Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

“But he is right.” I made a print on the dashboard with my index finger, wiped it away with the heel of my hand. “We don’t know dick about that skeleton.”

“We will.”

I made another print.

“Think Lucy was as compliant as her father believes?”

Galiano turned one palm up and raised shoulders and eyebrows, a very French gesture for a Guatemalan cop.

“Who knows? Experience tells us they almost never are.”

Two more prints. Trees flashed by outside the window. Several turns, then we pulled onto a street of large homes set far back on spacious and professionally tended lots. In most cases, the only thing visible was a tile roof.

“Gerardi may have been right about one thing, though.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Chantale Specter.”

The ambassador and his family lived behind hedges identical to those surrounding the Gerardi place. They also lived behind an electrified fence with enormous scrolled wrought-iron gates and a matched set of uniformed guards.

Galiano angled onto the drive and held his badge to the window for guard number one. The man leaned close, then stepped to a control booth. Seconds later the gates swung in.

We made a wide sweep to the front of the house, where guard number two examined ID. Satisfied, he rang. The door opened, and the guard handed us off to a house servant.

“Mrs. Specter is expecting you.” The man looked at us without looking at us. “Please follow me.”

The setting was a repeat of the Gerardi home. Paneled study, expensive tile, furniture, and objets d’art. This time the carpet was Bakhtiari.

The encounter couldn’t have been more different.

Mrs. Specter’s hair was copper, her lips and nails Chinese red. She wore a three-piece silk pants suit the color of sunflower petals, and matching strap sandals on her feet. The filmy material flowed around her as she crossed to greet us. So did a cloud of Issey Miyaki.

“Detective Galiano, it’s always a pleasure to see you.” French accent. “Though I’d rather it were under different circumstances, of course.”

“How are you today, Mrs. Specter?” Her fingers looked ghostly enveloped in Galiano’s brown hand.

“I’m well.” She turned her smile on me. A practiced smile. “Is this the young woman of whom you spoke?”

“Tempe Brennan,” I introduced myself.

The Chinese-red nails shot out. Her skin was so soft, her bones so delicate, it felt like shaking the hand of a child.

“Thank you so much for making yourself available to the local authorities. This means a great deal to my husband and me.”

“I hope I can help.”

“Please, forgive my beastly manners.” She placed one hand on her chest, gestured with the other. “Please. Let’s sit down.”

She led us to a conversational grouping tucked into a bay on the right of the room. Each window was covered by three-inch wooden shutters, slats closed to the morning sun.

“Would you like tea or coffee?” She looked from Galiano to me.

We both declined.

“So, Detective. Please tell me that you have good news.”

“I’m afraid not.” Galiano’s voice was gentle.

All color drained from her face. The smile quivered, but held.

“But no bad news,” he added quickly. “I just wanted to touch base, check a few facts, and see if anything has occurred to you since our last conversation.”

She dropped the chest hand to the armrest, allowed her spine to curve into the chair back.

“I’ve tried, really I have, but other than what I’ve told you, I’ve come up blank.”

Despite her best efforts, the smile collapsed. She began pulling at one of several loose threads in the upholstery by her knee.

“I lie awake nights going over and over the past year. I—it’s difficult to say this. But I obviously missed a lot that was happening in front of me.”

“Chantale was riding out a rough patch.” His tone was a galaxy from where it had been with Gerardi. “As you’ve said, she was being less than open with you and your husband.”

“I should have been more observant. More perceptive.”

Her face looked dead white within its halo of orange hair. One lacquered nail worked the threads, as though commanded by an independent source.

My heart ached for her, and I groped for comforting words.

“Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Specter. None of us can entirely control our children.”

Her eyes shifted from Galiano to me. Even in the dim light I could see they were the brilliant green of colored contacts.

“Do you have children, Dr. Brennan?”

“My daughter is a university student. I know how difficult teenagers can be.”

“Yes.”

“Could we go back over a few things, Mrs. Specter?” Galiano.

“If it will help.”

He produced a notebook and began clarifying names and dates. Throughout the exchange, Mrs. Specter unconsciously worried the threads, alternating between twisting and smoothing. Now and then a nail would flick the fabric, sending filaments hurtling into space.

“Chantale’s first arrest was one year ago this past November.”

“Yes.” Flat.

“The Hotel Santa Lucía in Zone One.”

“Yes.”

“Her second arrest was last July.”

“Yes.”

“The Hotel Bella Vista.”

“Yes.”

“Chantale was in Canada from August until December of last year for treatment of drug dependence.”

“Where?”

“A rehab center near Chibougamau.”

Watching the downward drift of a liberated fiber, I felt a sudden jolt of neural electricity. I looked at Galiano. He gave no indication he’d noticed.

“That’s in Quebec?”

“It’s a camp, really, several hundred miles north of Montreal.”

I’d once flown to Chibougamau for an exhumation. The region was so heavily forested the view from the plane had reminded me of broccoli.

“The program teaches young people to assume personal responsibility for their drug abuse. The encounters can be harsh, but my husband and I decided the ‘tough love’ approach was best.” She gave a wan version of the diplomat’s smile. “The remote location ensures that participants complete the entire course of therapy.”

Galiano’s questioning continued for several minutes. I focused on the red nails, verifying. Finally, “Do you have any questions for me, Mrs. Specter?”

“What do you know of these bones that were found?”

Galiano showed no surprise at her knowledge of the Paraíso skeleton. Undoubtedly, her husband’s connections kept them well informed.

“I was about to mention that, but there’s little to report until Dr. Brennan finishes her analysis.”

“Can you tell me anything?” Her gaze shifted to me.

I hesitated, not wanting to comment on the basis of photos and a cursory tank-side inspection.

“Anything?” Pleading.

My mother’s heart battled with my scientist’s brain. What if Katy were missing instead of Chantale? What if I were the one twisting threads on a tapestry chair?

“I doubt the skeleton is your daughter.”

“Why is that?” The voice was calm, but the fingers were moving toward Mach 1.

“I suspect the individual is non-Caucasian.”

She stared at me, thought working behind the electric-green eyes.

“Guatemalan?”

“Probably. But until I’ve completed my examination, that’s little more than an impression.”

“When will that be?”

I looked to Galiano.

“We’ve run into a jurisdictional hitch,” he said.

“Which is?”

Galiano told her about Díaz.

“Why has the judge done this?”

“That’s unclear.”

“I will explain the situation to my husband.”

She turned back to me.