Grave Secrets

For a few moments no one spoke. Chantale continued to whack the table leg.

“Now.” Lywyckij leaned onto his forearms. “Perhaps we should talk about the drug problem.”

Silence.

“Chantale, darling, you mus—”

Again Lywyckij hushed his client with a raised hand.

More silence. More table whacking.

I shifted my gaze between mother and daughter. It was like moving from Glamour to Metal Edge. Finally, another elbow in my direction.

“She some kind of social worker?”

“The lady is a friend of your moth—” Lywyckij began.

“I asked my mother.”

“Dr. Brennan accompanied me from Guatemala City.” Mrs. Specter’s voice sounded small.

“She help you blow your nose on liftoff?”

I had promised myself I wouldn’t let Chantale get under my skin, but by now I was fighting the urge to reach across the table and grab the little demon by the throat. The hell with kid gloves.

“I work with the police here.”

Chantale didn’t let that pass.

“What police?”

“All of them. And your street act won’t impress anyone.”

Chantale shrugged.

“Your lawyer is giving you good advice.” I didn’t attempt to pronounce the man’s name.

“My mother’s lawyer has the IQ of a turnip.”

Lywyckij’s face darkened until it looked like a large, ripe plum.

“You’re riding for a fall, Chantale,” I said.

“Yeah, well, it’s my ticket.”

“I must have full knowledge of—” Lywyckij began.

Chantale cut him off again.

“What do you mean, ‘work with the police’?” My vague allusion hadn’t escaped her. The ambassador’s daughter wasn’t stupid.

“I’m with the medico-legal lab,” I said.

“The coroner?”

“That works.”

“They do stiffs in G City?”

“I was invited into a murder investigation down there.”

I debated leaving it at that, decided on a dose of reality.

“Both victims were women your age.”

At last the vampire eyes met mine.

“Claudia de la Alda,” I said.

I watched for signs of recognition. Nothing.

“Her home was not far from yours.”

“Ain’t coincidence grand.”

“Claudia worked at the Ixchel Museum.”

Another shrug.

“The second victim hasn’t been identified. We found her in a septic tank in Zone One.”

“Rough neighborhood.”

Chantale and I were in a stare-off now, testing wills.

“Let’s try another name,” I said.

“Tinkerbell?”

“Patricia Eduardo.”

Corneal hardball. Her eyes didn’t waver.

“Patricia worked at the Hospital Centro Médico.”

“Bedpan bingo. Not my game.”

“She’s been missing since last October.”

“People take off.”

“They do.”

Whack. The table jumped.

“Your name came up in the investigation.”

“No way,” she snorted.

Whack.

“Like, why?”

“Too many grand coincidences.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Chantale’s eyes flicked to Lywyckij. He turned his palms up. They came back to me.

“This is bullshit.”

“The Guatemalan police don’t think so. They want information.”

“I don’t care if they want a cure for the clap. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was staring at me with high beams.

“You’re the same age, lived blocks apart, hung out in the same neighborhoods. They find one link, one ladies’ room where you and Claudia de la Alda both took a pee, they can have you hauled back down there and put through a grinder.”

Not true, of course, and Lywyckij knew it. The lawyer said nothing.

“There’s no way you can force me to go back to Guatemala.” Chantale’s voice sounded a little less confident.

“You’re seventeen. That makes you a minor.”

“We won’t let that happen.” Lywyckij jumped aboard as Nice Cop.

“You may have no choice.” I continued as Mean Cop.

Chantale wasn’t buying the act. She pulled her hands from her pockets and held them up, wrists pressed together.

“O.K. It was me. I killed them. And I’m dealing heroin at the junior high.”

“No one is accusing you of murder,” I said.

“I know. It’s a reality bite for a wayward teen.” She shot forward, widened her eyes, and waggled her head like a dashboard dog. “Bad things happen to bad girls.”

“Something like that,” I replied evenly. “You know, of course, that nothing will prevent Lucy’s return to Guatemala.”

Chantale stood so suddenly her chair crashed to the floor.

Mrs. Specter’s hand flew to her chest.

The guard shot through the door, hand on the butt of his gun. “Everything all right?”

Lywyckij lumbered to his feet. “We’re finished.” He turned to Chantale. “Your mother has brought something for you to wear when you appear before the judge.”

Chantale rolled her eyes. Globs of mascara clung to the lashes, like raindrops on a spiderweb.

“We should have you out of here in two or three hours,” he continued. “We will deal with the drug issue later.”

When the guard had escorted Chantale from the room, Lywyckij turned to Mrs. Specter.

“Do you think you can control her?”

“Of course.”

“She might take off.”

“These dreadful surroundings make Chantale defensive. She’ll be fine once she’s home with her father and me.”

I could see Lywyckij had his doubts. I definitely had mine.

“When is the ambassador arriving?”

“Just as soon as he can.” The plastic smile slipped into place.

Lyrics popped into my head. A song about a handy smile. We’d sung it in Brownies when I was eight years old.