by Kathy Reichs
Not so with Ryan. His good looks still startled me on a regular basis.
And he knew it.
“Which ones?” I asked.
He looked puzzled.
“Which cities?”
“Turin, Milan, Sienna, and Florence.”
“You’ve made this scampi?”
“I’ve read about it.”
“This better be good.”
Ryan went for beer while I changed. Then he grilled the shrimp and I mixed a salad.
During dinner we talked around things, maintaining a safe level of banality. Afterward, we cleared the table and took coffee outside to the patio.
“That really was good,” I said for the second time.
Lights were blinking on in windows across the courtyard.
“Have I ever misled you?”
“Why is this repast banned under Tuscan law?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I exaggerated a little.”
“I see.”
“It’s actually a misdemeanor.”
Beyond the courtyard, the Friday night party was cranking up. Auto horns. Emergency sirens. Weekend revelers, in from their split-levels in Dorval and Pointe Claire. Pounding hip-hop, swelling then receding as cars passed by.
Ryan lit a cigarette.
“How goes Chupan Ya?”
“You remembered the name.”
“The place is important to you.”
“Yes.”
“It must be gut-wrenching.”
“It is.”
“Tell me about it.”
It was like speaking of some parallel universe where rotting bodies took center stage in a morality play too hideous for words. Headless mothers. Massacred infants. An old woman who lived because she had beans to sell.
Ryan listened, the periwinkle eyes rarely leaving my face. His questions were few, always germane. He did not rush or divert, allowed me to unload in my own way.
And he listened.
And I realized a truth.
Andrew Ryan is one of those rare men able to make you feel, rightly or wrongly, that yours are the only thoughts in the galaxy that interest him.
It is the most appealing trait a man can have.
And it was not going unnoticed by my libido, which seemed to be clocking a lot of overtime lately.
“More coffee?” I asked.
“Thanks.”
I went to the kitchen.
Maybe having Ryan drop by wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe I’d been too harsh on the caballero. Maybe I should have used a little makeup.
I did a quick detour to the bathroom, ran a brush through my hair, dabbed on blusher, decided against mascara. Better lashless than hurry-up smudgy.
When I handed Ryan his mug, he reached up and touched my freshly rouged cheek. My skin burned as it had with Galiano.
Maybe it was a virus.
Ryan winked.
I looked at our shadows blended on the brick, my heart thumping on all cylinders.
Maybe it wasn’t a virus.
As I resumed my seat, Ryan asked why I’d returned to Montreal.
Back to reality.
I considered what I was at liberty to say about the Paraíso case. I’d already discussed the skeleton with Ryan, but both Galiano and Mrs. Specter had requested confidentiality about the ambassadorial angle.
I decided to tell all, but refer to the Specters only as “a Quebec family.”
Again, Ryan listened without interrupting. The skeleton. The four missing women, then three, then one. The cat hair. The skull cast. When I finished, there was dead silence for a full minute before he spoke.
“They dragged these girls to lockup just for pinching CDs?”
“Apparently one of them got pretty unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant?”
“Resisting, screaming obscenities, spitting.” Mrs. Specter had shared that little tidbit during one of our airport waits.
“Bad move. What I don’t get is why Chantale Specter was held for any time at all in the Op South jail.”
“You know about the ambassador?” I couldn’t believe it. I was being so careful to respect the Specters’ privacy, and Super Sleuth already had a pocketful of notes.
“Diplomats enjoy immunity,” he went on.
“Diplomatic immunity,” I snapped.
Closing my eyes, I fought back the irritation. Ryan had let me ramble on, knowing he already knew. And why did he know about the Specters?
“Jesus, Ryan. Is there any case I’m capable of working without your input?”
Ryan was intent on his line of thinking.
“Diplomatic immunity doesn’t apply in your home country. Why wasn’t Chantale out immediately?”
“Maybe she couldn’t bear to give back the orange jumpsuit. How long have you known about this?”
“She should have been riding in a limo in less than an hour.”
“Chantale gave a false name. The cops had no idea who she was. How long have you known about the Specter connection?”
Again he ignored my question.
“Who busted her cover?”
“Chantale used her allotted phone call to contact a friend.” Mrs. Specter had told me that, too.
“And the playmate contacted Mommy.”
I drew a deep, dramatic breath.
“Yes.”
“And the men in pinstripes decided to let naughty Chantale cool her heels while Mommy burned leather getting to Quebec.”
“Something like that.”
Bootfalls echoed off the exterior face of the courtyard wall. A car engine turned over in a parking lot across the alley.
“A couple of hours.”
“What?” I snapped again.
“I’ve known for a couple of hours. Galiano filled me in this afternoon.” Ryan smiled and gave a little shrug. “The old Bat never changes.”
When irritated, I grow testy, spit verbal missiles. When angry, red-laser-through-the-brain angry, I go deadly still inside. My mind freezes, my voice flat-lines, and every response becomes glacial.
I had been the topic of a frat boy discussion. The anger switch tripped.
“You phoned Galiano?” Even.
