Grave Secrets

by Kathy Reichs

  “Is it some kind of progress report?”

  “And a discussion of future research directions.”

  Ryan was in a snit because he couldn’t smoke.

  “What genius prepared it?”

  “The National Institutes of Health.”

  “How come Nordstern had the report on disk?”

  “He probably downloaded it from the Net.”

  “Why?”

  “Excellent question, Detective.”

  Ryan checked his watch for the billionth time. At that exact moment the digits on the screen behind the Delta agent changed again. We would now be departing an hour behind schedule.

  “Sonovabitch.”

  “Relax. We’ll make the connection.”

  “Thank you, Pollyanna.”

  I dug a journal from my briefcase and began leafing through it. Ryan got up, crossed the waiting area, recrossed it, returned to his seat.

  “So what did you learn?”

  “About?”

  “Stem cells.”

  “More than I ever wanted to know. I was up until two.”

  A man the size of South Dakota dropped a bag on the floor and flopped into the seat to my right. A tsunami of sweat and hair oil rolled my way. Ryan’s eyes met mine, then shifted toward the windows. Wordlessly, he got up and changed location. I followed a compassionate thirty seconds later.

  “Stem cells are taken from embryos?” Ryan.

  “Stem cells can come from embryonic, fetal, or adult tissue.”

  “It’s the non-adult forms that have the Christian zealots in a frenzy.”

  “The religious right is strongly opposed to any use of embryonic stem cells.”

  “The usual sanctity of life crap?”

  Ryan did have a way of cutting to the chase.

  “That’s the argument.”

  “And G. W. Bush bought in.”

  “Only partly. He’s trying to sit on the fence. He’s limited federal funding to research using existing stem cell lines only.”

  “So scientists needing government grants are only allowed to experiment with cells already growing in labs?”

  “Or with stem cells derived from adult tissue.”

  “Will that do the job?”

  “In my opinion?”

  “No. Give me the thinking in the Politburo.”

  Nope. That’s it. Back to my journal.

  After a few moments, “O.K. Give me the stem cell basic course, condensed version.”

  “We’re agreed on courteous listening as a protocol?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Every one of the two hundred cell types in the human body arises from one of three germ layers, endoderm, mesoderm, or ectoderm.”

  “Inner, middle, and outer layers.”

  “That’s excellent, Andrew.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Brennan.”

  “An embryonic stem cell, or ES cell, is what’s termed pluripotent. That means it has the ability to give rise to cell types deriving from any of the three layers. Stem cells reproduce themselves throughout the life of an organism, but remain uncommitted until signaled to develop into something specific—pancreas, heart, bone, skin.”

  “Flexible little dudes.”

  “The term ‘embryonic stem cell’ really includes two types: those that come from embryos, and those that come from fetal tissue.”

  “The only two sources?”

  “To date, yes. To be perfectly correct, embryonic stem cells are derived from eggs just a few days after fertilization.”

  “And before the egg is implanted in the mother’s uterus.”

  “Right. At that point the embryo is a hollow sphere called a blastocyst. Embryonic stem cells are taken from the inner layer of that sphere. Embryonic germ cells are derived from five- to ten-week-old fetuses.”

  “And the grown-ups?”

  “Adult stem cells are unspecialized cells that occur in specialized tissues. They have the ability to renew themselves, and to differentiate into all of the specialized cell types of the tissues in which they originate.”

  “Which are?”

  “Bone marrow, blood, the cornea and retina of the eye, brain, skeletal muscle, dental pulp, liver, skin—”

  “Don’t we already use those?”

  “We do. Adult stem cells isolated from bone marrow and blood have been studied extensively and are used therapeutically.”

  “Why not simply use the big guys and leave embryos and fetuses alone?”

  I enumerated points on my fingers.

  “Adult stem cells are rare. They are difficult to identify, isolate, and purify. There are way too few of them. They do not replicate indefinitely in culture the way embryonic stem and germ cells do. And, to date, there is no population of adult stem cells that is pluripotent.”

  “So embryonic stem and germ cells are the name of the game.”

  “Definitely.”

  Ryan fell silent for a moment. Then, “What’s the potential payoff in having lots of them available?”

  “Parkinson’s disease, diabetes, chronic heart disease, end-stage kidney disease, liver failure, cancer, spinal cord injury, multiple sclerosis, Alzheimer’s disease—”

  “The sky’s the limit.”

  “Exactly. I can’t fathom why anyone would want to block that kind of research.”

  The baby blues went wide, the voice went preachy, and one long finger pointed at my nose.

  “It’s a first step, Sister Temperance, toward a slide down the slippery slope of pregnancies conceived only for use of the embryos, resulting in an Aryan nation dedicated to the propagation of muscular, blond, blue-eyed men and slinky, long-legged women with big breasts.”

  With that, they called our flight.

  On the way to Guatemala we talked about mutual friends, and about times and experiences we’d shared. I told Ryan about Katy’s psych project with the Cheez Whiz rats, and about her quest for summer employment.

  Ryan asked about my sister, Harry. We laughed as I described her latest romance with a rodeo clown from Wichita Falls. He filled me in on his niece, Danielle, who’d run off to sell jewelry on the streets of Vancouver. We agreed the two had a lot in common.

