Grave Secrets (34 page)

“Might have.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Same thing I’ll tell you, young lady. Never heard of her.”

“Zuckerman’s trying to develop a stem cell line.”

We were back in the Batmobile. My face felt hot, and strange creatures were running patterns in my belly.

“Why?” Ryan asked.

“How the hell should I know? Maybe
she’s
the one bucking for a prize. Or there’s a black market out there.”

I closed my eyes. The lunch fish played on the back of my lids. I opened them.

“But I’m certain that’s what Zuckerman’s doing. I saw the lab, saw the fetal bovine serum.”

“There must be other uses for the stuff.” Galiano.

“Six of the existing stem cell lines are at the Monash Institute of Reproductive Biology in Melbourne, Australia.” I swallowed. “Zuckerman spent two years at a research institute in Melbourne. If you check, I bet Monash rings the bell.”

“But why?” Ryan repeated.

“Maybe Zuckerman anticipates a growing black market now that the U.S. government has turned ES cells into a limited resource by limiting government funding.” Galiano looked over at me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re flushed.”

“I’m fine.”

“And the good doctor plans to make a bundle,” Ryan said.

Galiano looked at me again, started to speak, instead picked up and keyed the radio.

“Like the hairballs that trade in illegal donor organs.” Ryan was sounding less skeptical. “Holy sh—”

I cut Ryan off.

“And Jorge Serano is helping her.” I listened to Galiano put out APBs on Zuckerman and Serano. My stomach made an odd sound. Though both men glanced at me, neither commented.

We rode several miles listening to my rumblings compete with the radio.

I spoke first.

“Where does Patricia Eduardo fit in?”

“Where does Antonio Díaz fit in?” Galiano asked.

“Where does Ollie Nordstern fit in?” Ryan asked.

No one had an answer.

“Here’s a plan,” Ryan said. “Bat rolls out a judge to get his warrant.”

“And it damn well won’t be that scumbag Díaz.”

“I finish the interview tapes. Brennan goes through the rest of Nordstern’s papers.”

“Fine,” I agreed. “But I’ll work at my hotel.” I felt a sudden need to stay near my bathroom.

“Don’t like my company?” Ryan made his hurt face.

“It’s the fly,” I said. “We don’t get along.”

By the time we swung by headquarters, picked up Nordstern’s file folders, and returned to my hotel, it was after five.

The sidewalk now looked like it had been struck by a tomahawk missile. Four jackhammers were engaged in a full-throttle assault that sent vibrations through every lobe of my brain. Floodlights and lunch pails suggested the noise might continue through the night.

I muttered a particularly colorful expletive.

Ryan and Galiano asked if I’d be all right. I assured them all I needed was rest. I didn’t mention the bathroom.

As they roared off I noticed the boys were laughing.

The paranoia flared.

I repeated the expletive.

Upstairs, I went straight to my med kit.

Katy always laughs at me. When traveling to foreign countries, I carry a drugstore. Eyedrops. Nasal spray. Antacid. Laxative. You never know.

Today I knew.

I downed an Imodium and a mouthful of Pepto-Bismol, and stretched out on the bed.

And shot straight to the bathroom. Decades later I lay down again, shaky but better.

The jackhammers pounded.

My head joined in.

I turned on the fan. Instead of blunting the noise, the fan added to it.

I returned to the bathroom, soaked a rag in cold water, placed it on my forehead, and went supine again, questioning whether I really wanted to live.

I’d barely drifted off when my cell phone rang.

Expletive.

“Yes!”

“Ryan.”

“Yes.”

“Feeling better?”

“Damn you and your fish.”

“I told you to have the corn dog. What’s that noise?”

“Jackhammers. Why are you calling?”

“You were right-on about Melbourne. Zuckerman spent two years there on a Reproductive Biology research fellowship or something.”

“Uh huh.”

I was half listening to Ryan, half listening to my stomach.

“You’ll never guess who else was there.”

The name got my full attention.

THE LUCAS WHO CONFISCATED THE PARAÍSO SKELETON FOR

“Hector Luis Castillo Lucas.”

“But Lucas is a forensic doctor.”

“Apparently he didn’t start out that way.”

“What’s the Díaz-Lucas link?” I asked.

“Better question: What’s the Zuckerman-Lucas link?”

“Any progress on netting Zuckerman or Jorge Serano?”

“Not yet. Galiano has Zuckerman’s clinic and home staked out, has an APB out on her car. He’s also set up surveillance at the Paraíso. We should nail ’em before the ten o’clock news.”

“Did Galiano get his warrant?”

“He’s talking to a judge now.”

I clicked off, replaced the washcloth, and lay back on the pillows.

This really didn’t make sense. Or did it? Was Dr. Lucas working for Díaz? Had the doctor ordered the destruction of Patricia Eduardo’s bones at the request of the DA? Or was it the other way around? Did Lucas have influence over Díaz?

Díaz could link to Chupan Ya, perhaps even to the shooting of Carlos and Molly. But why would he want the Paraíso bones confiscated? Why would he have an interest in the murder of a pregnant young girl? Carlos and Molly! Had their attackers really spoken my name? Was I the next target? Whose?

Feeling frightened and chilled, I crawled under the blankets.

Still my head swam with questions.

Lucas must know Zuckerman. Two Guatemalan doctors at an Australian research facility at the same time could hardly fail to be aware of each other. Were they now working together? On what?

What was Nordstern’s big secret? And how had he learned it?

