Grave Secrets

“Maybe Nordstern had no interest at all in Chantale.”

“Was using her to hook a bigger fish?”

“Maybe that’s what Nordstern meant when he said I was off track.”

“A philandering ambassador isn’t much of a scoop.”

“No. It isn’t,” I agreed.

“Doesn’t seem like enough to get a guy capped.”

“How about hair from an ambassador’s pet turning up in the jeans of a murder victim?”

“Fifty-pound perch.”

“Holy shit.”

“What?”

“I just remembered something.”

Ryan gave me a “bring it on” gesture.

“I told you that two members of our team were shot while driving to Chupan Ya.”

“Yes.”

“Carlos died, Molly survived.”

“How is she?”

“Her doctors anticipate a full recovery. She’s gone back to Minnesota, but Mateo and I visited her in the hospital in Sololá before I left Guatemala. Her recall was fuzzy, but Molly thought she remembered her attackers talking about an inspector. Mateo and I speculated they might have been saying Specter.”

“Moby fucking Dick.”

I slid the disk back into its sleeve.

When I looked up, Ryan’s eyes were on mine. They were not smiling.

“What?” I asked.

“Why was a Chicago reporter trailing people in Montreal based on a story in Guatemala? Think about that.”

I had been.

“Nordstern was into something so hot it got him assassinated in a foreign country.”

I’d definitely been thinking about that.

“You keep your head up, Brennan. These people were willing to burn Nordstern. They’re ruthless. They won’t stop there.”

I felt goose bumps crimp the flesh on my arms. The moment passed. Ryan smiled, returned to cop flippant.

“I’ll give Galiano a heads-up on the Todos Santos,” said Ryan.

“I also suggest you get down and dirty on Specter while I finish my facial reproduction. Then we’ll play the disc, read Nordstern’s notebook, and get some sense of what he was up to.”

Ryan’s grin broadened.

“Damn. The rumors are right.”

“What rumors?” I asked.

“You are the brains of the operation.”

I resisted the urge to kick his ankle.

The call came as I was still shaking rain from my umbrella. The voice on the other end was the last I wanted to hear. I invited its owner to my office with an enthusiasm I reserve for IRS auditors, Klansmen, and Islamic fundamentalists.

Sergeant-détective Luc Claudel appeared within minutes, back rigid, face pinched into its usual look of disdain. I rose but remained behind my desk.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Claudel. Comment ça va?”

I did not expect a greeting. I was not disappointed.

“I must pose a few questions.”

Claudel viewed me as an unfortunate necessity, a status grudgingly granted following my input into the successful resolution of a number of CUM homicide cases. Claudel’s demeanor toward me was always cool, reserved, and rigidly francophone. His use of English surprised me.

“Please have a seat,” I said.

Claudel sat.

I sat.

Claudel placed a tape recorder on my desk.

“This conversation will be recorded.”

Of course I have no objection, you arrogant, hawk-faced prick.

“No problem,” I said.

Claudel activated the recorder, gave the time and date, and identified those present at the interview.

“I am heading the inquiry into last night’s shooting.”

Oh happy day. I waited.

“You were present?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have an unobstructed view of the events that transpired?”

“I did.”

“Were you able to hear words exchanged between Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan and his target?”

Target?

“I was.”

Claudel kept his eyes on a point halfway between us.

“Was the man armed?”

“He had a Luger nine-millimeter.”

“Did the man indicate that he intended to discharge his firearm?”

“The sonovabitch shot Nordstern then turned the gun on Ryan.”

“Please. Do not get ahead of me.”

The air space between my molars reduced to zero.

“Following the shooting of Olaf Nordstern, did Lieutenant-détective Ryan instruct the gunman to relinquish his weapon?”

“More than once.”

“Did the gunman comply?”

“He grabbed a woman cowering on the sidewalk. She asked to be excused because of parental responsibility, but I believe the request was about to be denied.”

Claudel’s eyebrows formed a V above his eyes.

“Dr. Brennan, I am going to ask you once again to allow me to do this in my own manner.”

Steady.

“Did the gunman attempt to take a hostage?”

“Yes.”

“In your opinion, was the hostage in clear and present danger?”

“Had Ryan not acted, her life expectancy would have dropped to about three minutes.”

“When Lieutenant-détective Ryan discharged his weapon, did the gunman return fire?”

“He nearly spray-painted the Forum with my cerebral cortex.”

Claudel’s lips compressed into a hard, tight line. He inhaled, exhaled through hard, tight nostrils.

“Why were you at the Forum, Dr. Brennan?”

“I was looking for the daughter of a friend.”

“Were you there in any official capacity?”

“No.”

“Why was Detective Ryan at the Forum?”

What was going on? Undoubtedly Ryan had answered these questions.

“He’d come to meet me.”

Finally, the hawk eyes focused on mine.

“Was Detective Ryan there in any official capacity?”

“Studmeister.”

Claudel and I glared at each other like wrestlers on Smack Down.