Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

The desk clerk greeted me by name, welcomed me back. His eyes shifted to Ryan.

“Will that be one room or two?”

“One for me. Is three fourteen still available?”

“Sí, señora.”

“I’ll take it.”

“And the señor?’

“You will have to ask the señor.”

I forked over a credit card, signed in, collected my bags, and headed upstairs. I’d hung my clothes, spread out my toiletries, and started a bath when the phone rang.

“Don’t start, Ryan. I’m going to bed.”

“Why would I want to start Ryan?” Galiano asked.

“You invited him here.”

“I also invited you here. I’d rather start you.”

“I’ve been traveling with Detective Personality for almost twelve hours. I need sleep.”

“Ryan did sound a bit edgy.”

The frat brothers had already spoken. I felt a prickle of irritation.

“He shot a guy.”

“Yes.”

“Ryan and I are going to drop in on Aida Pera, the ambassador’s little friend, tomorrow. Then I’m going to swing by for a chat with Patricia Eduardo’s mother. She claims she’s got some new information.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“She’s a strange one.”

“Where’s the father?”

“Dead.”

“Did she agree to give a saliva sample?”

I’d asked Galiano to set that in motion before my departure from Montreal. Now that we had a potential ID, it was possible to run a DNA comparison. A profile obtained from Señora Eduardo’s saliva would be compared with one obtained from the fetal bones found with the Paraíso skeleton. Since mitochondrial DNA is passed through maternal lines only, the baby, its mother, and its grandmother would show identical sequencing.

“Already done. And I’ve collected the fetal bones from Mateo’s lab.”

“Has Señora Eduardo seen the sketch I faxed?”

“Yes.”

“Does she accept the idea that the skeleton is Patricia’s?”

“Yes. As does everyone here at headquarters.”

“She must be devastated.”

I heard him sigh. “ Ay, Dios. It is the saddest news a parent can receive.”

For a moment neither of us spoke. I thought of Katy. I pictured Galiano thinking of Alejandro.

“So. Do you want to ride along?”

I told him I did.

“What’s Pera’s story?”

“She’s been working as a secretary since finishing secondary school two years ago. Chantale wasn’t making that part up.”

“What does Pera say about Specter?”

“We haven’t dropped that on her yet. Thought we’d do it in person.”

“What time?”

“Eight.”

“Bring coffee.”

I hung up, stripped, and hopped into the bath. And flew right back out, sliding across the tile, and banging my hip on the sink. The water was cold enough to form an ice slick. Swearing, I wrapped a towel around myself and fiddled with the faucets. Both ran frigid.

Shivering and swearing some more, I slipped under the blankets.

Eventually the shivering subsided.

Ryan didn’t phone.

I fell asleep uncertain if I was annoyed or relieved.

The next morning I awoke to a jackhammer loud enough to impair my hearing for life. Throwing on clothes, I stuck my head out the window. Three floors down, six men were redesigning the sidewalk. It looked like a long-term project.

Terrific.

I phoned Mateo to let him know I was back in Guatemala, and that I would be at the FAFG lab that afternoon. Ryan was already waiting when I entered the lobby.

“How did we sleep, cupcake?”

“Like a boulder.”

“Mood improved?”

“What?”

“You must have been tired last night.”

Galiano honked.

I clamped my open mouth shut, pushed through the glass doors, crossed the sidewalk, and climbed into the front seat so Ryan would have to get in back.

On the drive to Aida Pera’s apartment, Galiano filled us in on developments in the Claudia de la Alda case.

“The night Patricia Eduardo disappeared, Gutiérrez was at his church preparing flowers for All Saints’ Day.”

“Anyone alibi him?” Ryan.

“About half a dozen parishioners, including his landlady, Señora Ajuchán. Ajuchán says she followed him home, swears Gutiérrez couldn’t have gone out again, at least not driving, because she blocked him in the driveway with her car.”

“An accomplice?” Ryan.

“Ajuchán insists she wakes every time Gutiérrez enters or leaves her house.” Galiano made a left. “She also insists the guy’s Mr. Rogers. Wouldn’t hurt a flea. Also a loner. No pals.”

“What did you find when you tossed his room?” I asked.

“The crazy bastard must have had forty prints of Claudia pasted to the mirror above his dresser. Arranged them like an altar. Candles and all.”

“What’s his story?” Ryan.

“Says he admired her virtue and piety.”

“Who took the pics?”

“He’s a little vague on that. But we recovered a camera from his closet shelf containing a partially exposed roll of film. You’ll never guess.”

“The little mistress.”

“Bingo. Shot her from a distance with a telephoto lens.”

“Have you had him assessed?” I asked.

Galiano made another left, then a right onto a street lined with two- and three-flats.

“Docs say he has a compulsive fixation disorder, or some psychobabble like that. Erotomania? Couldn’t help himself, probably never meant to hurt her.”

“Lot of good that did Claudia.”

Galiano pulled to the curb, shifted into park, and turned to face us.

“What about Patricia Eduardo?” Ryan asked.

“Gutiérrez says he’s never met Patricia Eduardo, has never been to the Zona Viva or the Café San Felipe, and has never heard of the Pensión Paraíso. He swears Claudia de la Alda is the only person he’s ever loved.”

“The only person he’s ever killed.” Ryan’s voice was hard with disdain.

“Yes.”

“Do you believe him?” I asked.

“Hijo de la gran puta. He’s passed three polygraphs.”

Galiano turned and chin-motioned to a beat-to-crap building on the far side of the street. Crumbling pink stucco. Bloodred door. Dozing wino. Grafitti. More clever than most. B-plus.

“Pera shares a second-floor flat with an older cousin.”

“Won’t she be at work?”

“When I said I’d be by, she decided to take the day off. Didn’t want to upset the boss.”

“Did she ask why you wanted to talk to her?” I asked.

Galiano looked surprised. “No.”

We got out. At the thunk-thunk-thunk of the car doors, the wino slithered down the stucco and stretched full length across the front stoop. Stepping over him, I noticed that his pants were half zipped.

Or half unzipped. I supposed that depended on your point of view.

The lobby measured approximately six by six and smelled of disinfectant. The floor was tiled in black and white.

The names Pera and Irías had been printed on a card and inserted into the slot of one of six brass mailboxes. Galiano pushed the buzzer. A voice answered immediately. Our arrival had been monitored.

“Sí?”

“Detective Galiano.”

The door clicked. We passed through and single-filed up a narrow staircase.

The Pera-Irías flat lay behind one of two doors opening onto a tiny second-floor hallway. As I stepped onto the landing, locks rattled, the door swung inward, and a double-take-gorgeous young woman peeked out. I felt Galiano and Ryan do the male straightening thing. I may have joined them.

“Detective Galiano?” A child’s voice.

“Buenos días, Señorita Pera.”

Aida Pera nodded solemly. Her hair was flaxen, her skin pale, her eyes brown and enormous, trusting but frightened at the same time. “Take care of me” eyes. The kind of eyes that make men stupid.