Grave Secrets (22 page)

“Sinter?”

“Selectively heat and fuse it. That will create a solid mass representing one cross-section of the skull. The system will spread and sinter, layer after layer, until the skull is complete.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much. When the skull is done, we’ll take it out of the build chamber and blow away any loose powder. You’ll be able to use it as is, or it can be sanded, annealed, coated, or painted.”

I was right. Stuff in. Stuff out. In this case what would go in was information taken from Fereira’s CT scan. What would come out was a cast of the Paraíso skull. I hoped.

“The technology’s called SLS, Selective Laser Sintering.”

“Besides metal bearings and plastic parts, what else do you make?”

“Pump impellers, electrical connectors, halogen lamp housings, automotive turbocharger housing units, brake fluid reservoir parts—”

“O-rings for the Orion nebula.”

We both laughed.

“How long will it take?”

She shrugged. “Two, maybe three hours to convert the CT scan to an STL file, maybe a day to cast the skull. How about late Monday?”

“Fantastic.”

“You look shocked.”

I was. “I thought you’d say a week or two.”

“This project sounds more interesting than hearing aid housings.”

“And the Guatemalan police will be eternally grateful.”

“Any cute ones down there?”

I pictured Galiano’s lopsided face.

“There is one.”

“What about the
caballero
you’re seeing up here?”

I pictured Ryan.

“Pecos Bill’s been keeping a low profile.”

“Anyway, I’ll do your skull myself.” She held up a long, slender finger. “On one condition.”

“Dinner and drinks on me.” I laughed. “Tomorrow night?”

“Sounds good. Be warned, girlfriend. I’m gonna hit you up for the priciest mineral water on the menu.”

I entered my lobby to the sight of the
caballero
supine on its leather love seat, head propped on one arm, lower legs dangling over the other.

“How did you get in here?”

“It’s O.K. I’m a cop.”

I set down my cases and grocery bags.

“All right. Let’s go with why.”

“It’s hot outside.”

I waited.

Ryan sat up and swung his size twelves to the floor.

“These things aren’t designed for beings over six foot two.”

“It’s a decorative piece.”

“Would be hell for watching the Stanley Cup finals.”

“It’s not intended for lounging.”

“What’s it good for?”

“Collecting mislabeled mail, drugstore circulars, and back issues of the newspaper.”

“This lobby isn’t exactly visitor friendly.” Ryan rubbed the back of his neck.

“There are the potted palms.”

He gave me his forty-something schoolboy grin. “Missed you.”

“I got in yesterday.”

“I’ve been on a stakeout.”

“Oh?”

Through the door I heard muted beeps and engine revs. Friday evening rush hour was winding down.

“Owner of a dive called Les Deux Orignals decided to expand into the small-arms business. Guess the two moose made him nervous.”

“You never told me you speak Spanish.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

I picked up my parcels.

“It’s been a long day, Ryan.”

“How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’ve made plans.”

“Change them.”

“That would be rude.”

“How about dinner tonight?”

“I just bought shrimp and veggies.”

“I know a scampi recipe that’s illegal in four Italian cities.”

I’d bought enough food for two. Actually, I’d bought enough for twelve. I never again wanted a cupboard as bare as the one I’d faced last night.

Ryan stood, spread his hands palms out, and broke into another grin. He was tanned from hours of outdoor surveillance, and the tawny skin made his eyes appear more vivid than usual, a blue beyond the blue human cells can produce.

Normally, with time, even the most stunning beauty grows familiar. It’s like watching Olympic figure skating. We grow jaded and forget how extraordinary the grace and beauty truly are. Such was the case with Susanne. I was aware of her elegance, but it no longer surprised me when she entered a room.

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.”

GALIANO DIDN’T RETURN MY CALL UNTIL LATE SATURDAY MORNING

“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. Gutiérrez 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.”