Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

Susanne liked things clean. Like me, she held title to a messy past. Like me she’d done serious tidying up.

While my drug of choice had been alcohol, Susanne’s was coke. Though neither of us belonged to the organization, we’d met through a mutual friend who was an AA zealot. That was six years ago. We’d kept in touch, periodically attending a meeting with our common link, or getting together on our own for dinner or tennis. I knew little about her world, she less about mine, but somehow we clicked.

Susanne lowered herself onto one end of an apricot couch, and crossed legs that were at least twelve yards long. I took the other end.

“What do you do for Bombardier?” I asked.

“We’re prototyping plastic parts.”

“Volvo?”

“Metal bearings.”

Manufacturing is as mysterious to me as the Okeefenokee. Raw materials go in. Weedwhackers, Q-tips, or Buicks come out. What happens in between, I haven’t a clue.

“I know you take CAD data and create solid objects, but I’ve never really known what kinds of objects,” I said.

“Functional plastic and metal parts, casting patterns, and durable metal mold inserts.”

“Oh.”

“Did you bring the CT scans?” I handed her Fereira’s envelope. She withdrew the contents and began going through the films, holding them up as Fereira had done. Now and then a film bent, making a sound like distant thunder.

“This should be fun.”

“Without getting technical, what will you do?”

“We’ll make an STL file of your 3-D CAD data, then—”

“STL?”

“Stereolithography. Then we’ll enter the STL file into our system.”

“One of those machines out there?”

“Right. The machine will spread a thin layer of powdered material across a build platform. Using data from the STL file, a CO2 laser will draw a cross-section of the object, in your case a skull, on the layer of powder, then sinter—”

“Sinter?”

“Selectively heat and fuse it. That will create a solid mass representing one cross-section of the skull. The system will spread and sinter, layer after layer, until the skull is complete.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much. When the skull is done, we’ll take it out of the build chamber and blow away any loose powder. You’ll be able to use it as is, or it can be sanded, annealed, coated, or painted.”

I was right. Stuff in. Stuff out. In this case what would go in was information taken from Fereira’s CT scan. What would come out was a cast of the Paraíso skull. I hoped.

“The technology’s called SLS, Selective Laser Sintering.”

“Besides metal bearings and plastic parts, what else do you make?”

“Pump impellers, electrical connectors, halogen lamp housings, automotive turbocharger housing units, brake fluid reservoir parts—”

“O-rings for the Orion nebula.”

We both laughed.

“How long will it take?”

She shrugged. “Two, maybe three hours to convert the CT scan to an STL file, maybe a day to cast the skull. How about late Monday?”

“Fantastic.”

“You look shocked.”

I was. “I thought you’d say a week or two.”

“This project sounds more interesting than hearing aid housings.”

“And the Guatemalan police will be eternally grateful.”

“Any cute ones down there?”

I pictured Galiano’s lopsided face.

“There is one.”

“What about the caballero you’re seeing up here?”

I pictured Ryan.

“Pecos Bill’s been keeping a low profile.”

“Anyway, I’ll do your skull myself.” She held up a long, slender finger. “On one condition.”

“Dinner and drinks on me.” I laughed. “Tomorrow night?”

“Sounds good. Be warned, girlfriend. I’m gonna hit you up for the priciest mineral water on the menu.”

I entered my lobby to the sight of the caballero supine on its leather love seat, head propped on one arm, lower legs dangling over the other.

“How did you get in here?”

“It’s O.K. I’m a cop.”

I set down my cases and grocery bags.

“All right. Let’s go with why.”

“It’s hot outside.”

I waited.

Ryan sat up and swung his size twelves to the floor.

“These things aren’t designed for beings over six foot two.”

“It’s a decorative piece.”

“Would be hell for watching the Stanley Cup finals.”

“It’s not intended for lounging.”

“What’s it good for?”

“Collecting mislabeled mail, drugstore circulars, and back issues of the newspaper.”

“This lobby isn’t exactly visitor friendly.” Ryan rubbed the back of his neck.

“There are the potted palms.”

He gave me his forty-something schoolboy grin. “Missed you.”

“I got in yesterday.”

“I’ve been on a stakeout.”

“Oh?”

Through the door I heard muted beeps and engine revs. Friday evening rush hour was winding down.

“Owner of a dive called Les Deux Orignals decided to expand into the small-arms business. Guess the two moose made him nervous.”

“You never told me you speak Spanish.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

I picked up my parcels.

“It’s been a long day, Ryan.”

“How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’ve made plans.”

“Change them.”

“That would be rude.”

“How about dinner tonight?”

“I just bought shrimp and veggies.”

“I know a scampi recipe that’s illegal in four Italian cities.”

I’d bought enough food for two. Actually, I’d bought enough for twelve. I never again wanted a cupboard as bare as the one I’d faced last night.

Ryan stood, spread his hands palms out, and broke into another grin. He was tanned from hours of outdoor surveillance, and the tawny skin made his eyes appear more vivid than usual, a blue beyond the blue human cells can produce.

Normally, with time, even the most stunning beauty grows familiar. It’s like watching Olympic figure skating. We grow jaded and forget how extraordinary the grace and beauty truly are. Such was the case with Susanne. I was aware of her elegance, but it no longer surprised me when she entered a room.

Not so with Ryan. His good looks still startled me on a regular basis.

And he knew it.

“Which ones?” I asked.

He looked puzzled.

“Which cities?”

“Turin, Milan, Sienna, and Florence.”

“You’ve made this scampi?”

“I’ve read about it.”

“This better be good.”

Ryan went for beer while I changed. Then he grilled the shrimp and I mixed a salad.

During dinner we talked around things, maintaining a safe level of banality. Afterward, we cleared the table and took coffee outside to the patio.

“That really was good,” I said for the second time.

Lights were blinking on in windows across the courtyard.

“Have I ever misled you?”

“Why is this repast banned under Tuscan law?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I exaggerated a little.”

“I see.”

“It’s actually a misdemeanor.”

Beyond the courtyard, the Friday night party was cranking up. Auto horns. Emergency sirens. Weekend revelers, in from their split-levels in Dorval and Pointe Claire. Pounding hip-hop, swelling then receding as cars passed by.

Ryan lit a cigarette.

“How goes Chupan Ya?”

“You remembered the name.”

“The place is important to you.”

“Yes.”

“It must be gut-wrenching.”

“It is.”

“Tell me about it.”

It was like speaking of some parallel universe where rotting bodies took center stage in a morality play too hideous for words. Headless mothers. Massacred infants. An old woman who lived because she had beans to sell.