Grave Secrets

“And then?”

“We’ll go away. He’ll be posted somewhere neat. Paris, maybe. Or Rome or Madrid. I’ll be his wife and travel with him, and go to all the parties.”

And Saddam Hussein will convert to Christianity and conduct baptisms.

“Has the ambassador ever talked about former mistresses?”

“You don’t understand. André’s not like that.”

She looked at Galiano. She looked at Ryan. She looked at me. She had that right. We didn’t understand.

“Has he ever hurt you?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Shaken you, struck you, forced you to do something you didn’t want to do.”

“Never.” Breathy. “André’s a kind, gentle, wonderful man.”

“Who cheats on his wife.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.”

It was exactly what I was thinking, the cradle-robbing bastard.

“Do you know a young woman named Patricia Eduardo?”

She gave a small shake of her head.

“Claudia de la Alda?”

“No.” Her eyes were growing red around the rims.

“Will you be seeing Mr. Specter in the near future?”

“It’s hard to make plans. André calls when he’s able to get free.”

And you wait by the phone. Bastard.

“Does he usually come here?” Galiano asked.

“If my cousin isn’t home.” Her nose was now as red as her eyes, and she’d begun to sniffle. “Sometimes we go out.”

I dug in my purse and handed her a tissue.

Galiano handed her a card.

“Call me when you hear from him.”

“Has André done something illegal?”

Galiano ignored her question.

“When he phones, agree to see him. Call me. And don’t tell Specter.”

Pera opened her mouth to object.

“Do it, Señorita Pera. Do it and save yourself a great deal of grief.”

Galiano rose. Ryan and I did the same. Pera followed us to the door.

As we filed out she said one last thing.

“It’s hard, you know. It’s not like in the movies.”

“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”

The sky was overcast when we left Pera’s apartment. Anxious to begin going through Nordstern’s belongings, Ryan peeled off and took a taxi to police headquarters.

It was raining by the time Galiano and I arrived at the Eduardo home. While not as luxurious as Chez Specter or Chez Gerardi, the house was comfortable and well tended, what a Realtor might call cozy.

When Señora Eduardo opened the door one phrase stuck in my brain: ET, phone home. Our hostess had a wrinkled pie face dominated by the largest eyes I’d ever seen on a human being. Her arms and legs were scrawny, her fingers curved and knobby. She stood about four feet tall.

Señora Eduardo led us to a parlor filled with way too much floral-upholstered furniture, and indicated that we should sit. She boosted herself into a straight-back wooden chair, wrapped one ankle around the other, and made a sign of the cross. Tears glistened in the enormous eyes.

As I settled into an overstuffed armchair, I wondered if the woman had a chromosomal abnormality. I also wondered how she had produced a daughter as attractive as Patricia.

Galiano introduced me to our hostess, expressed sympathy for her loss. Señora Eduardo crossed herself again, took a deep breath.

“Have you made an arrest?” she asked in a thin, wavery voice.

“We’re working on it,” Galiano said.

Señora Eduardo’s left eyelid did a slo-mo blink. The right lid followed a half beat behind.

“Did your daughter ever speak of a man named André Specter?”

“No.”

“Miguel Gutiérrez?”

“No. Who are these men?”

“You are sure?”

Señora Eduardo reprocessed the names. Or pretended to.

“Absolutely certain. What do these men have to do with my daughter?” One tear escaped and slithered down her cheek. She swiped it away with a jerky motion.

“I just wanted to check.”

“Are they suspects?”

“Not in your daughter’s death.”

“Whose?”

“Miguel Gutiérrez has confessed to the murder of a young woman named Claudia de la Alda.”

“You think he might also have killed Patricia?”

Whatever the señora’s physical condition, it clearly did not affect her intelligence.

“No.”

“And Specter?” Another tear. Another swipe.

“Never mind Specter.”

“Who is he?”

Or her tenacity.

“If your daughter didn’t speak of him, it isn’t relevant. What is this new information you have?”

The huge eyes narrowed. I detected a flicker of distrust.

“I remembered the name of Patricia’s supervisor at the hospital.”

“The one with whom she argued?”

She nodded and did the eyelid thing.

Galiano pulled out a notebook.

“Zuckerman.”

A tiny ping.

“First name?” Galiano asked.

“Doctor.”

“Gender?”

“Doctor.”

“Do you know why they fought?”

“Patricia never elaborated.”

At that moment Buttercup joined us, went directly to Galiano, and began rubbing back and forth on his pants leg. Señora Eduardo slid from her chair and clapped at the cat. He arched, then turned and performed another figure eight around Galiano’s ankles.

Señora Eduardo clapped louder.

“Shoo. Go on. Back with the others.” Buttercup regarded his odd mistress a very long moment, raised then flicked his tail, and strolled from the room.

“I apologize. Buttercup was my daughter’s cat.” Her lower lip trembled. I feared she was on the verge of crying. “Since Patricia is gone, he listens to no one.”

Galiano pocketed his notebook and stood.