“He called me.”
“Did Detective Galiano have questions about my competence?”
“He had questions about the Specter family.”
There was a moment of arctic silence. Ryan lit a cigarette.
“Did you discuss me in Spanish?”
“What?” My reference to the old days escaped him.
“Never mind.”
Ryan drew deeply, blew smoke upward into the air.
“Galiano had news about a suspect.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though reading the TV listings aloud.
“So he phoned someone with no involvement in the case.”
“He wanted to know what I had on the Specters, and he tried to phone you.”
“Really.”
“He called your cell. That’s what I came by to tell you.”
“You’re lying.”
“Have you checked your messages recently?”
I hadn’t.
Wordlessly, I went inside and dug the phone from my purse. Four missed calls. All from out of area. I hit the button for my voice mail. Two messages.
The first was from Ollie Nordstern. The reporter from hell had a few questions. Could I call him back? I hit delete.
The second was from Bat Galiano.
“Thought you’d like to know. Last night we arrested the scumbag who killed Claudia de la Alda.”
18
GALIANO DIDN’T RETURN MY CALL UNTIL LATE Saturday morning. When we spoke, he was in the process of interrogating the scumbag in question.
“Who is he?”
“Miguel Angel Gutiérrez.”
“Go on.”
“Gutiérrez was getting in touch with his roots at the Kaminaljuyú ruins last night. Gramps, our friendly neighborhood snoop, took a personal interest in the excursion and phoned the station. Gut
iérrez was nailed hoisting himself over the guardrail five yards up-slope from the De la Alda dump site.”
“Coincidence?”
“Like OJ’s glove. Gutiérrez works as a gardener. The De la Alda home is one of his regular jobs.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Not much. Right now he’s talking to his priest.”
“And?”
“I think the Fifth Commandment might come up. In the meantime, Hernández is out tossing his trailer.”
“Any link to the Paraíso or to Patricia Eduardo?”
“None we’re aware of. Anything on your end?”
I told him about the cat hair sample and the skull replication.
“Not bad, Brennan.”
It was exactly what Ryan would say.
“Let me know what happens.”
In the afternoon, I cleaned the condo and did laundry. Then I laced up my cross-trainers and went to the gym. As I pounded out three on the treadmill, two names kept cadence in my head.
Ryan and Galiano.
Galiano and Ryan.
My anger had diminished since the night before, when I’d ushered Ryan out with an icy good-bye. But it was still registering a six-point-oh.
Why?
Because he and his college compadre had discussed me as they might last Wednesday’s bowling date.
Ryan and Galiano.
Galiano and Ryan.
Had they?
Of course they had.
Was I being paranoid?
Galiano and Ryan.
What had they said?
I remembered an incident with Ryan. On a boat. I was wearing a T-shirt, cutoffs, and no underwear.
Oh, God.
Galiano and Ryan.
Ryan and Galiano.
I ran until my lungs burned and my leg muscles trembled. By the time I hit the showers my anger had eased down out of the red zone.
That evening I had dinner with Susanne Jean at Le Petit Extra on rue Ontario. She listened to my story of the Hardy Boys, a smile tugging the corners of her mouth.
“How do you know their conversation wasn’t strictly professional?”
“Female intuition.”
The delicate eyebrows rose. “That’s it?”
“The Men Are Pigs Theory.”
“That’s not sexist?”
“Of course it is. But I have little else to go on.”
“Ease back, Tempe. You’re being hypersensitive.”
Deep down, I suspected that.
“Besides, from what you’ve said, they have nothing to compare.”
“According to The Theory, they make it up.”
She laughed her full, throaty laugh.
“Girlfriend, you are losing it.”
“I know. How’s the skull coming?”
Susanne had converted the CT scans, and would have the model ready by four on Monday.
As we parted, she pointed a long dark finger between my eyes.
“Sister. You need a good romp in the feathers.”
“I’ve got no romping buddy.”
“Sounds like you’ve got one too many.”
“Hm.”
“How ’bout a BOB?”
“O.K., I’ll bite. What’s a BOB?”
“Battery Operated Boyfriend.”
Susanne often presented an interesting take on life.
On Sunday, I received a call from Mateo Reyes. The FAFG leader reported good progress with the Chupan Ya victims. Only nine skeletons remained unidentified. I told him the Specter situation was under control, and that I would be returning as soon as I wrapped up my Montreal cases.
Mateo passed on an appeal from Ollie Nordstern. The reporter had been phoning daily, urgently wanted to speak with me. I was noncommittal.
Mateo had good news about Molly Carraway. The archaeologist had been released from the hospital and was returning with her father to Minnesota. A full recovery was expected.
Mateo also had sad news. Señora Ch’i’p had died in her sleep on Friday night. The Chupan Ya granny was sixty-one.
“You know what I think?” Mateo’s voice was unusually tight.
“What’s that?”
“I think that old lady forced herself to keep breathing just long enough to see proper burial for her babies.”
I agreed.
Disconnecting, I felt a warm trickle slide down each cheek.
