Grave Secrets

by Kathy Reichs

  “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.”

  I clicked off and dialed Galiano’s number. He was out.

  Damn.

  I grabbed the phone book.

  Yes.

  I dialed.

  Señora Eduardo answered on the first ring.

  I apologized for phoning so late. She dismissed it.

  “Señora Eduardo, when you shooed Buttercup, you told him to join the others. Did you mean other cats?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Two years ago, a litter of kittens turned up at the barn where my daughter boarded her horses. Patricia adopted two and found homes for the rest. She wanted to bring the kittens here, but I said Buttercup was enough. They were born at the barn, they could stay at the barn. That worked fine until Patricia stopped going.”

  She paused. I could picture her performing the eyelid maneuver.

  “About three weeks ago the barn owner phoned and insisted I take the cats or he’d drown them. Buttercup doesn’t like it, but they’re here.”

  “Do you know who adopted the other kittens?”

  “Families around here, I suppose. Patricia plastered the neighborhood with circulars. Got about a dozen calls.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “Are the cats shorthairs?”

  “Plain old barn cats.”

  * * *

  Dominique Specter’s phone rang four times, then a male voice requested a message in French and English. I left one after the tone.

  I was flossing when my cell phone rang. It was Mrs. Specter.

  I asked about Chantale.

  Fine.

  I asked about the weather in Montreal.

  Warm.

  Obviously, she was not in a chatty mood.

  “I have just one question, Mrs. Specter.”

  “Oui?”

  “Where did you get Guimauve?”

  “Mon Dieu. I will have to think.”

  I waited while she did so.

  “Chantale found a notice at the pharmacy. We phoned. Kittens were still available, so we drove out and chose one.”

  “Drove where?”

  “A barn of some sort. A place with horses.”

  “Near Guatemala City?”

  “Yes. I don’t remember the exact location.”

  I thanked her and rang off.

  Would there be no end to the mistakes I would make on this case? What a moron I was. I’d explained it to Ryan, failed to grasp it myself.

  Guimauve’s hair wasn’t with the bones in the Paraíso tank. The hair came from Guimauve’s littermate. Guimauve’s sibling. An animal with identical mitochondrial DNA. Patricia Eduardo’s barn cats had shed the hair I found on her jeans.

  André Specter wasn’t a murderer. Just a horny slimeball who deceived his family and gullible young women.

  I fell asleep with a million questions swirling in my brain.

  Who killed Patricia Eduardo?

  Why had Díaz not wanted me to identify the body?

  Why had Patricia Eduardo and Dr. Zuckerman argued?

  How many people had been responsible for Chupan Ya?

  Who shot Molly and Carlos?

  What had Ollie Nordstern discovered that got him killed? Why couldn’t we discover it?

  Why the interest in stem cell research?

  Always questions, never answers.

  I slept fitfully.

  * * *

  Galiano didn’t arrive until eight-thirty. By then I’d had three cups of coffee and was wired enough to put two coats on Shea Stadium. He brought cup number four.

  I wasted no time describing my conversations with Señora Eduardo and Mrs. Specter. Galiano showed no surprise. Though I might not have seen it behind the Darth Va
der lenses.

  “One of his staff has been pretty forthcoming,” Galiano said. “Looks like Specter’s a lecher, but otherwise harmless.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “Pera must have warned him. Specter never showed.”

  The clinic was bustling on a Friday morning. At least a dozen women sat in chairs ringing the waiting room. Several held infants. Most were pregnant. Others were there to avoid becoming so.

  Four toddlers played with molded plastic toys on the floor. Two older children colored at a child-sized table, a tub of crayons equidistant between them. The wall behind was a record of the exuberance of thousands of their predecessors. Kick marks. Food splotches. Crayon graffiti. Gouges from Tonka trucks.

  Galiano stepped to the receptionist and requested an audience with Dr. Zuckerman. The young woman looked up, and light flashed off the lenses of her glasses. Her eyes widened when she saw the badge.

  “Un momento, por favor.”

  She hurried down a corridor to the right of her desk. Time passed. The women stared at us with wide, solemn eyes. The kids colored on, faces tense with the effort of staying inside the lines.

  A full five minutes later, the receptionist returned.

  “I’m sorry. Dr. Zuckerman is unable to see you.” She waved a nervous hand at the uterus brigade. “As you can see, we have many patients this morning.”

  Galiano stared directly into the lenses.

  “Either Dr. Zuckerman comes out here—now—or we go in there.”

  “You can’t go into the examining room.” It was almost a wail.

  Galiano unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in his mouth, never breaking eye contact.

  The receptionist gave a deep sigh, threw both hands into the air, and retraced her steps.

