gunman return fire?”

“He nearly spray-painted the Forum with my cerebral cortex.”

Claudel’s lips compressed into a hard, tight line. He inhaled, exhaled through hard, tight nostrils.

“Why were you at the Forum, Dr. Brennan?”

“I was looking for the daughter of a friend.”

“Were you there in any official capacity?”

“No.”

“Why was Detective Ryan at the Forum?”

What was going on? Undoubtedly Ryan had answered these questions.

“He’d come to meet me.”

Finally, the hawk eyes focused on mine.

“Was Detective Ryan there in any official capacity?”

“Studmeister.”

Claudel and I glared at each other like wrestlers on
Smack Down
.

“In your opinion, did Andrew Ryan act properly in the shooting of Carlos Vicente?”

“He was a peach.”

Claudel stood.

“Thank you.”

“That’s it?”

“That is all for now.”

Claudel clicked off and pocketed the recorder.

“Bonjour, madame.”

As usual, Claudel left me so angry I feared I might suffer an embolism. To recompose, I went to the lobby, bought a Diet Coke, and returned to my office. Resting my feet on the window ledge, I drank the soda and ate the tuna sandwich and Oreos I’d brought from home.

Twelve floors below, a barge drifted up the misty St. Lawrence. Lilliputian trucks sprayed water from the edges of the Jacques Cartier Bridge. Cars glided over shiny asphalt, wakes of street rain rising from their tires. Pedestrians scurried with heads bent, umbrellas colored bobbins in a sodden world.

My daughter and I smiled from a beach on the Carolina coast. Another place. Another time. A happy moment.

By the last Oreo, I’d convinced myself that Claudel’s brevity was a good sign. Had there been any concern about Ryan’s actions, the interview would have been much more protracted.

Absolutely.

Brief is good.

I looked at my watch. One-twenty. Time to check Lucien’s approximation.

Arcing my wrappers into the wastebasket, I scored myself two, and headed to
Imagerie.

Lucien was at lunch, but his composite image stared from the screen.

One look and my newfound composure shattered like a windshield in a Schwarzenegger film.

PATRICIA EDUARDO WASN’T SMILING. NOR WAS SHE FROWNING

I barely breathed as I moved through the variations Lucien had created. Glasses on, glasses off. Straight brows, arched brows. Fleshy lips, thin lips. Droopy lids, hidden lids. Though the superficial details changed, the anatomic framework remained the same.

I was returning to the second of Lucien’s long-hair images when he entered the section.

“What do you think?” He set a bottle of Evian on the counter beside me.

“Can you add bangs?”

“Sure.”

I moved my chair to the left. Lucien slid in and worked the keys.

Bangs. He blended the image.

“What about a hat?”

“What kind?”

“Riding derby.”

He searched the database.

“Nope.”

“Something with a brim.”

He found a cap, sized and pasted it.

I recalled the snapshots of Patricia Eduardo, and remembered the determination in the solemn, dark eyes as she stood by her horse.

The face I was viewing was blank and empty, the programmed offspring of pixels and bits. It didn’t matter. It was the face of the girl on the Appaloosa.

Other memories shot through my brain. A tank filled with sewage and human waste. A skull oozing muck from every orifice. Tiny bones trapped in a rotting sleeve. Could it be? Could this nineteen-year-old hospital worker who loved horses and went out for an evening in the Zona Viva have ended up in such a horrible last resting place?

I stared at Patricia Eduardo. I saw drowned kittens. I saw Claudia de la Alda. I saw Chupan Ya.

You bastard. You goddamn, murdering bastard.

“What do you think?”

Lucien’s voice brought me back.

“It’s good.” I forced calm into my voice. “Much better than I could have done.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

It was. Had I created such a striking likeness, I would have questioned my own bias. Lucien had never seen or heard of Patricia Eduardo.

“Please print several copies.”

“I’ll bring them to your office.”

“Thanks.”

“Detective Galiano.”

“It’s Tempe.”

“Ay, buenos días.
Glad you caught me. Hernández and I were just heading out.”

“It was Patricia Eduardo in the septic tank.”

“No doubts?”

“None.”

“The facial?”

“Dead ringer.”

“I guess that was a poor choice of words,” I said. “Anyway, our graphics specialist did the approximation blind. Patricia’s mother couldn’t distinguish the thing from her junior class portrait.”

“Dios mío.”

“I’ll fax you a copy.”

Empty air rolled north from Guatemala. Then Galiano said,

“We’re still grilling Miguel Gutiérrez.”

“The De la Alda gardener.”

“Cerote.”
Turd.

“I take it that means he’s a prince among men. What’s his story?”

“The
Reader’s Digest
version is that he fixated on Claudia, took to stalking her. Spent nights parked outside her bedroom window.”

“Oh joy. A peeper.”

“Eventually Gutiérrez made his move. Claims the vic was receptive.”

“She was probably too young to know how to blow him off without hurting his feelings.”

“On July fourteenth he drove to the museum and offered her a ride home. Claudia accepted. En route, he asked her to explain something about the Kaminaljuyú ruins. She agreed. Once there, he pulled onto the back road and jumped her. Claudia resisted, things got out of hand. After strangling her, he rolled the body into the
barranca.
The rest is history.”

“Did Gutiérrez phone Señora De la Alda?”

“Yes. Got a late-night visit from the heavenly host.”

“An angel?”

“Ariel himself. Told Gutiérrez he’d screwed up, suggested a rosary and confession.”

“Jesus.”

“I don’t think the big guy got involved.”

“Have you found anything to link Gutiérrez to Patricia Eduardo?”

“Nada.”

“To the Paraíso?”

“Not yet. We’ll be working those angles a lot harder now.”

I thought a moment.

“The hair links Patricia to the Specter cat.”

“We’re working that, too.”

“Ryan’s doing some digging on the ambassador.”

“I asked him to, but I’m not optimistic.”