Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

I imagined Señora Eduardo, still frantic, wondering what had befallen Patricia. I envisioned the De la Aldas, despondent over Claudia’s death, perhaps burdened with guilt that they couldn’t prevent it.

I pulled into the lot and parked between two cruisers. Claude was leaning against the quarter panel of the Specter Mercedes, arms and ankles crossed. He nodded as I passed.

Entering the station at the main door, I stepped to the counter, showed ID, and explained the purpose of my visit. The guard studied the photo, checked me for a match, then ran her finger down a list. Satisfied, she looked back up.

“The lawyer and the mother have gone ahead. Leave your things.”

I slipped my purse from my shoulder and handed it across the counter. The guard secured it in a locker, scribbled something in a ledger, and turned it toward me.

As I entered the time and my name, she picked up a phone and spoke a few words. In moments a second guard appeared through a green metal door to my left. Guard number two swept me with a handheld metal detector, indicated that I should follow. Our movements were tracked by overhead cameras as he led me down a fluorescent-lit corridor.

The drunk tank lay straight ahead, its occupants lounging, sleeping, or clinging to the bars. Beyond the tank, another green metal door. Beyond the door, the cell block. Across from the tank, a counter. Behind the counter, a wooden grid, hat-check station for incoming prisoners. Standard jailhouse design.

We passed several doors marked ENTREVUE DÉTENU . From previous visits I knew that each opened into a tiny cubicle with wall phone, bolted stool, counter, and window looking into a mirror-image visitor cubicle. Conversations took place across plateglass and phone line.

Conversations with detainees who were not ambassadorial offspring.

Bypassing the prisoner interview rooms, the guard stopped at a door marked ENTREVUE AVOCAT and gestured me to enter. I’d never been to the lawyers’ side, and wondered what to expect. Red leather chairs? Brandy snifters? Prints of people playing golf in Scotland?

Though larger, the room was as stark as those allotted to prisoners’ girlfriends and families. Aside from a phone, a metal table and chairs were the only furnishings.

Around the table sat Mrs. Specter, her daughter, and a man I assumed to be the family lawyer. He was tall, with a girth almost as great as his height. A fringe of gray hair ringed his head and curled up the collar of his two-K suit. His face and crown were high-gloss pink.

Mrs. Specter had switched to her summer color chart. She wore an ecru linen suit, off-white panty hose, and open-toed pumps. A gold band studded with delicate seed pearls held back the copper curls. Seeing me, she gave a taut, flickery smile, then her face receded behind its perfect Estée Lauder mask.

“Dr. Brennan, I would like you to meet Ihor Lywyckij,” she said.

Lywyckij half rose and extended a hand. The man’s face, once muscular, had been softened by years of rich food and liquor. I smiled into it as we shook. His meaty grip registered a four.

“Tempe Brennan.”

“Delighted.”

“Mr. Lywyckij will be representing Chantale.”

“Ooh, yeah. Don’t send me to the big house.” Chantale’s voice oozed sarcasm.

I turned to her. The ambassador’s daughter sat with legs splayed, eyes down, hands jammed into the pockets of a sleeveless denim jacket.

“You must be Chantale.”

“No. I’m Snow Fucking White.”

“Chantale!”

Mrs. Specter laid a hand on her daughter’s head. Chantale shrugged it off.

“This is bullshit. I’m innocent.”

Chantale looked as innocent as the Boston Strangler. The blonde hair was now shoe-polish black. Below the jacket she wore a pink lace bustier. A black Spandex miniskirt, black tights, black engineer boots, and black makeup completed the ensemble.

I took a chair opposite the wrongly accused.

“The security guard found five CDs in your backpack, Miss Specter.” Lywyckij.

“Fuck you.”

“Chantale!” This time Mrs. Specter’s hand went to her own forehead.

“I’m here to help you, miss. I can’t do that if you fight me.” Lywyckij sounded like Mr. Rogers.

“You’re here to send me to some fucking concentration camp.”

When Chantale looked up, I felt as if I was gazing into pure hatred.

“And what the hell’s she doing here.” She jerked an elbow in my direction.

Mrs. Specter jumped in before I could answer.

“We’re all concerned, darling. If you’re having a problem with drugs, we want to find the best solution for you. Dr. Brennan might be able to help with that.”

“You want to lock me away somewhere so I won’t embarrass you.” She kicked at a table leg, and the blazing eyes went back to her boots.

“Chant—”

Lywyckij placed a hand on Mrs. Specter’s shoulder, raised his other to quiet her.

“What is it you want, Chantale?”

“I want to get out of here.”

“I will arrange that.”

“You will?” For the first time her voice seemed to match her age.

“You have no prior convictions in Canada, and shoplifting is a minor offense. Given the circumstances, I’m sure I can persuade the judge to release you into your mother’s care if you promise to abide by his, and her, conditions.”

Chantale said nothing.

“Do you understand what that means?”

No response.

“If you disobey your mother, you’ll be in violation.”

Another chop to the table leg.

“Do you understand, Chantale?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Can you comply with the conditions that will be imposed?”

“I’m not a fucking moron.”

Mrs. Specter flinched but held her tongue.

“What about Lucy?”

Lywyckij lowered his palm and brushed nonexistent dust from the tabletop.

“Miss Gerardi’s situation is more problematical. Your friend is here illegally. She has no papers permitting her to be in Canada. That issue will need to be addressed.”

“I’m not going anywhere without Lucy.”

“We will work something out.”

Lywyckij laced his fingers. They looked like intertwined pink sausages.

For a few moments no one spoke. Chantale continued to whack the table leg.

“Now.” Lywyckij leaned onto his forearms. “Perhaps we should talk about the drug problem.”

Silence.

“Chantale, darling, you mus—”

Again Lywyckij hushed his client with a raised hand.

More silence. More table whacking.

I shifted my gaze between mother and daughter. It was like moving from Glamour to Metal Edge. Finally, another elbow in my direction.

“She some kind of social worker?”

“The lady is a friend of your moth—” Lywyckij began.

“I asked my mother.”

“Dr. Brennan accompanied me from Guatemala City.” Mrs. Specter’s voice sounded small.

“She help you blow your nose on liftoff?”

I had promised myself I wouldn’t let Chantale get under my skin, but by now I was fighting the urge to reach across the table and grab the little demon by the throat. The hell with kid gloves.

“I work with the police here.”

Chantale didn’t let that pass.

“What police?”

“All of them. And your street act won’t impress anyone.”

Chantale shrugged.

“Your lawyer is giving you good advice.” I didn’t attempt to pronounce the man’s name.

“My mother’s lawyer has the IQ of a turnip.”

Lywyckij’s face darkened until it looked like a large, ripe plum.

“You’re riding for a fall, Chantale,” I said.

“Yeah, well, it’s my ticket.”

“I must have full knowledge of—” Lywyckij began.

Chantale cut him off again.