“Vaya con Dios, Señora Ch’i’p.”
I backhanded a tear.
“We’ll take it from here.”
The torso bones were still soaking when I got to the lab on Monday. The morning meeting was surprisingly brief, the post-weekend lineup featuring only three cases: a stabbing in Laval; a tractor accident near St-Athanase; a suicide in Verdun.
I’d just placed the mummified head on my worktable when I heard a tap on the window. Ryan smiled at me from the corridor.
I pointed at the head and waved him away.
He tapped again. I ignored him.
He tapped a third time, harder. When I looked up, his badge was pressed to the glass.
Rolling my eyes, I got up and let him in.
“Feeling better?”
“I feel fine.”
Ryan’s gaze fell to the table.
“Jesus Christ, what happened to him?”
The thing was bizarre, measuring approximately six inches in diameter, with long dark hair and shriveled brown skin. The features looked like a bat imitating a human face. Pins projected from the lips, and frayed cording peeked from a hole in the tongue.
I positioned a magnifying glass so Ryan could see, moved it over the nose, cheeks, and jaws.
“What do you notice?”
“Tiny cuts.”
“The skin was peeled back for removal of the muscles. The cheeks are probably stuffed with some sort of fabric.”
I rotated the head.
“The base was damaged to extract the brain.”
“So what the hell is it?”
“A Peruvian trophy skull.”
Ryan looked at me like I’d just told him it was an alien star child.
“Most were made along the south coast between the first and sixth centuries A.D.”
“A shrunken head?”
“Yes, Ryan. A shrunken head.”
“How did it get from Peru to Canada?”
“Collectors love these things.”
“Are they legal?”
“They’ve been illegal in the States since ninety-seven. I’m not sure about Canada.”
“Have you ever seen one before?”
“I’ve looked at several fakes. Never a real one.”
“This is genuine?”
“It looks authentic to me. And the dental chipping suggests the little guy’s been kicking around awhile.”
I laid the trophy skull on the table.
“Authentication will be up to an archaeologist. What is it you want?”
Ryan continued to study the head.
“Your thoughts on the torso.”
He reached out and touched the hair, poked the cheek.
“Any septuagenarians missing upriver?”
“Oh, yeah?”
He looked up, wiped his hand on his jeans.
“I’ve only done a preliminary, but this guy’s got a lot of miles on him.”
“Probably not Clément?”
“Probably not.”
I picked up my calipers, but Ryan made no move to leave.
“Is there something else?”
“Galiano asked me to have a little heart-to-heart with naughty Chantale. Save him a trip. He suggested you might like to tag along.”
Tag along? A flicker of red.
Ryan pointed to the skull.
“Why the hole in the forehead?”
“Rope.”
“I hate it when that happens to me.”
I gave him the “spare me” face.
“The Specters are out of the
picture for your septic tank case. Actually, with the Gutiérrez collar, it looks like the whole serial killer theory is sucking wind. But Galiano thought it couldn’t hurt to talk to the little princess.”
“Galiano phoned again?” Cool.
“This morning.”
“Has Gutiérrez confessed?”
“Not yet, but Galiano’s convinced he’ll give it up.”
“I’m glad he’s keeping you informed.”
“I’m here, he’s there. I’m doing the interrogation as a professional courtesy.”
“You’re good at that.”
“Yeah.”
“God bless gonads.”
“You’re a scientist, Brennan. You look at bones. I’m a cop. I question people.”
As I started to speak, Ryan’s beeper sounded. He slipped it off his waistband and checked the readout.
“Gotta go. Look, you don’t have to go on the Chantale visit. Galiano thought you’d like to be included.”
“When is this little outing?”
“I should be back from Drummondville by six.”
I shrugged. “Normally that’s when I watch the Shopping Channel.”
“Are you PMS, Brennan?”
“What?”
He feigned a self-defense maneuver with his hands.
“I’ll pick you up around five forty-five.”
“My heart’s thumping.”
“And Brennan.” Ryan jerked a thumb at the table. “Take a cue from our Peruvian friend. Quit while you’re a head.”
* * *
I spent the rest of the day with our Peruvian friend. X rays verified that the skull was human, not dog or bird, the species typically used by creators of fakes. I took photographs, wrote my report, then contacted the chair of the Anthropology Department at McGill University. He promised to track down the proper expert.
At two, Robert Gagné stopped by my office to say that the profiles would be ready shortly. I was as shocked at his pace with the cat hair as I’d been with Susanne’s with the cranial cast. Cops waited weeks for DNA results.
Gagné’s response was identical to Susanne’s. The project was out of the ordinary. It intrigued him. He’d run with it.
By three, I was on my way to St-Hubert.
By four-thirty, I was heading home, a replica of the Paraíso skull in a box on the seat beside me. The facial approximation was now up to me.
Traffic was heavy, and I moved ahead in starts and stops, alternately palming the gearshift and drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Gradually the starts succumbed to the stops. On the Victoria Bridge, they gave out altogether, and I sat fixed in place, surrounded by a four-lane automotive showroom.
