Grave Secrets

He needed no explanation.

“About the time she might have been leveling with Papa.”

“Her own, or the donor of the lucky sperm?”

“Or nondonor.”

“Jealous boyfriend?” I threw out.

“Angry pimp?”

“Psycho stranger? The possibilities are endless. That’s why the world needs detectives.”

“I did some detecting this morning.”

I waited.

“The Eduardos are the proud owners of two boxers and a cat. Lucy Gerardi’s family has a cat and a schnauzer. The De la Aldas are not animal lovers. Nor are the ambassador and his clan.”

“Patricia Eduardo’s boyfriend?”

“A ferret named Julio.”

“Claudia de la Alda’s?”

“Allergies.”

“When will your trace guys be done viewing the samples?”

“Monday.”

“What did the DA have to say?”

I heard Galiano draw a long breath through his nostrils.

“His office will not be releasing the skeleton.”

“Can we have access at the morgue?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The guy really wanted to be my best friend, was devastated he couldn’t discuss the case.”

“Is this typical?”

“I’ve never been stonewalled by a DA, but I’ve never tangled with this one.”

I pointed my thoughts at that for a while.

“What do you think is going on?”

“Either the guy’s got a hard-on for protocol, or someone’s putting the screws to him.”

“Who?”

Galiano didn’t answer.

“The embassy?” I asked.

“What are you doing?” There was a dark guardedness to his voice.

“Now?”

“For the junior prom.”

I could see why Ryan and Galiano had hit it off.

I looked at my watch. Five-forty. A Saturday evening calm had settled over the lab.

“It’s too late to start anything here. I’ll head back to my hotel.”

“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“For?”

“Caldos.”

I started to object, pictured the gathering of one I’d attend in my room.

What the hell.

“My dress is blue.”

“O.K.” Puzzled.

“I prefer a wrist corsage.”

“Donated by a citizen with a horticultural bent.” Galiano proffered two pansies stapled to a blue rubber band.

“Donated?”

“The band is sold separately.”

“Broccoli?”

“Asparagus.”

“They’re lovely.”

Cars honked and jockeyed as we walked toward the Café Gucumatz. An early evening shower had come and gone, and the air smelled of wet cement, diesel fuel, earth, and flowers. Now and then the soggy maize scent of tamal or chuchito drifted by as we passed a vendor’s cart.

We shared the sidewalk with throngs of others. Couples heading out for dinner or drinks. Young professionals returning home from work. Shoppers. Saturday-evening strollers. A breeze tossed ties over shoulders and molded skirts to legs and hips. Overhead, palm fronds rose and fell with soft clicking sounds.

The Gucumatz was done in techno-Mayan, with dark wooden beams, plastic flora, and an artificial pond with arching bridge. Murals decorated every wall, most depicting the fifteenth-century Quiché king who’d lent his name to the place. I wondered how Feathered Serpent felt about the implied endorsement, but kept it to myself.

Lighting was by torch and candle, and entering was like passing into a Mayan tomb. As my pupils dilated, a parrot shrilled greetings in Spanish and English. So did a man in white shirt, black pants, and apron.

“Hola, Detective Galiano. Hello. ¿Cómo está?”

“Muy bien, Señor Velásquez.”

“Such a long time since we’ve seen you.”

An enormous mustache handle-barred over Velásquez’s mouth, plunged south at the sides, then curled back north as though reaching for his nostrils. I thought of an emperor tamarin.

“Working my tail off, señor.”

Velásquez wagged his head in understanding.

“Crime is so terrible today. Everywhere. Everywhere. The citizens of this city are privileged to have you on the job.”

Another sad head shake, then Velásquez took my hand and pressed it to his lips. The facial hair felt like steel wool.

“Bienvenido, señorita. A friend of Detective Galiano is always a friend of Velásquez.”

Releasing my fingers, he flashed both eyebrows at Galiano and winked theatrically.

“Por favor. My best table. Come. Come.”

Velásquez led us to his prize pond-side seating, turned and beamed at Galiano. The detective tipped his head toward the restaurant’s interior.

“Sí, señor. Of course.”

Velásquez hurried us to an alcove constructed around a back corner, and gave Galiano a questioning look. My companion nodded. We entered the cave and sat. Another Groucho display for the great crime fighter, and our host withdrew.

“That was as subtle as a baboon’s ass,” I said.

“I apologize for the machismo of my brothers.”

Within seconds a waitress appeared with menus.

“Libation?” Galiano asked me.

Oh, yeah.

“Can’t do it.”

“Oh?”

“Over quota.”

Galiano did not question that.

He ordered a Grey Goose martini neat. I asked for Perrier with lime.

When the drinks arrived, we opened our menus. The lighting had gone from low to nonexistent with our relocation to the underworld, and I could hardly make out the handwritten text. I wondered about Galiano’s motive for the move, but didn’t ask.

“If you haven’t had caldos, I recommend it.”

“Caldos being…?”