Grave Secrets

Taking two more vials from my pack, I marked one and added the words Fetal Remains. Then I tweezed the bones from the armpit and sleeve, sealed the vials, and initialed the labels.

“Standard shots of the clothing?” Xicay asked.

I nodded.

Watching him move around the table, I had a sudden thought.

“Where are the tibia and foot bones that were in the jeans?” I asked Galiano.

“Díaz dropped paper on those, too.”

“And left the jeans.”

“The guy wouldn’t know evidence if it pissed on his shoe.”

“What’s your take on Lucas?”

“The good doctor didn’t look thrilled with his assignment.”

“I got the same impression. Think Díaz is putting the screws to him?”

“I’m meeting with Mr. DA this afternoon.” He unfolded and slipped on his shades. “I intend to stress the importance of candor.”

An hour later I drove through the gates at FAFG headquarters. Ollie Nordstern stood on the front porch, one shoulder propped against a post, jaw working a wad of gum.

I considered reversing, but he was on me like a shark on a blood slick.

“Dr. Brennan. The woman that tops my list.”

I dug my pack from the back of my rented Access.

“Let me get that for you.”

“Something has come up, Mr. Nordstern.” I slung a strap over one shoulder, slammed the door, and headed past him toward the house. “I won’t have time for an interview today.”

“Perhaps I could sweet-talk you into a few minutes.”

Perhaps you could drown in a spittoon.

“Not today.”

Elena Norvillo sat at one of several computers clustered in what was once the Mena family parlor. Her hair was hidden under a blue scarf knotted at the nape of her neck.

“Buenos días, Elena.”

“Buenos días,” she answered, never taking her eyes from the screen.

“Dónde está Mateo?”

“He’s out back,” Nordstern answered from behind me.

I circled Elena’s desk, walked down a corridor past offices and a kitchen, and exited to a walled courtyard. Nordstern trailed me like a puppy.

The courtyard was roofed around its periphery, open in the center. A swimming pool took up the left front, looking as out of place as a Jacuzzi in a homeless shelter. Sunlight shimmered off the water, tinting everything and everyone with an eerie, blue glow.

Workstations filled a covered patio at the rear of the courtyard, each with an empty box below, contents articulated above. Unopened boxes lined the stone walls. Tropical plants peeked from behind the stacks, survivors of the once lush Mena gardens.

Luis Posadas and Rosa O’Reilly were examining remains at the far end of the front row. Rosa recorded data as Luis worked calipers and called out measurements. Juan Corrales was consulting a hanging skeleton, bone fragment in his left hand. He wore a puzzled expression. The skeleton wore a porkpie hat.

When I came through the door, Mateo looked up from the lab’s single microscope. He was dressed in denim coveralls and a gray T-shirt with the sleeves razored off. Moisture beaded his upper lip.

“Tempe. Glad to see you.”

“How’s Molly?” I asked, crossing to him.

“No change.”

“Who’s Molly?”

Mateo’s eyes shifted past me to Nordstern, then back, and narrowed as Galiano’s had done at the Paraíso. The signal was unnecessary. I intended to ignore the little twerp.

“I see you two have managed to connect,” Mateo observed.

“I told Mr. Nordstern today was impossible.”

“I was hoping you might persuade her otherwise,” Nordstern wheedled.

“Could you excuse us?” Mateo smiled at the reporter, took my arm, and propelled me toward the house. I followed him upstairs to his office.

“Call him off, Mateo.”

“A feature story can be good for us.”

He gestured me to a chair and closed the door.

“The world needs to know, and the foundation needs money.”

He waited for me to speak. When I didn’t, he added, “Exposure can mean funding. And protection.”

“Fine. You talk to him.”

“I did.”

“Elena can do it.”

“She spent yesterday with him. Now he wants you.”

“No.”

“Toss him something and he’ll go away.”

“Why me?”

“He thinks you’re cool.”

I gave him a look that could freeze Death Valley at midday.

“He’s impressed with the biker stuff you did.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Thirty minutes?” Now Mateo was wheedling.

“What does he want?”

“Colorful quotes.”

“He doesn’t know about Molly and Carlos?”

“We thought it best to leave that out.”

“Crack reporter.” I flicked a speck from my pants leg. “The septic tank bones?”

“No.”

“All right. One half hour.”

“You might enjoy it.”

Like ulcerating boils, I thought.

“Fill me in on the septic tank case,” Mateo said.

“What about Jimmy Breslin down there?”

“He can wait.”

I told him what I’d learned at police headquarters, leaving out only Chantale Specter’s last name.

“André Specter, the Canadian ambassador. Heavy.”

“You know?”

“Detective Galiano told me. It’s why I let him ambush you the day we returned from Chupan Ya.”

I couldn’t be annoyed. In truth, I was relieved Mateo understood the implications of what I would be doing in the days to come.

I withdrew the vial from my pack and set it on the desk. He read the label, squinted at the contents, then looked at me.

“Fetal?”