Grave Secrets

“Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Specter. None of us can entirely control our children.”

Her eyes shifted from Galiano to me. Even in the dim light I could see they were the brilliant green of colored contacts.

“Do you have children, Dr. Brennan?”

“My daughter is a university student. I know how difficult teenagers can be.”

“Yes.”

“Could we go back over a few things, Mrs. Specter?” Galiano.

“If it will help.”

He produced a notebook and began clarifying names and dates. Throughout the exchange, Mrs. Specter unconsciously worried the threads, alternating between twisting and smoothing. Now and then a nail would flick the fabric, sending filaments hurtling into space.

“Chantale’s first arrest was one year ago this past November.”

“Yes.” Flat.

“The Hotel Santa Lucía in Zone One.”

“Yes.”

“Her second arrest was last July.”

“Yes.”

“The Hotel Bella Vista.”

“Yes.”

“Chantale was in Canada from August until December of last year for treatment of drug dependence.”

“Where?”

“A rehab center near Chibougamau.”

Watching the downward drift of a liberated fiber, I felt a sudden jolt of neural electricity. I looked at Galiano. He gave no indication he’d noticed.

“That’s in Quebec?”

“It’s a camp, really, several hundred miles north of Montreal.”

I’d once flown to Chibougamau for an exhumation. The region was so heavily forested the view from the plane had reminded me of broccoli.

“The program teaches young people to assume personal responsibility for their drug abuse. The encounters can be harsh, but my husband and I decided the ‘tough love’ approach was best.” She gave a wan version of the diplomat’s smile. “The remote location ensures that participants complete the entire course of therapy.”

Galiano’s questioning continued for several minutes. I focused on the red nails, verifying. Finally, “Do you have any questions for me, Mrs. Specter?”

“What do you know of these bones that were found?”

Galiano showed no surprise at her knowledge of the Paraíso skeleton. Undoubtedly, her husband’s connections kept them well informed.

“I was about to mention that, but there’s little to report until Dr. Brennan finishes her analysis.”

“Can you tell me anything?” Her gaze shifted to me.

I hesitated, not wanting to comment on the basis of photos and a cursory tank-side inspection.

“Anything?” Pleading.

My mother’s heart battled with my scientist’s brain. What if Katy were missing instead of Chantale? What if I were the one twisting threads on a tapestry chair?

“I doubt the skeleton is your daughter.”

“Why is that?” The voice was calm, but the fingers were moving toward Mach 1.

“I suspect the individual is non-Caucasian.”

She stared at me, thought working behind the electric-green eyes.

“Guatemalan?”

“Probably. But until I’ve completed my examination, that’s little more than an impression.”

“When will that be?”

I looked to Galiano.

“We’ve run into a jurisdictional hitch,” he said.

“Which is?”

Galiano told her about Díaz.

“Why has the judge done this?”

“That’s unclear.”

“I will explain the situation to my husband.”

She turned back to me.

“You are a kind woman, Dr. Brennan. I can tell by your face. Merci. ”

She smiled, the ambassador’s wife once again.

“You’re sure I can’t get either of you a drink? Lemonade, perhaps?”

Galiano declined.

“May I trouble you for a little water?”

“Of course.”

When she’d gone I bolted for the desk, tore a strip of adhesive tape from the dispenser, raced back to Mrs. Specter’s chair, and pressed the sticky side to the upholstery. Galiano watched without comment.

Mrs. Specter rejoined us carrying a crystal glass filled with ice water, a lemon slice stuck onto the rim. As I drank, she spoke to Galiano.

“I’m sorry I have nothing else for you, Detective. I am trying. Truly, I am.”

In the foyer, she surprised me with a request.

“Have you a card, Dr. Brennan?”

I dug one out.

“Thank you.” She waved off a servant who was bearing down.

“Can you be reached locally?”

Surprised, I scribbled the number of my rented cellular.

“Please, please, Detective. Find my baby.”

The heavy oak door clicked shut at our backs.

Galiano didn’t speak until we were in the car.

“What’s with the upholstery-cleaning routine?”

“Did you see her chair?”

He fastened his seat belt and started the engine.

“Aubusson. Pricey.”

I held up the tape. “That Aubusson has a fur coat.” He turned to me, hand on the key.

“The Specters reported no pets.”

10

I SPENT THE REST OF SUNDAY EXAMINING SKELETONS FROM Chupan Ya. Elena and Mateo were also working, and updated me on developments in the Sololá investigation. It took five minutes.

Carlos’s body had been released. His brother had flown in to accompany it to Buenos Aires for burial. Mateo was arranging a memorial service in Guatemala City.

Elena had been to the hospital on Friday. Molly remained comatose. The police had no leads.

That was it.