Grave Secrets

Under Lucas’s direction, the morgue attendants lifted the pouch by its corners, placed it on the gurney, and disappeared in the direction from which they’d come.

Díaz tried once more to deliver the warrant. Galiano’s arms remained crossed on his chest.

Díaz circled to me, eyes fastidiously avoiding the tank. Sighing, he offered the document.

As I reached to accept the paper, my eyes met Galiano’s. His lower lids crimped, and his chin raised almost imperceptibly. I understood.

Without another word, Díaz and Lucas hurried from the yard.

Galiano looked at his partner. Hernández was already gathering the bagged clothing.

“How much is left in there?” Galiano tipped his head at the tanker truck.

The operator shrugged, waggled a hand. “Ten, maybe twenty gallons.”

“Finish it.”

Nothing else showed up in the screen. I was squeezing the last of the muck through my fingers when Galiano joined me.

“Bad day for the good guys.”

“Isn’t the DA supposed to be a good guy?”

“Stupid little rodent didn’t even think of clothing.”

I felt too ill to reply.

“Does it fit the profile?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“The skeleton. Does it fit the description of one of our missing girls?”

I hesitated, furious with myself for not thoroughly examining the bones, furious with Galiano for allowing them to be taken.

“Yes and no.”

“You’ll know when you’ve examined it.”

“Will I be doing that?”

“I will come out the winner,” he said, gazing at the empty tank.

I wondered who the loser would be.

5

THAT NIGHT I BATHED IN TAHITIAN VANILLA BUBBLES FOR ALMOST an hour. Then I warmed pizza slices in the microwave and dug an orange soda from the mini-fridge. Snickers and an apple for dessert. Hotel room gourmet.

As I ate, the curtains breathed in and out the window on a halfhearted breeze. The metal pull chain clicked against the frame. Three floors below, traffic honked and rumbled. Overhead, a ceiling fan whirred. On the screen inside my skull, the day’s events shifted in and out of focus like a bad home movie.

After clearing wrappers, one paper plate, one plastic fork, and the empty soda can, I phoned Mateo. He told me that Molly remained comatose.

His words tipped a delicate balance. I was no longer merely exhausted. Suddenly I just wanted to lie on the bed, bury my face in the pillow, and cry. I felt overwhelmed by sorrow and worry for my friend.

Instead, I shifted topics.

Mateo was outraged when I told him about Díaz, and insisted I continue with the case. I agreed but promised to be at his lab on Saturday.

I spent the next twenty minutes jotting on paper a detailed chronology of what had happened at the Paraíso. Then I washed panties in the bathroom sink.

Teeth. Hand cream. Oil of Olay. Sit-ups.

I turned on CNN. A grim-faced commentator moved through soccer, an earthquake, the world market. Locally, a bus had crashed into a ravine, killing seventeen and hospitalizing a score of others.

It was no go. My mind looped from a septic tank, to an intensive care unit, to a well, and back again.

I pictured the skull, slick with human waste. Why hadn’t I done a more thorough exam? Why did I permit people to intimidate me and prevent me from doing what I knew should be done?

I pictured Molly, tubes running from nose, mouth, and arm.

My emotional equilibrium finally collapsed as I was plugging my cell phone into its charger.

In Charlotte, Birdie would be sound asleep. In Charlottesville, Katy would be studying for finals. Or partying with friends. Or washing her hair.

My chest gave a tiny heave.

My daughter was a continent away, and I had no idea what she was doing.

Stop sniveling. You’ve been alone before.

Killing the lights and TV, I slipped between the sheets.

My mind circled the same holding pattern.

In Montreal, it would be close to midnight. Ryan would be…

What?

I had no idea what Ryan would be doing.

Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, Section des Crimes Contre la Personne, Sûreté du Québec. Tall, craggy, with all the crags in the right places. Eyes bluer than a Bahamian lagoon.

My stomach did that weird little flip.

No nausea there.

Ryan worked homicide for the provincial police, and for a decade our paths had crossed and recrossed as we investigated cases of unnatural death. Always distant, always professional. Then, two years ago, my marriage imploded, and Ryan turned his legendary charm my way.

To say our history since had been rocky would be like saying Atlantis had a water problem.

Suddenly single after a twenty-year hitch, I’d had little knowledge of the dating game, and only one maxim: no office romance. Ryan ignored it.

Though tempted, I kept him at arm’s length, partly because we worked together, partly because of his reputation. I knew of Ryan’s past as a wild-child turned cop, and of his present as the squad room stallion. Both personae were more than I wanted to take on.