Grave Secrets

Just what I was asking myself. Were we back to Chupan Ya? Was it just that Díaz was in the army and was now a judge? Was that Nordstern’s concern? Nothing unusual there. Galiano had laid that all out in our conversation at the Gucumatz. The judicial system in Guatemala was full of torturers and murders. Everyone knew that. It wouldn’t be news. Was there a link with the Paraíso? No answers were popping to mind.

“Maybe nothing,” I said, not really believing it.

“Maybe something,” Ryan said.

“Maybe Díaz had reasons for not wanting me on the Eduardo case.”

“Such as?”

“Maybe he thought it was someone else in the Paraíso tank.”

“Who?”

“Someone connected with Chupan Ya.”

“A pregnant teenaged girl?”

He had me there.

“Maybe Díaz wanted me diverted from the Chupan Ya investigation.”

“Why?”

“Maybe he feared revelations about his past.” I was just thinking out loud. “Maybe he feared they’d cost him his job.”

“Didn’t the Paraíso case do just that?”

“What?”

“Divert you from working with Mateo and the team? And the more you investigated Paraíso, the more diverted you would be. If he wanted you diverted, he would not thwart the diversion.”

A sudden terrible thought.

“Jesus!”

“What?”

“Maybe Díaz was behind the attack on Molly and Carlos.”

“Let’s not get jiggy until we have some facts. Do you know anything about this Bastos character?”

I shook my head.

“Why would Nordstern circle Díaz’s picture?”

“You ask good questions, Ryan.”

“About what?”

We both turned. Galiano stood in the doorway.

“Who’s Alejandro Bastos?”

“Army colonel. Went on to become minister of something under Ríos Montt. Died a couple of years ago.”

“Was Bastos involved in the massacres?”

“Up to his eyeballs. That prick was a perfect example of why amnesty was a lousy idea.”

Ryan handed Galiano the picture.

“Hijo de la puta.”

Galiano looked up.

“With Díaz.” This time in English. “Sonovabitch.”

A fly buzzed the window. I watched it and again felt a shared frustration. I wasn’t getting anywhere either.

“What’s up with Specter?” I asked Galiano

“Turns out the ambassador has an airtight alibi for the week surrounding Patricia Eduardo’s disappearance.”

“He and Dominique were at a nunnery renewing their vows.” Ryan.

“An international trade conference in Brussels. Specter gave daily presentations, attended nightly cocktails.”

“Aida Pera would have thought it was neat.” Ryan.

“It’s not her fault.”

Both men looked at me like I’d said Eva Braun wasn’t so bad.

“Specter’s obviously a black-belt sleaze. Pera’s a kid.”

“She’s eighteen.”

“Exactly.”

For several seconds, the only sound came from the fly.

“Patricia Eduardo had to have some contact with the Specter household for Guimauve’s hair to get into her jeans,” I volunteered for no particular reason.

“Maybe the hair transferred from Specter while he was getting into her jeans.” Ryan.

“Eduardo disappeared on October twenty-ninth.” Galiano said.

“She didn’t necessarily die that day.”

“Did you track down Dr. Zuckerman?”

Galiano pulled out the ubiquitous notepad.

“Maria Zuckerman earned an MD at NYU, did a residency in OB/GYN at Johns Hopkins, spent a couple of years in Melbourne, Australia, at some institute of reproductive biology.”

“So she’s no dummy.”

“The good doctor’s on staff at the Hospital Centro Médico. Served as Patricia Eduardo’s direct supervisor for the past two years. I talked to a few of Eduardo’s coworkers. One was aware of Eduardo’s run-in with Zuckerman, but didn’t know the cause. Here’s an interesting sidebar. Seems I’ve already spoken to Dr. Zuckerman.”

Ping!

“Zuckerman runs the Mujeres por Mujeres clinic in Zone One!” I said.

“The very one. She’s going to enjoy my next visit even less than she enjoyed my first one.”

“I’d like to go along.”

“Bus leaves at oh-eight-hundred.”

Poor Mateo. I’d have to call him again.

“Here’s another intriguing sidebar. The coworker thought Patricia was seeing someone behind her boyfriend’s back. An older man.”

When I look back, I recall that meeting as the beginning of the spiral. From then on details multiplied, information proliferated, and our perceptions formed and re-formed like patterns in a kaleidoscope.

Ryan and I spent another couple of hours going through Nordstern’s tapes and books. Then we dragged ourselves home, grabbed a quick dinner, and went to our rooms. He didn’t make a pass. I didn’t care.

I’d been distracted since Galiano’s report. I thought his revelation about Maria Zuckerman had been the ping I’d felt at the Eduardo home, but something else kept bothering me.

What? Something I’d seen? Something I’d heard? The feeling was like a vague itch that I couldn’t quite scratch.

Ryan phoned at nine-fifteen.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading the label on my antacid.”

“You do live on the edge.”

“What did you think I’d be doing?”

“Thanks for your help today.”

“My pleasure.”

“Speaking of your pleasure—”

“Ryan.”

“O.K. But I’ll make it up to you when we return to the great white North.”

“How.”

“I’ll take you to see Cats. ”

My itch suddenly localized.

“I’ve got to go.”

“What? What did I say?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”