  Eventually, fatigue sucked me in. I fell asleep with my head on Ryan’s shoulder. Though rough on my neck, it was a warm and reassuring place to be.

  * * *

  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 frie
nd, 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?”

  “He’s a little vague on that. But we recovered a camera from his closet shelf containing a partially exposed roll of film. You’ll never guess.”

  “The little mistress.”

  “Bingo. Shot her from a distance with a telephoto lens.”

  “Have you had him assessed?” I asked.

  Galiano made another left, then a right onto a street lined with two- and three-flats.

  “Docs say he has a compulsive fixation disorder, or some psychobabble like that. Erotomania? Couldn’t help himself, probably never meant to hurt her.”

  “Lot of good that did Claudia.”

  Galiano pulled to the curb, shifted into park, and turned to face us.

  “What about Patricia Eduardo?” Ryan asked.

  “Gutiérrez says he’s never met Patricia Eduardo, has never been to the Zona Viva or the Café San Felipe, and has never heard of the Pensión Paraíso. He swears Claudia de la Alda is the only person he’s ever loved.”

  “The only person he’s ever killed.” Ryan’s voice was hard with disdain.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe him?” I asked.

  “Hijo de la gran puta. He’s passed three polygraphs.”

  Galiano turned and chin-motioned to a beat-to-crap building on the far side of the street. Crumbling pink stucco. Bloodred door. Dozing wino. Grafitti. More clever than most. B-plus.

  “Pera shares a second-floor flat with an older cousin.”

  “Won’t she be at work?”

  “When I said I’d be by, she decided to take the day off. Didn’t want to upset the boss.”

  “Did she ask why you wanted to talk to her?” I asked.

  Galiano looked surprised. “No.”

  We got out. At the thunk-thunk-thunk of the car doors, the wino slithered down the stucco and stretched full length across the front stoop. Stepping over him, I noticed that his pants were half zipped.

  Or half unzipped. I supposed that depended on your point of view.

  The lobby measured approximately six by six and smelled of disinfectant. The floor was tiled in black and white.

  The names Pera and Irías had been printed on a card and inserted into the slot of one of six brass mailboxes. Galiano pushed the buzzer. A voice answered immediately. Our arrival had been monitored.

  “Sí?”

  “Detective Galiano.”

  The door clicked. We passed through and single-filed up a narrow staircase.

  The Pera-Irías flat lay behind one of two doors opening onto a tiny second-floor hallway. As I stepped onto the landing, locks rattled, the door swung inward, and a double-take-gorgeous young woman peeked out. I felt Galiano and Ryan do the male straightening thing. I may have joined them.

  “Detective Galiano?” A child’s voice.

  “Buenos días, Señorita Pera.”

  Aida Pera nodded solemnly. Her hair was flaxen, her skin pale, her eyes brown and enormous, trusting but frightened at the same time. “Take care of me” eyes. The kind of eyes that make men stupid.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see us so early.” Galiano.

  Another nod, then Pera looked at Ryan and me.

  Galiano introduced us. A slight pucker formed above the bridge of her nose, melted.

  “What is this about?” She toyed with the security chain. Though her fingers were long and slender, the nails were ragged, the cuticles raw and bloody. As far as I could see, they were her only flaw.

  “May we come in?” Galiano spoke in a calming voice.

  Pera stepped back, and we entered a small vestibule. A long corridor shot straight ahead toward the back of the flat. The living room lay to the front. She led us there and gestured at a grouping of couch and chairs, each outfitted with arm- and headrest doilies. I wondered how old the cousin was.

  Galiano wasted no time.


  “Señorita Pera, it is my understanding that you are friends with Canadian ambassador André Specter.”

  This time the pucker was deep and sustained.

  “May I ask the nature of that relationship?”

  Pera chewed a knuckle as she looked from Galiano to Ryan to me. Perhaps I appeared the least threatening. Her answer came my way.

  “I can’t talk about my relationship with André. I just can’t. It—I—André made me promise—”

  “We could do this as a formal statement at police headquarters.” Galiano’s voice was a wee bit harsher.

  Pera did another sweep. Galiano. Ryan. Me. Again, she chose the girl.

  “Promise that you will never tell?” A child, bursting with a secret.

  “We will do our best to protect your confidentiality.” Galiano.

  The Bambi eyes cut to Galiano, came back to me.

  “André and I are going to be married.”

  25

  GALIANO GLANCED AT ME. TAKE IT AWAY.

  “How long have you been seeing the ambassador?” I asked.

  “Six months.”

  “Are you lovers?”

  She nodded, looked at the floor.

  “I know you think I’m too young for André. I’m not. I love him and he loves me and nothing else matters.”

  “Do his wife and daughter matter?” I asked.

  “André is very unhappy. He plans to leave his wife as soon as he can.”

  Don’t they all.

  “How old are you, Aida?”

  “Eighteen.”

  My anger was building.

  “When?”

  She looked up. “When what?”

  “When is the wedding?”

  “Well, we don’t have a date. But soon.” She looked to Galiano and Ryan for support. “As soon as André can, you know, arrange things without jeopardizing his position.”

  “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?”