Was there a Bastos-Díaz connection other than their time together in the army? Why did Nordstern circle the picture of Díaz with Bastos together reviewing the parade at Xaxaxak?

Did all these things tie together? Did any of them? Were these just episodes of corruption in a corrupt country?

Was I in danger?

The jackhammers obliterated the clamor of rush hour traffic. The fan hummed. Slowly, the room dimmed, the sounds ebbed.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the room phone shrilled. When I bolted upright, it was dark.

Breathing. Then a dial tone.

“Goddamn inconsiderate bastard!” Must have called the wrong extension and just hung up.

I slammed the receiver.

Sitting on the edge of the bed I held my hands to my cheeks. They felt cooler. The meds were helping.

Rat-a-tat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat-taaaaat. Rat. Rat. Rat.

How much cement could there be down there?

“Enough of this.”

I got a Diet Coke from the mini-fridge and tried a sip.

Oh yes.

I knocked back several swallows as a test run, and set the can on the table. Then I stripped off my clothes and showered until the bathroom was gray with steam. I closed my eyes, let the water pound my breasts, my back, my distended abdomen. I let it roll off my head, my shoulders, my hips.

After toweling off, I combed out my hair, brushed my teeth, and pulled on cotton socks and a set of FBI sweats.

Feeling like a new woman, I dug out Nordstern’s files and settled at the table. In the next room I heard the TV go on, then aimless channel switching. My neighbor finally settled on a soccer match.

The first folder I picked up was labeled “Specter.” It held press clippings, notes, and an assortment of photos of André Specter and his family. There were two Polaroids of the ambassador with Aida Pera.

The second folder was unlabeled. It contained restaurant and taxi receipts. Expense records. Pass.

I finished my Coke.

Outside, the jackhammers droned on.

I recognized the label on the third folder: “SCELL.” I was halfway through when I found it.

Stem Cells Grown from Dead Bodies.

As I read the report, my chest tightened.

A research team at the Salk Institute in La Jolla, California, had developed a technique for sourcing stem cells from human postmortem samples. The finding was reported in the journal
Nature.

“Jesus Christ.”

My voice sounded loud in the empty room.

I read on.

When placed in a succession of solutions, the tissues of an eleven-week-old baby and a twenty-seven-year-old man had yielded immature brain cells. The Salk team had used the technique on others of different ages, and on specimens extracted as long as two days after death.

A footer indicated that the report had been downloaded from the BBC News home page. Beside the http address, someone had written the name Zuckerman.

I felt icy-hot, and my hands were shaking.

Relapse.

Time for an Imodium hit.

Returning from the bathroom, I noticed an odd shadow falling across the carpet in front of the door. I went to check. The latch had not properly engaged.

Had I left the door open when I’d arrived and dashed to the bathroom? I was feeling lousy, but such carelessness was out of character.

I closed and locked it, a sense of trepidation joining the rest of my symptoms.

Dialing Galiano, I felt weak all over. The trembling in my hands had intensified.

Galiano and Ryan were out. I had to swallow before I could leave a message.

Damn! I couldn’t be sick. I wouldn’t!

I collected Nordstern’s folders and stacked them beside the armchair. Stealing the quilt from the bed, I tucked my feet under my bum and wrapped myself in it. I was feeling worse by the minute.

Dramatically worse.

I opened a folder. Interview notes. I had to keep wiping my face as I read. Rivulets of perspiration rolled down the inside of my sweats.

Within minutes I felt a sharp pain in my belly, then tremors below my tongue. Heat rose from my throat to my hairline.

I raced to the bathroom, retched until my sides ached, then returned to my chair to re-cocoon. Every few minutes I repeated the journey. I felt weaker with each trip.

Collapsing into my chair for the fourth time, I shut my eyes and pulled the quilt to my chin. I felt rough cotton against my skin. I smelled my own odor. My head spun, and I saw tiny constellations on the backs of my lids.

The jackhammers receded to a sound like popping corn. I saw locusts on a summer night. Gossamer wings. Red, bulging eyes. I felt insects buzz through my bloodstream.

Then I was with Katy. She was little, maybe three or four, and we were reading a book of nursery rhymes. Her hair was white blonde. The sun shone through it like moonlight through mist. She wore the pinafore I’d bought on a trip to Nantucket.

I awoke standing in the bathroom, palms and forehead pressed to the mirror.

Had that been the word Molly had overheard? Not
inspector.
Not
Specter.

Hector.

Hector Lucas.

Did I really have it backward? Was the doctor in fact controlling the DA? Had Lucas ordered the attack on Molly and Carlos? What was his link to our work at Chupan Ya? I couldn’t make sense of it. Did he have Nordstern killed when the reporter got too close to the truth? Did he have Patricia Eduardo killed? Would Lucas deal with Zuckerman and Jorge Serano in the same way?

Would he try to kill Galiano and Ryan?

I lurched to the bedside table, fumbled for my cell.

Neither Ryan nor Galiano answered.

I wiped perspiration from my face with the back of an arm.

Where were they going? Zuckerman’s clinic? The morgue?

Think!

I took a deep breath, opened and closed my eyes. Images swirled. Stars flashed on my lids.

What to do?

I blew out a breath. Then another.

If Lucas really was dangerous, Ryan and Galiano would have no way to know. Zuckerman may already have reached him, and Lucas might think they were coming to arrest him, and shoot.

Throwing on shoes, I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs.

It took twenty minutes to hail a taxi.

“¿Dónde?”

Where?

Where had Ryan and Galiano gone? Not the Paraíso or Zuckerman’s clinic. Those places were staked out.