Grave Secrets

“I’m sorry. I got lost.” Zuckerman circled me and closed the lab door.

“Go.” Her lips were compressed, and she was breathing deeply through her nose.

Hurrying from the office, I heard the lab door open, then the sound of an angry voice. A name. I didn’t linger to eavesdrop. I had to find Galiano.

Though we’d never met, I knew the name of Commando Boy.

27

“YOU’RE CERTAIN?”

“Daddy’s rat face, Mama’s two-tone eyes.”

“One brown, one blue.”

I nodded. It was hard to forget the dullard owners of the Paraíso.

“And the letters JS hanging from his neck.”

“Jorge Serano.”

“Yes. And I heard Zuckerman say his name.”

I felt a burst of elation. Then it was gone.

“What the hell are he and Zuckerman doing in that lab?”

“Did you see any rabbits?”

I looked to see if he was joking. He was.

“Look, if you’re right about Jorge Serano—”

“I’m right, Galiano.”

“Jorge Serano links Zuckerman to the Paraíso. Zuckerman knew Patricia Eduardo. Could be our first break at stringing some things together.”

We were in Galiano’s cruiser, one block east of Zuckerman’s clinic.

“Zuckerman fights with Eduardo. Eduardo turns up dead at a hotel owned by the parents of one of Zuckerman’s employees.” I was trying but failing to keep my voice calm.

“Don’t have a coronary.”

“I’m showing energy and purpose.”

“I’m inspired by your drive. Let’s go talk to Serano.”

When we reentered the clinic, Serano was gone.

So was Zuckerman.

So were the women who’d been waiting for care.

Score one for the Hippocratic oath.

The receptionist admitted Jorge Serano was an employee. She described him as a personal assistant to Dr. Zuckerman. The only address she had was his parents’ hotel.

I suggested another peek at Zuckerman’s lab. Galiano refused, preferring to wait until he had a warrant.

We drove to the Paraíso.

The senior Seranos hadn’t had an infusion of brainpower since our first meeting. They had not seen their son in weeks, and knew nothing of his whereabouts. They hadn’t a clue where Jorge was on October twenty-ninth. They didn’t know Maria Zuckerman, hadn’t heard of her clinic.

Galiano produced Patricia Eduardo’s picture. They’d never laid eyes on her, had no idea how she came to be in their septic tank.

Señora Serano admired the horse.

After leaving the Paraíso, Galiano dropped me at FAFG headquarters and set off on a quest for Jorge Serano. I was laying out a Chupan Ya skeleton when Ryan called.

“I found something in Nordstern’s undies.”

“Skidmarks?”

“You’re a laugh riot, Brennan. I need you to translate.”

“Your Spanish is better than mine.”

“Different type of translation. Biology-ese.”

“Can’t you work it out? Ever since I agreed to help Galiano I’ve hardly had time to look at Chupan Ya bones, and that’s my day job.”

“Bat told me you hadn’t had lunch.”

Ryan made my grandmother look like an amateur when it came to concern for eating regular meals.

“I promised Mateo—”

“Go.” Mateo had materialized beside my workstation. “We’ll all be here when you catch your killer.”

I held the phone to my chest.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.

I gave Ryan directions and cut off.

“Can I ask you something, Mateo?”

“Of course.”

“Who is Alejandro Bastos?”

The scar on his lip went dagger-thin. He waved a hand at the skeleton lying between us.

“Army colonel. The murdering bastard responsible for this, may he rot in hell.”

Next to a hot poker up the nose, my favorite thing is mealy, overfried fish. That’s what I was eating as Ryan leafed through the date book he’d found in Nordstern’s suitcase.

Locating the entry, Ryan held the book out so I could read.

On May 16 Nordstern scheduled a meeting with Elias Jiménez.

I thought back.

“That was two days before his interview with me.”

I chewed and swallowed. The former was a formality.

“Who’s Elias Jiménez?” I asked.

“Professor of cell biology at San Carlos University.”

“Was the interview taped?”

“It isn’t on any of the cassettes I’ve been through.”

“Is the professor about to enjoy the pleasure of our company?”

“As soon as Detective Galiano is free.”

“Intimidated by academia?”

“I’m a visiting cop in a foreign land. No authority. No weapon. No support. I might as well be a journalist.”

“And a strictly by-the-book kind of guy.”

“Straight arrow.”

I pushed the fish as far from me as possible.

“Jumping genomes! Another ride in the Batmobile!”

On the way to Ciudad Universitaria in Zone 12, Galiano updated Ryan and me on the afternoon’s progress. There was little to report concerning Jorge Serano. The kid had a thick jacket, mostly minor offenses. Shoplifting. Vandalism. Drunk driving. But Jorge hadn’t stuck around to discuss past indiscretions. He’d vanished like money into a wahala.

Galiano’s partner had researched Antonio Díaz.

Hernández discovered that the DA had been an army lieutenant in the early eighties, served most of his hitch near Sololá. His commanding officer was Alejandro Bastos.

Terrifico.

Hernández also learned that a number of high-ranking police officials had served under Bastos.

Mucho terrifico.