Grave Secrets

But Détective Lothario never eased up, and a year back I’d agreed to a Chinese dinner. Before our first social outing, Ryan vanished undercover, not to resurface for many months.

Last fall, following an epiphany concerning my estranged husband, I’d decided to consider Ryan again. Though still cautious, I was finding Ryan thoughtful, funny, and one of the most annoying men I’d ever encountered.

And one of the sexiest.

Flip.

Though that runner was still in the blocks, the gun was loaded and ready to fire.

I glanced at my phone. I could be talking to Ryan in seconds.

Something in my brain said “bad idea.”

Why?

You’d look like a wimp, the something answered.

I’d look like I care.

You’d look like a grade-B heroine mooning for a shoulder to cry on.

I’d look like I miss him.

Suit yourself.

“What the hell,” I said aloud.

Throwing back the quilt, I grabbed the phone and hit autodial 5. The miracle of modern communication.

A hundred miles north of the forty-ninth parallel, a phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

I was about to disconnect when a machine answered. Ryan’s voice invited a message in French then English.

Satisfied? The cerebral something smirked.

My thumb moved toward the “end” button, hesitated.

What the hell.

“Hi. It’s Temp—”

“Bonsoir, Madame la Docteure,” Ryan’s voice cut in.

“Did I wake you?”

“I screen all calls.”

“Oh?”

“Cruise and Kidman split. It’s just a matter of time until Nicole starts ringing.”

“You wish, Ryan.”

“How’s it going on the mudflats?”

“We were in the highlands.”

“Were?”

“We’ve finished digging. Everything’s at the lab in Guatemala City.”

“How many?”

“Twenty-three. Looks like mostly women and kids.”

“Rough.”

“It gets rougher.”

“I’m listening.”

I told him about Carlos and Molly.

“Jesus, Brennan. Watch your butt down there.”

“It gets rougher still.”

“Go on.” I heard the sound of a match, then exhaled air.

“The local gendarmerie think they have a serial operating in Guatemala City. They requested my help with a recovery.”

“There’s no local talent?”

“The remains were in a septic tank.”

“La spécialité du chef.”

“I’ve done one or two.”

“How did that pearl float to Central America?”

“I am not unknown on the world stage, Ryan.”

“Curriculum vitae posted on the Web?”

Could I tell him about the ambassador’s missing daughter? No. I’d promised Galiano full confidentiality.

“A detective saw one of my JFS articles. This may come as a surprise to you, but some cops do read publications unadorned by pictures that fold in the middle.”

A long exhalation. I pictured smoke blasting from his nostrils like steam from a fun-house dragon.

“Besides, there’s the possibility of a Canadian connection.”

As usual, I felt I was justifying my actions to Ryan. As usual it was making me churlish.

“And?”

“And today we recovered a skeleton.”

“And?”

“I’m not sure.”

He picked up on something in my voice.

“What’s eating you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Does the vic fit their profile?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Didn’t you do a prelim on site?”

How could I explain? My tummy was upset?

“No.” Again, the burning guilt. “And I probably never will.”

“Oh?”

“The DA confiscated the bones.”

“Let me get this straight. These yokels ask you to do the leprous slog, then the DA lays paper and boogies with the goods?”

“The cops were given no choice.”

“Didn’t they have their own paper?”

“It’s a different legal system. I didn’t inquire.” My voice dripped icicles.

“It’s probably a minor glitch. The coroner will be calling you first thing tomorrow.”

“Doubtful.”

“Why?”

I searched for a tactful way to explain Díaz. “Let’s just say there’s resistance to the idea of outside help.”

“What about the Canadian connection?”

I pictured the skull.

“Dubious. But I’m not certain.”

“Jesus, Brennan—”

“Don’t say it.”

He did.

“How do you get yourself into these things?”

“They asked me to recover bones from a tank,” I spat. “I did that.”

“What moron was in charge?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I may nominate the guy for dumb-ass of the year.”

“Sergeant-detective Bartolomé Galiano.”

“SICA?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit.”

“What?”

“Face like a bulldog, eyes like a Guernsey?”

“They’re brown.”

“The Bat.” It was almost a whoop.

“What bat?”

“I haven’t thought of the Bat in years.”

“You’re making no sense, Ryan.”

“Bat Galiano.”

Galiano said he’d spent time in Canada.

“You know Galiano?”

“I went to school with him.”

“Galiano went to St-F.X.?”

St-Francis Xavier, Antigonish, Nova Scotia. The small university town was the scene of many of Ryan’s more colorful performances. Then a cokehead biker opened his carotid with the shattered neck of a twelve-ounce Bud. Following serious stitching and introspection, Ryan changed sides. His allegiance shifted from booze and bars to the boys in blue, and he never looked back.

“Bat lived across the hall my senior year. I graduated, joined the SQ. He wrapped up a semester later, returned to Guatemala to become a cop. I haven’t spoken to him in ages.”

“Why ‘Bat?’”

“Never mind. But clear your calendar. You’ll be looking at bones before the week is out.”

“I should have refused to hand them over.”