Grave Secrets

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Dirtdoggy, Rambeau, Bedhead, Sexychaton, or Criperçant?”

“The Crier,” said Iverson, spiraling his palm in self-presentation.

“Cri perçant. Piercing scream.”

“Very poetic.”

A pink bubble emerged from Iverson’s mouth. When it collapsed, he began working the Bazooka for another go. Ryan looked at Gaudreau.

“I don’t use e-mail that much.”

“And when you do?”

Gaudreau shrugged. “Sexychaton.”

“Thank you, kitten.”

Gaudreau looked as sexy as a baleen whale.

“You can’t just bust the fuck in and rough people up.” Hochmeister was regaining his self-assurance.

“Leon, that’s exactly what I can do. And another thing I can do is haul your skinny ass to the bag for aiding a minor in flight. Think your name might turn up some interesting reading material?”

Leon’s fingers stopped massaging his arm. He looked at Chantale, then up at the ceiling. When his chin came down, sweat glistened along the line between Mohawk and forehead.

“We know nothing about that shit.”

“What shit is that, Leon?”

“That shit he’s talking.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Nordstern freeze.

“Who’s ‘he,’ Leon?”

Hochmeister tilted his head in Nordstern’s direction.

“Neither does Chantale.” He jerked a thumb at Nordstern.

“This asshole’s as psycho as you are.”

“Why’s that?”

“He thinks Chantale’s cool to some chick got dropped in Guatemala City.”

“Leon!” Chantale hissed.

“A bit off the subject of your human rights story,” I said to Nordstern.

Nordstern’s eyes peeled off the napkin and lifted to mine.

“Maybe.”

“Where are you staying, sir?” Ryan asked.

“Please.” Nordstern crumbled the napkin. “Don’t waste your time or mine. My info and sources are strictly confidential.”

Nordstern tossed the napkin onto the bar and looked at me.

“Unless we can find some mutually beneficial arrangement.” His voice was oily as a drilling rig.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He studied me a long time before answering.

“You don’t have a clue what’s really going on.”

“Is that so?”

“You’re so far off track you might as well be on Ganymeade.” Nordstern stood. “You’re not even in the right galaxy.”

“Last I checked, Ganymeade was still in the Milky Way.”

“That’s good, Dr. Brennan.” The reporter drained his glass and set it on the bar. “But I’m not talking astronomy.”

“What are you talking?”

“Murder.”

“Whose?”

His eyebrows rose, and he waggled an index finger like a metronome.

“Secret.”

“Why?” I asked.

Again the finger.

“Grave secret.”

I realized Nordstern was slightly drunk.

“Secrets of the grave.”

He tried to hold his grin, but it faded, as if by its own will.

“I’m at the St. Malo,” Nordstern said to Ryan.

To me, “Call when you want the answers to some very grave secrets.”

I watched Nordstern cross toward the door. Halfway there, he turned and mouthed one word: “Ganymeade.” Then he touched two fingers to his forehead, and disappeared through the door.

“That motherfucker is crazy,” said Hochmeister. “We meet again, I’ll tear him an asshole the size of Cape Breton.”

“Leon, I’m going to say this just once. Go home.” Ryan held up a hand. “No, I won’t be that specific.” He pointed one finger at Hochmeister’s nose. “Go away. Go now, and you and your friends can spend the night watching Archie Bunker reruns. Stay, and you’ll spend it without your shoelaces and belts.”

Iverson and Gaudreau shot from their stools like they were spring-loaded. Hochmeister hesitated a beat, then brought up the rear, an alpha male in a baboon retreat. When they’d gone, Ryan turned to Chantale.

“What did Nordstern want?”

“Is that the prick’s name?”

Chantale picked up her beer. Ryan took it from her and set it back down.

“Ollie Nordstern,” I said. “He’s a reporter with the Chicago Tribune.”

“Really?”

Good question, I thought. I’d accepted Mateo’s explanation, never questioned Nordstern’s legitimacy.

“What was he asking about?”

“My plans for Sundance.”

“Chantale, I don’t think you realize how serious your situation is. You’re in contempt. The judge can slap you right back in jail.”

Chantale kept her eyes on her lap. Black wisps fell around the dead, pale face, hiding all but the tip of her nose.

“I don’t hear you, Chantale.”

“He wanted to know about those dead girls.”

“The ones I mentioned at the jail?”

She nodded and the lace butterfly bobbed.

I remembered Nordstern’s odd question at FAFG headquarters.

“During our interview, Nordstern asked about the septic tank case,” I said to Ryan.

“How did he know about it?”

“Beats me.”

Again, the same thought in both our minds: Did Nordstern suspect a Specter–Paraíso link?

I turned back to Chantale.

“How did Nordstern find you?”

“How the hell should I know? Probably hung around outside my house.”

“And followed you to Tim Hortons.”

“Isn’t that how you found me?”

“Had you seen him before tonight?”

“We’ve been meeting secretly under the bleachers.”

“Chantale?”

“No.”

“What else did he ask about?”

She didn’t answer.

“Chantale?”

The ambassador’s daughter looked up, anger crimping her features into a cold, hard version of the little-girl face in the embassy photo.