  A baby began to cry. Mama raised her blouse and directed the infant’s mouth toward a nipple. Galiano nodded and smiled. Mama turned a shoulder.

  A door flew open down the hall. Zuckerman steamed into the waiting room like the little engine that could. She was a thick woman with dirty-blonde hair cut very short. At home. In poor lighting. With dull scissors.

  “What the hell do you people think you’re doing?” Accented English. I guessed Australian.

  The receptionist crawled behind her desk and hunched over something lying on it.

  “You can’t come barging in here, traumatizing my patients—”

  “Shall we traumatize them further, or would you prefer to take this somewhere more private?” Galiano gave the doctor an icy smile.

  “You refuse to understand, sir. I do not have time for you this morning.”

  Galiano reached under his jacket, produced a set of handcuffs, and dangled them in front of her.

  Zuckerman glared.

  Galiano dangled.

  “This is preposterous.”

  Zuckerman spun and stormed up the hall. We followed her past several examining rooms. In more than one I spotted a sheet-covered woman with her knees in the full upright and locked position. I did not envy the women their delay in the stirrups.

  Zuckerman led us past an office door bearing her name to a room containing chairs and a TV-VCR setup. I imagined the instructional videos. Tips for Examining Your Breasts. Success with the Rhythm Method. Bathing the New Baby.

  Galiano wasted no time.

  “You were Patricia Eduardo’s supervisor at the Hospital Centro Médico.”

  “I was.”

  “Is there a reason you failed to mention that when we spoke?”

  “You were inquiring about patients.”

  “Let me understand you, Doctor. I came here asking about three women. One of those three women was under your charge at another facility, and you failed to point that out?”

  “It is a common name. I was busy. I didn’t make the connection.”

  “I see.” His tone indicated that he did not. “All right. Let’s talk about her now.”

  “Patricia Eduardo was one of many girls under my supervision. I know nothing of their activities outside the hospital.”

  “You never ask about their private lives?”

  “That would be improper.”

  “Uh huh. You and Patricia were observed arguing shortly before her disappearance.”

  “The girls do not always perform up to my expectations.”

  “Was that the case with Patricia?”

  She hesitated a beat. “No.”

  “What is it you two fought about?”

  “Fought.” She blew air through her lips. “I would hardly call it a fight. Miss Eduardo disagreed with advice I was offering.”

  “Advice?”

  “Medical advice.”

  “As a disinterested supervisor?”

  “As a doctor.”

  “So Patricia was a patient.”

  Zuckerman realized her mistake right away.

  “She might have visited this clinic once.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t remember the complaint of every woman who comes to see me.”

  “Patricia was not every woman. She was someone you worked with every day.”

  Zuckerman did not reply.

  “She was not listed in your records here.”

  “That happens.”

  “Tell us about her.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Patient confidentiality.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is a murder investigation. Fuck patient confidentiality.”

  Zuckerman stiffened, and a mole on her cheek appeared to expand.

  “We do it here, or we do it at headquarters.” Galiano.

  Zuckerman pointed at me. “This woman is not official.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “You should not compromise your oath. I’ll wait in the lobby.”

  Before anyone could object, I left the room. The hall was deserted. Moving quietly, I hurried to Zuckerman’s office, slipped in, and closed the door.

  Morning sun slanted through half-open blinds, casting neat lines across the desk and stippling it with color around a small crystal clock. Its ticking, soft and rapid like a hummingbird’s heart, was the only sound breaking the silence.

  Bookshelves wrapped around two walls. Filing cabinets filled a third. All were government-issue gray.

  I did a quick survey of titles. Standard medical journals. JAMA. Fertility. Standard medical texts. Several volumes on cell biology. A greater number on reproductive physiology and embryology.

  A door opened off the far corner of the room. Bathroom?

  I held my breath and listened.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  I hurried over and turned the knob.

  Whatever I was expecting, it was not what I saw. The room was dominated by two long counters crammed with microscopes, test tubes, and petri dishes. Glass-fronted cabinets held bottles and tubs. Jars of embryos and fetuses filled a set of shelves, each labeled with gestational age.

  A young man was placing a container in one of three refrigerators lining the back wall. I read the label. Fetal bovine serum.

  On hearing the door, the man turned. He wore a green T-shirt and camouflage pants tucked into black boots. His hair was slicked and bound at the neck. The initials JS hung from a gold chain around his neck. Styling commando.

  His eyes shot past me into Zuckerman’s office.

  “The doc let you in here?”

  Before I could answer Zuckerman burst through the outer door. I turned, and our eyes locked for a couple of beats.

  “You don’t belong here.” Her face was florid to the roots of her bad hair.

  “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?”