Kathy Reichs: Grave Secrets

“I was.”

“Is there a reason you failed to mention that when we spoke?”

“You were inquiring about patients.”

“Let me understand you, Doctor. I came here asking about three women. One of those three women was under your charge at another facility, and you failed to point that out?”

“It is a common name. I was busy. I didn’t make the connection.”

“I see.” His tone indicated that he did not. “All right. Let’s talk about her now.”

“Patricia Eduardo was one of many girls under my supervision. I know nothing of their activities outside the hospital.”

“You never ask about their private lives?”

“That would be improper.”

“Uh huh. You and Patricia were observed arguing shortly before her disappearance.”

“The girls do not always perform up to my expectations.”

“Was that the case with Patricia?”

She hesitated a beat. “No.”

“What is it you two fought about?”

“Fought.” She blew air through her lips. “I would hardly call it a fight. Miss Eduardo disagreed with advice I was offering.”

“Advice?”

“Medical advice.”

“As a disinterested supervisor?”

“As a doctor.”

“So Patricia was a patient.”

Zuckerman realized her mistake right away.

“She might have visited this clinic once.”

“Why?”

“I can’t remember the complaint of every woman who comes to see me.”

“Patricia was not every woman. She was someone you worked with every day.”

Zuckerman did not reply.

“She was not listed in your records here.”

“That happens.”

“Tell us about her.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Patient confidentiality.”

“Yes.”

“This is a murder investigation. Fuck patient confidentiality.”

Zuckerman stiffened, and a mole on her cheek appeared to expand.

“We do it here, or we do it at headquarters.” Galiano.

Zuckerman pointed at me. “This woman is not official.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “You should not compromise your oath. I’ll wait in the lobby.”

Before anyone could object, I left the room. The hall was deserted. Moving quietly, I hurried to Zuckerman’s office, slipped in, and closed the door.

Morning sun slanted through half-open blinds, casting neat lines across the desk and stippling it with color around a small crystal clock. Its ticking, soft and rapid like a hummingbird’s heart, was the only sound breaking the silence.

Bookshelves wrapped around two walls. Filing cabinets filled a third. All were government-issue gray.

I did a quick survey of titles. Standard medical journals. JAMA. Fertility. Standard medical texts. Several volumes on cell biology. A greater number on reproductive physiology and embryology.

A door opened off the far corner of the room. Bathroom?

I held my breath and listened.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I hurried over and turned the knob.

Whatever I was expecting, it was not what I saw. The room was dominated by two long counters crammed with microscopes, test tubes, and petri dishes. Glass-fronted cabinets held bottles and tubs. Jars of embryos and fetuses filled a set of shelves, each labeled with gestational age.

A young man was placing a container in one of three refrigerators lining the back wall. I read the label. Fetal bovine serum.

On hearing the door, the man turned. He wore a green T-shirt and camouflage pants tucked into black boots. His hair was slicked and bound at the neck. The initials JS hung from a gold chain around his neck. Styling commando.

His eyes shot past me into Zuckerman’s office.

“The doc let you in here?”

Before I could answer Zuckerman burst through the outer door. I turned, and our eyes locked for a couple of beats.

“You don’t belong here.” Her face was florid to the roots of her bad hair.

“I’m sorry. I got lost.” Zuckerman circled me and closed the lab door.

“Go.” Her lips were compressed, and she was breathing deeply through her nose.

Hurrying from the office, I heard the lab door open, then the sound of an angry voice. A name. I didn’t linger to eavesdrop. I had to find Galiano.

Though we’d never met, I knew the name of Commando Boy.

27

“ YOU’RE CERTAIN?”

“Daddy’s rat face, Mama’s two-tone eyes.”

“One brown, one blue.”

I nodded. It was hard to forget the dullard owners of the Paraíso.

“And the letters JS hanging from his neck.”

“Jorge Serano.”

“Yes. And I heard Zuckerman say his name.”

I felt a burst of elation. Then it was gone.

“What the hell are he and Zuckerman doing in that lab?”

“Did you see any rabbits?”

I looked to see if he was joking. He was.

“Look, if you’re right about Jorge Serano—”

“I’m right, Galiano.”

“Jorge Serano links Zuckerman to the Paraíso. Zuckerman knew Patricia Eduardo. Could be our first break at stringing some things together.”

We were in Galiano’s cruiser, one block east of Zuckerman’s clinic.

“Zuckerman fights with Eduardo. Eduardo turns up dead at a hotel owned by the parents of one of Zuckerman’s employees.” I was trying but failing to keep my voice calm.

“Don’t have a coronary.”

“I’m showing energy and purpose.”

“I’m inspired by your drive. Let’s go talk to Serano.”

When we reentered the clinic, Serano was gone.

So was Zuckerman.

So were the women who’d been waiting for care.

Score one for the Hippocratic oath.

The receptionist admitted Jorge Serano was an employee. She described him as a personal assistant to Dr. Zuckerman. The only address she had was his parents’ hotel.

I suggested another peek at Zuckerman’s lab. Galiano refused, preferring to wait until he had a warrant.

We drove to the Paraíso.

The senior Seranos hadn’t had an infusion of brainpower since our first meeting. They had not seen their son in weeks, and knew nothing of his whereabouts. They hadn’t a clue where Jorge was on October twenty-ninth. They didn’t know Maria Zuckerman, hadn’t heard of her clinic.

Galiano produced Patricia Eduardo’s picture. They’d never laid eyes on her, had no idea how she came to be in their septic tank.

Señora Serano admired the horse.

After leaving the Paraíso, Galiano dropped me at FAFG headquarters and set off on a quest for Jorge Serano. I was laying out a Chupan Ya skeleton when Ryan called.

“I found something in Nordstern’s undies.”

“Skidmarks?”

“You’re a laugh riot, Brennan. I need you to translate.”

“Your Spanish is better than mine.”

“Different type of translation. Biology-ese.”

“Can’t you work it out? Ever since I agreed to help Galiano I’ve hardly had time to look at Chupan Ya bones, and that’s my day job.”

“Bat told me you hadn’t had lunch.”

Ryan made my grandmother look like an amateur when it came to concern for eating regular meals.

“I promised Mateo—”

“Go.” Mateo had materialized beside my workstation. “We’ll all be here when you catch your killer.”

I held the phone to my chest.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.

I gave Ryan directions and cut off.

“Can I ask you something, Mateo?”

“Of course.”

“Who is Alejandro Bastos?”

The scar on his lip went dagger-thin. He waved a hand at the skeleton lying between us.

“Army colonel. The murdering bastard responsible for this, may he rot in hell.”

Next to a hot poker up the nose, my favorite thing is mealy, overfried fish. That’s what I was eating as Ryan leafed through the date book he’d found in Nordstern’s suitcase.