Grave Secrets

By the time we collected our baggage in Guatemala City, worked our way through the throng of porters pleading to carry it, and found a taxi, it was nine-thirty. I gave the driver my destination. He turned to Ryan for directions. I provided them.

We pulled up at my hotel at ten-fifteen. While I paid the fare, Ryan unloaded the luggage. When I asked for a receipt, the driver regarded me as though I’d requested a urine sample. Muttering, he dug a scrap of paper from the seat crack, scrawled something on it, and thrust it at me.

The desk clerk greeted me by name, welcomed me back. His eyes shifted to Ryan.

“Will that be one room or two?”

“One for me. Is three fourteen still available?”

“Sí, señora.”

“I’ll take it.”

“And the señor?’

“You will have to ask the señor.”

I forked over a credit card, signed in, collected my bags, and headed upstairs. I’d hung my clothes, spread out my toiletries, and started a bath when the phone rang.

“Don’t start, Ryan. I’m going to bed.”

“Why would I want to start Ryan?” Galiano asked.

“You invited him here.”

“I also invited you here. I’d rather start you.”

“I’ve been traveling with Detective Personality for almost twelve hours. I need sleep.”

“Ryan did sound a bit edgy.”

The frat brothers had already spoken. I felt a prickle of irritation.

“He shot a guy.”

“Yes.”

“Ryan and I are going to drop in on Aida Pera, the ambassador’s little friend, tomorrow. Then I’m going to swing by for a chat with Patricia Eduardo’s mother. She claims she’s got some new information.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“She’s a strange one.”

“Where’s the father?”

“Dead.”

“Did she agree to give a saliva sample?”

I’d asked Galiano to set that in motion before my departure from Montreal. Now that we had a potential ID, it was possible to run a DNA comparison. A profile obtained from Señora Eduardo’s saliva would be compared with one obtained from the fetal bones found with the Paraíso skeleton. Since mitochondrial DNA is passed through maternal lines only, the baby, its mother, and its grandmother would show identical sequencing.

“Already done. And I’ve collected the fetal bones from Mateo’s lab.”

“Has Señora Eduardo seen the sketch I faxed?”

“Yes.”

“Does she accept the idea that the skeleton is Patricia’s?”

“Yes. As does everyone here at headquarters.”

“She must be devastated.”

I heard him sigh. “ Ay, Dios. It is the saddest news a parent can receive.”

For a moment neither of us spoke. I thought of Katy. I pictured Galiano thinking of Alejandro.

“So. Do you want to ride along?”

I told him I did.

“What’s Pera’s story?”

“She’s been working as a secretary since finishing secondary school two years ago. Chantale wasn’t making that part up.”

“What does Pera say about Specter?”

“We haven’t dropped that on her yet. Thought we’d do it in person.”

“What time?”

“Eight.”

“Bring coffee.”

I hung up, stripped, and hopped into the bath. And flew right back out, sliding across the tile, and banging my hip on the sink. The water was cold enough to form an ice slick. Swearing, I wrapped a towel around myself and fiddled with the faucets. Both ran frigid.

Shivering and swearing some more, I slipped under the blankets.

Eventually the shivering subsided.

Ryan didn’t phone.

I fell asleep uncertain if I was annoyed or relieved.

The next morning I awoke to a jackhammer loud enough to impair my hearing for life. Throwing on clothes, I stuck my head out the window. Three floors down, six men were redesigning the sidewalk. It looked like a long-term project.

Terrific.

I phoned Mateo to let him know I was back in Guatemala, and that I would be at the FAFG lab that afternoon. Ryan was already waiting when I entered the lobby.

“How did we sleep, cupcake?”

“Like a boulder.”

“Mood improved?”

“What?”

“You must have been tired last night.”

Galiano honked.

I clamped my open mouth shut, pushed through the glass doors, crossed the sidewalk, and climbed into the front seat so Ryan would have to get in back.

On the drive to Aida Pera’s apartment, Galiano filled us in on developments in the Claudia de la Alda case.

“The night Patricia Eduardo disappeared, Gutiérrez was at his church preparing flowers for All Saints’ Day.”

“Anyone alibi him?” Ryan.

“About half a dozen parishioners, including his landlady, Señora Ajuchán. Ajuchán says she followed him home, swears Gutiérrez couldn’t have gone out again, at least not driving, because she blocked him in the driveway with her car.”

“An accomplice?” Ryan.

“Ajuchán insists she wakes every time Gutiérrez enters or leaves her house.” Galiano made a left. “She also insists the guy’s Mr. Rogers. Wouldn’t hurt a flea. Also a loner. No pals.”

“What did you find when you tossed his room?” I asked.

“The crazy bastard must have had forty prints of Claudia pasted to the mirror above his dresser. Arranged them like an altar. Candles and all.”

“What’s his story?” Ryan.

“Says he admired her virtue and piety.”

“Who took the pics?”