Grave Secrets (33 page)

“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.

“
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.

Professor Jiménez’s address was in Edificio M2, a blue and white rectangular affair in the center of campus. We followed the signs to Ciencias Biológias, and located his office on the second floor.

The thing I remember about Jiménez is the goiter. It was the size of a walnut and the color of a plum. Otherwise, all I retain is the impression of a very old man with intense black eyes.

Jiménez didn’t rise when we appeared. He merely watched us troop through his door.

The office was approximately six by eight. The walls were covered with color photos of cells in various stages of mitosis. Or meiosis. I wasn’t sure.

Jiménez didn’t give Galiano a chance to speak.

“The man came asking about stem cells. I gave him a synopsis and answered his questions. That’s all I know.”

“Olaf Nordstern?”

“I don’t remember. He said he was researching a story.”

“What did he ask?”

“He wanted to know about the embryonic stem cell lines President George Bush approved for research.”

“And?”

“I told him.”

“
What
did you tell him?”

“According to the NIH—”

“National Institutes of Health,” I translated.

“—seventy-eight lines exist.”

“Where?” I asked.

Jiménez dug a printout from a stack of papers and handed it to me. As I skimmed the names and numbers, Galiano got a crash course on stem cell research.

My attention ricocheted back to the third listing. Quietly, I showed it to Ryan. His eyes met mine.

“Is seventy-eight enough?” Galiano asked, having listened to ES cells 101.

“Hell, no.”

Jiménez had an odd way of dropping his head to the left when he spoke. Perhaps the goiter pressed on his vocal cords. Perhaps he wanted to hide it.

“Some of those lines could get stale, or lose their pluripotency, or just plain crash. Four of the six colonies created by one U.S. biotech firm, won’t say which one, are turning out to be unstable.” Jiménez snorted. “There’s already a backlog of requests.”

He pointed a bony finger at the printout in my hand.

“And take a look at that list. Many of those lines are in private hands.”

“And private companies aren’t known for sharing.” Ryan.

“You’ve got that right, young man.”

“Is the American government doing anything to assure access?” Galiano asked.

“The NIH is creating a human embryonic stem cell registry. Still, NIH admits distribution of cell lines will be left to the discretion of those labs that birthed them.”

“ES cells could become a valuable commodity.” Ryan.

Jiménez’s laugh sounded like a cackle.

“Stem cell stocks soared following Bush’s announcement.”

A very troubling conjecture was coalescing in the back of my brain.

“Dr. Jiménez, how sophisticated is the methodology for growing cultures of human ES cells?”

“You’re not going to do it in your sophomore biochem class, if that’s what you’re asking. But it’s not that complicated for someone with training.”

“How does it work?”

“You get fresh or frozen embryos—”

“Where?”

“IVF labs.”

“Clinics for couples undergoing treatment for infertility,” I translated for my police buddies.

“You extract cells from the inner cell mass of the blastocyst. You put the cells in culture dishes with growth medium supplemented with fetal bovine serum—”

My heart rate shot to the stratosphere.

“—on feeder layers of mouse embryonic fibroblasts that have been gamma-irradiated to prevent their replication. You let the cells grow nine to fifteen days. When the inner cell masses have divided and formed clumps, you dissociate cells from the periphery, put them back in culture, and—”

I was no longer listening. I knew what Zuckerman was up to.

I caught Ryan’s eye and indicated that we should go.

Jiménez droned on about an alternative technique involving the injection of ES cells into the testes of immunocompromised mice.

“Thank you, Professor,” I cut in.

Ryan and Galiano looked at me like I was crazy.

“One last question. Did Nordstern ask about a woman named Maria Zuckerman?”