Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

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.

I phoned Minos. He promised to have the cat hair packaged and ready in an hour.

I phoned the Guatemala City morgue. Dr. Fereira had carried through with what I’d requested.

I phoned Susanne Jean at the RP Corporation manufacturing plant in St-Hubert and gave her the same outline I’d given Gagné. She thought my idea would work.

I phoned Mateo. He told me to take all the time I needed.

Ditto for Galiano.

I hung up and headed for the door. O.K., Mrs. Ambassador. You’ve got yourself a traveling buddy. And I hope you and any companion get waved right through Guatemalan customs.

Angelina Fereira was well into another crash victim when I entered the autopsy room. A man lay on the table, head and arms badly charred, abdomen yawning like an open mouth in a Bacon painting. The pathologist was slicing a liver on a tray beside the body. She wielded a large, flat knife, and spoke without looking up.

“Un momento.”

Fereira peered closely at the exposed cross-sections, removed three slivers, and dropped them into a specimen jar. The tissue floated to the bottom and settled among its counterparts from the lungs, stomach, spleen, kidneys, and heart.