Grave Secrets

“He called your cell. That’s what I came by to tell you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Have you checked your messages recently?”

I hadn’t.

Wordlessly, I went inside and dug the phone from my purse. Four missed calls. All from out of area. I hit the button for my voice mail. Two messages.

The first was from Ollie Nordstern. The reporter from hell had a few questions. Could I call him back? I hit delete.

The second was from Bat Galiano.

“Thought you’d like to know. Last night we arrested the scumbag who killed Claudia de la Alda.”

18

GALIANO DIDN’T RETURN MY CALL UNTIL LATE SATURDAY MORNING. When we spoke, he was in the process of interrogating the scumbag in question.

“Who is he?”

“Miguel Angel Gutiérrez.”

“Go on.”

“Gutiérrez was getting in touch with his roots at the Kaminaljuyú ruins last night. Gramps, our friendly neighborhood snoop, took a personal interest in the excursion and phoned the station. Gutiérrez was nailed hoisting himself over the guardrail five yards up-slope from the De la Alda dump site.”

“Coincidence?”

“Like OJ’s glove. Gutiérrez works as a gardener. The De la Alda home is one of his regular jobs.”

“No shit.”

“No shit.”

“What’s he saying?”

“Not much. Right now he’s talking to his priest.”

“And?”

“I think the Fifth Commandment might come up. In the meantime, Hernández is out tossing his trailer.”

“Any link to the Paraíso or to Patricia Eduardo?”

“None we’re aware of. Anything on your end?”

I told him about the cat hair sample and the skull replication.

“Not bad, Brennan.”

It was exactly what Ryan would say.

“Let me know what happens.”

In the afternoon, I cleaned the condo and did laundry. Then I laced up my cross-trainers and went to the gym. As I pounded out three on the treadmill, two names kept cadence in my head.

Ryan and Galiano.

Galiano and Ryan.

My anger had diminished since the night before, when I’d ushered Ryan out with an icy good-bye. But it was still registering a six-point-oh.

Why?

Because he and his college compadre had discussed me as they might last Wednesday’s bowling date.

Ryan and Galiano.

Galiano and Ryan.

Had they?

Of course they had.

Was I being paranoid?

Galiano and Ryan.

What had they said?

I remembered an incident with Ryan. On a boat. I was wearing a T-shirt, cutoffs, and no underwear.

Oh, God.

Galiano and Ryan.

Ryan and Galiano.

I ran until my lungs burned and my leg muscles trembled. By the time I hit the showers my anger had eased down out of the red zone.

That evening I had dinner with Susanne Jean at Le Petit Extra on rue Ontario. She listened to my story of the Hardy Boys, a smile tugging the corners of her mouth.

“How do you know their conversation wasn’t strictly professional?”

“Female intuition.”

The delicate eyebrows rose. “That’s it?”

“The Men Are Pigs Theory.”

“ That’s not sexist?”

“Of course it is. But I have little else to go on.”

“Ease back, Tempe. You’re being hypersensitive.”

Deep down, I suspected that.

“Besides, from what you’ve said, they have nothing to compare.”

“According to The Theory, they make it up.”

She laughed her full, throaty laugh.

“Girlfriend, you are losing it.”

“I know. How’s the skull coming?”

Susanne had converted the CT scans, and would have the model ready by four on Monday.

As we parted, she pointed a long dark finger between my eyes.

“Sister. You need a good romp in the feathers.”

“I’ve got no romping buddy.”

“Sounds like you’ve got one too many.”

“Hm.”

“How ’bout a BOB?”

“O.K., I’ll bite. What’s a BOB?”

“Battery Operated Boyfriend.”

Susanne often presented an interesting take on life.

On Sunday, I received a call from Mateo Reyes. The FAFG leader reported good progress with the Chupan Ya victims. Only nine skeletons remained unidentified. I told him the Specter situation was under control, and that I would be returning as soon as I wrapped up my Montreal cases.

Mateo passed on an appeal from Ollie Nordstern. The reporter had been phoning daily, urgently wanted to speak with me. I was noncommittal.

Mateo had good news about Molly Carraway. The archaeologist had been released from the hospital and was returning with her father to Minnesota. A full recovery was expected.

Mateo also had sad news. Señora Ch’i’p had died in her sleep on Friday night. The Chupan Ya granny was sixty-one.

“You know what I think?” Mateo’s voice was unusually tight.

“What’s that?”

“I think that old lady forced herself to keep breathing just long enough to see proper burial for her babies.”

I agreed.

Disconnecting, I felt a warm trickle slide down each cheek.

“Vaya con Dios, Señora Ch’i’p.”

I backhanded a tear.

“We’ll take it from here.”

The torso bones were still soaking when I got to the lab on Monday. The morning meeting was surprisingly brief, the post-weekend lineup featuring only three cases: a stabbing in Laval; a tractor accident near St-Athanase; a suicide in Verdun.

I’d just placed the mummified head on my worktable when I heard a tap on the window. Ryan smiled at me from the corridor.

I pointed at the head and waved him away.