Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

Ryan and I spent another couple of hours going through Nordstern’s tapes and books. Then we dragged ourselves home, grabbed a quick dinner, and went to our rooms. He didn’t make a pass. I didn’t care.

I’d been distracted since Galiano’s report. I thought his revelation about Maria Zuckerman had been the ping I’d felt at the Eduardo home, but something else kept bothering me.

What? Something I’d seen? Something I’d heard? The feeling was like a vague itch that I couldn’t quite scratch.

Ryan phoned at nine-fifteen.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading the label on my antacid.”

“You do live on the edge.”

“What did you think I’d be doing?”

“Thanks for your help today.”

“My pleasure.”

“Speaking of your pleasure—”

“Ryan.”

“O.K. But I’ll make it up to you when we return to the great white North.”

“How.”

“I’ll take you to see Cats. ”

My itch suddenly localized.

“I’ve got to go.”

“What? What did I say?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I clicked off and dialed Galiano’s number. He was out.

Damn.

I grabbed the phone book.

Yes.

I dialed.

Señora Eduardo answered on the first ring.

I apologized for phoning so late. She dismissed it.

“Señora Eduardo, when you shooed Buttercup, you told him to join the others. Did you mean other cats?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Two years ago, a litter of kittens turned up at the barn where my daughter boarded her horses. Patricia adopted two and found homes for the rest. She wanted to bring the kittens here, but I said Buttercup was enough. They were born at the barn, they could stay at the barn. That worked fine until Patricia stopped going.”

She paused. I could picture her performing the eyelid maneuver.

“About three weeks ago the barn owner phoned and insisted I take the cats or he’d drown them. Buttercup doesn’t like it, but they’re here.”

“Do you know who adopted the other kittens?”

“Families around here, I suppose. Patricia plastered the neighborhood with circulars. Got about a dozen calls.”

I cleared my throat.

“Are the cats shorthairs?”

“Plain old barn cats.”

Dominique Specter’s phone rang four times, then a male voice requested a message in French and English. I left one after the tone.

I was flossing when my cell phone rang. It was Mrs. Specter.

I asked about Chantale.

Fine.

I asked about the weather in Montreal.

Warm.

Obviously, she was not in a chatty mood.

“I have just one question, Mrs. Specter.”

“Oui?”

“Where did you get Guimauve?”

“Mon Dieux. I will have to think.”

I waited while she did so.

“Chantale found a notice at the pharmacy. We phoned. Kittens were still available, so we drove out and chose one.”

“Drove where?”

“A barn of some sort. A place with horses.”

“Near Guatemala City?”

“Yes. I don’t remember the exact location.”

I thanked her and rang off.

Would there be no end to the mistakes I would make on this case? What a moron I was. I’d explained it to Ryan, failed to grasp it myself.

Guimauve’s hair wasn’t with the bones in the Paraíso tank. The hair came from Guimauve’s littermate. Guimauve’s sibling. An animal with identical mitochondrial DNA. Patricia Eduardo’s barn cats had shed the hair I found on her jeans.

André Specter wasn’t a murderer. Just a horny slimeball who deceived his family and gullible young women.

I fell asleep with a million questions swirling in my brain.

Who killed Patricia Eduardo?

Why had Díaz not wanted me to identify the body?

Why had Patricia Eduardo and Dr. Zuckerman argued?

How many people had been responsible for ChupanYa?

Who shot Molly and Carlos?

What had Ollie Nordstern discovered that got him killed? Why couldn’t we discover it?

Why the interest in stem cell research?

Always questions, never answers.

I slept fitfully.

Galiano didn’t arrive until eight-thirty. By then I’d had three cups of coffee and was wired enough to put two coats on Shea Stadium. He brought cup number four.

I wasted no time describing my conversations with Señora Eduardo and Mrs. Specter. Galiano showed no surprise. Though I might not have seen it behind the Darth Vader lenses.

“One of his staff has been pretty forthcoming,” Galiano said.

“Looks like Specter’s a lecher, but otherwise harmless.”

“What happened last night?”

“Pera must have warned him. Specter never showed.”

The clinic was bustling on a Friday morning. At least a dozen women sat in chairs ringing the waiting room. Several held infants. Most were pregnant. Others were there to avoid becoming so.

Four toddlers played with molded plastic toys on the floor. Two older children colored at a child-sized table, a tub of crayons equidistant between them. The wall behind was a record of the exuberance of thousands of their predecessors. Kick marks. Food splotches. Crayon graffiti. Gouges from Tonka trucks.

Galiano stepped to the receptionist and requested an audience with Dr. Zuckerman. The young woman looked up, and light flashed off the lenses of her glasses. Her eyes widened when she saw the badge.

“Un momento, por favor.”

She hurried down a corridor to the right of her desk. Time passed. The women stared at us with wide, solemn eyes. The kids colored on, faces tense with the effort of staying inside the lines.

A full five minutes later, the receptionist returned.

“I’m sorry. Dr. Zuckerman is unable to see you.” She waved a nervous hand at the uterus brigade. “As you can see, we have many patients this morning.”

Galiano stared directly into the lenses.

“Either Dr. Zuckerman comes out here—now—or we go in there.”

“You can’t go into the examining room.” It was almost a wail.

Galiano unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in his mouth, never breaking eye contact.

The receptionist gave a deep sigh, threw both hands into the air, and retraced her steps.

A baby began to cry. Mama raised her blouse and directed the infant’s mouth toward a nipple. Galiano nodded and smiled. Mama turned a shoulder.

A door flew open down the hall. Zuckerman steamed into the waiting room like the little engine that could. She was a thick woman with dirty-blonde hair cut very short. At home. In poor lighting. With dull scissors.

“What the hell do you people think you’re doing?” Accented English. I guessed Australian.

The receptionist crawled behind her desk and hunched over something lying on it.

“You can’t come barging in here, traumatizing my patients—”

“Shall we traumatize them further, or would you prefer to take this somewhere more private?” Galiano gave the doctor an icy smile.

“You refuse to understand, sir. I do not have time for you this morning.”

Galiano reached under his jacket, produced a set of handcuffs, and dangled them in front of her.

Zuckerman glared.

Galiano dangled.

“This is preposterous.”

Zuckerman spun and stormed up the hall. We followed her past several examining rooms. In more than one I spotted a sheet-covered woman with her knees in the full upright and locked position. I did not envy the women their delay in the stirrups.

Zuckerman led us past an office door bearing her name to a room containing chairs and a TV-VCR setup. I imagined the instructional videos. Tips for Examining Your Breasts. Success with the Rhythm Method. Bathing the New Baby.

Galiano wasted no time.

“You were Patricia Eduardo’s supervisor at the Hospital Centro Médico.”