Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

“Why shoot Carlos and Molly?”

“Maybe they mistook Molly for me. We’re both Americans, we’re about the same size, we both have brown hair.”

Jesus. This was sounding all too plausible.

“Maybe that’s why my name was spoken.”

“Galiano didn’t bring you into the Paraíso case until a week after Carlos and Molly were shot.”

“Maybe someone learned his intentions and decided to take me out of the loop.”

“Who would have that information?”

Another flash of Galiano in the alcove at the Gucumatz restaurant. I felt a chill.

Minutes later, “¡Maldición!” Damn!

Mateo’s eyes were on the rearview mirror. I checked the glass on my side.

Red pulsated in the mist to our rear. A siren, faint but unmistakable.

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.”

14

“ 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.