Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

“What do you mean, ‘work with the police’?” My vague allusion hadn’t escaped her. The ambassador’s daughter wasn’t stupid.

“I’m with the medico-legal lab,” I said.

“The coroner?”

“That works.”

“They do stiffs in G City?”

“I was invited into a murder investigation down there.”

I debated leaving it at that, decided on a dose of reality.

“Both victims were women your age.”

At last the vampire eyes met mine.

“Claudia de la Alda,” I said.

I watched for signs of recognition. Nothing.

“Her home was not far from yours.”

“Ain’t coincidence grand.”

“Claudia worked at the Ixchel Museum.”

Another shrug.

“The second victim hasn’t been identified. We found her in a septic tank in Zone One.”

“Rough neighborhood.”

Chantale and I were in a stare-off now, testing wills.

“Let’s try another name,” I said.

“Tinkerbell?”

“Patricia Eduardo.”

Corneal hardball. Her eyes didn’t waver.

“Patricia worked at the Hospital Centro Médico.”

“Bedpan bingo. Not my game.”

“She’s been missing since last October.”

“People take off.”

“They do.”

Whack. The table jumped.

“Your name came up in the investigation.”

“No way,” she snorted.

Whack.

“Like, why?”

“Too many grand coincidences.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Chantale’s eyes flicked to Lywyckij. He turned his palms up. They came back to me.

“This is bullshit.”

“The Guatemalan police don’t think so. They want information.”

“I don’t care if they want a cure for the clap. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was staring at me with high beams.

“You’re the same age, lived blocks apart, hung out in the same neighborhoods. They find one link, one ladies’ room where you and Claudia de la Alda both took a pee, they can have you hauled back down there and put through a grinder.”

Not true, of course, and Lywyckij knew it. The lawyer said nothing.

“There’s no way you can force me to go back to Guatemala.” Chantale’s voice sounded a little less confident.

“You’re seventeen. That makes you a minor.”

“We won’t let that happen.” Lywyckij jumped aboard as Nice Cop.

“You may have no choice.” I continued as Mean Cop.

Chantale wasn’t buying the act. She pulled her hands from her pockets and held them up, wrists pressed together.

“O.K. It was me. I killed them. And I’m dealing heroin at the junior high.”

“No one is accusing you of murder,” I said.

“I know. It’s a reality bite for a wayward teen.” She shot forward, widened her eyes, and waggled her head like a dashboard dog. “Bad things happen to bad girls.”

“Something like that,” I replied evenly. “You know, of course, that nothing will prevent Lucy’s return to Guatemala.”

Chantale stood so suddenly her chair crashed to the floor.

Mrs. Specter’s hand flew to her chest.

The guard shot through the door, hand on the butt of his gun. “Everything all right?”

Lywyckij lumbered to his feet. “We’re finished.” He turned to Chantale. “Your mother has brought something for you to wear when you appear before the judge.”

Chantale rolled her eyes. Globs of mascara clung to the lashes, like raindrops on a spiderweb.

“We should have you out of here in two or three hours,” he continued. “We will deal with the drug issue later.”

When the guard had escorted Chantale from the room, Lywyckij turned to Mrs. Specter.

“Do you think you can control her?”

“Of course.”

“She might take off.”

“These dreadful surroundings make Chantale defensive. She’ll be fine once she’s home with her father and me.”

I could see Lywyckij had his doubts. I definitely had mine.

“When is the ambassador arriving?”

“Just as soon as he can.” The plastic smile slipped into place.

Lyrics popped into my head. A song about a handy smile. We’d sung it in Brownies when I was eight years old.

I have something in my pocket that belongs across my face

I keep it very close to me in a most convenient place…

“What of Miss Gerardi?” Lywyckij’s question snapped me back.

“What of her?” A return question from the ambassador’s wife, not indicating great concern.

“Will I be representing her?”

“Chantale’s difficulties probably stem from that girl’s influence. Obtaining documents. Hitchhiking with strangers. Crossing the continent on buses. My daughter would never do those things on her own.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said.

The emerald eyes swung to me, surprised.

“How could you know such a thing?”

“Call it gut instinct.” Not backing off.

A pause by Mrs. Specter, then a pronouncement.

“In any event, it is best that we not meddle in the affairs of Guatemalan citizens. Lucy’s father is a wealthy man. He will take care of her.”

That wealthy man was now here in Montreal and trailing a guard as we entered the corridor. His companion was outfitted like Lywyckij in expensive suit, Italian shoes, leather briefcase.

Gerardi turned as we passed, and his eyes met mine.

I’d empathized with the little girl at the school-yard fence. That reaction was nothing compared with the pity I now felt for Lucy Gerardi. Whatever had brought her to Canada was not about to be forgiven.

17

FORTY MINUTES LATER I WAS PASSING BETWEEN SHOULDER-HIGHhedges on a walkway leading to double glass doors. A logo was centered in each pane, with company information printed below. French on top, English underneath in smaller font. Very québécois.

It had taken thirty minutes to drive, another thirty to find the address. The RP Corporation was one of a half dozen enterprises housed in two-story concrete boxes in a light-industrial park in St-Hubert. Each structure was gray, but expressed its individuality with a painted stripe circling the building like a gift ribbon. RP’s bow was red.

The lobby had the glossiest floor I’ve ever tread. I crossed it to an office to the left of the main entrance. When I peeked in, an Asian woman greeted me in French. She had shiny black hair cut blunt at the ears and straight across her forehead. Her broad cheekbones reminded me of Chantale Specter, which reminded me of the girl in the septic tank. I felt the familiar cringe of self-blame.

“Je m’appelle Tempe Brennan,” I said.

Hearing my accent, she switched to English.

“How may I help you?”

“I have a three o’clock appointment with Susanne Jean.”

“Please have a seat. It won’t be a moment.” She picked up and spoke into a receiver.

In less than a minute Susanne appeared and crooked a finger at me.

She was about my weight, but stood a full head taller. Her skin was eggplant, her hair plaited into a trellis pattern for three inches around her face. In back it hung in long, black cornrows, bundled together with a tangerine binder. As usual, Susanne looked more like a fashion model than an industrial engineer.

I followed her back into the lobby, then through a second set of double doors opposite the main entrance. We crossed a room filled with machines. Several white-coated workers adjusted dials, studied monitors, or stood watching the technology do whatever it did. The air was packed with muted whirs, hums, and clicks.

Susanne’s office was as sleek as the rest of the plant, with bare white walls and straight teak lines. A single watercolor hung behind her desk. One orchid in a crystal bud vase. One detached petal. One perfect water droplet.