Grave Secrets

My face felt hot with embarrassment. Correct, Mr. Gerardi. Because I was queasy and intimidated by pink spectacles.

Gerardi aligned his vertebrae even straighter than they had been. “I think it’s time you leave my home.”

“Buenos días, Señor Gerardi.” Galiano nodded to me “Regresaré.” I’ll be back.

He strode toward the door.

I rose and followed.

“¡Hijo de la gran puta!” Galiano reached out and twisted a knob on the police scanner. The static receded to a sputter.

“Tell me what you really think of him.”

“He’s a pompous, overbearing, self-righteous ass.”

“Don’t hold back.”

“What sort of parent sees adolescent friendship as frivolity?” Galiano’s voice dripped disdain.

“My thought exactly. What does Daddy do to afford the Mercedes and Beshir?”

“Gerardi and his brother own the largest auto dealership in Guatemala.”

We were in the car, heading toward the ambassador’s residence.

“But he is right.” I made a print on the dashboard with my index finger, wiped it away with the heel of my hand. “We don’t know dick about that skeleton.”

“We will.”

I made another print.

“Think Lucy was as compliant as her father believes?”

Galiano turned one palm up and raised shoulders and eyebrows, a very French gesture for a Guatemalan cop.

“Who knows? Experience tells us they almost never are.”

Two more prints. Trees flashed by outside the window. Several turns, then we pulled onto a street of large homes set far back on spacious and professionally tended lots. In most cases, the only thing visible was a tile roof.

“Gerardi may have been right about one thing, though.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Chantale Specter.”

The ambassador and his family lived behind hedges identical to those surrounding the Gerardi place. They also lived behind an electrified fence with enormous scrolled wrought-iron gates and a matched set of uniformed guards.

Galiano angled onto the drive and held his badge to the window for guard number one. The man leaned close, then stepped to a control booth. Seconds later the gates swung in.

We made a wide sweep to the front of the house, where guard number two examined ID. Satisfied, he rang. The door opened, and the guard handed us off to a house servant.

“Mrs. Specter is expecting you.” The man looked at us without looking at us. “Please follow me.”

The setting was a repeat of the Gerardi home. Paneled study, expensive tile, furniture, and objets d’art. This time the carpet was Bakhtiari.

The encounter couldn’t have been more different.

Mrs. Specter’s hair was copper, her lips and nails Chinese red. She wore a three-piece silk pants suit the color of sunflower petals, and matching strap sandals on her feet. The filmy material flowed around her as she crossed to greet us. So did a cloud of Issey Miyaki.

“Detective Galiano, it’s always a pleasure to see you.” French accent. “Though I’d rather it were under different circumstances, of course.”

“How are you today, Mrs. Specter?” Her fingers looked ghostly enveloped in Galiano’s brown hand.

“I’m well.” She turned her smile on me. A practiced smile. “Is this the young woman of whom you spoke?”

“Tempe Brennan,” I introduced myself.

The Chinese-red nails shot out. Her skin was so soft, her bones so delicate, it felt like shaking the hand of a child.

“Thank you so much for making yourself available to the local authorities. This means a great deal to my husband and me.”

“I hope I can help.”

“Please, forgive my beastly manners.” She placed one hand on her chest, gestured with the other. “Please. Let’s sit down.”

She led us to a conversational grouping tucked into a bay on the right of the room. Each window was covered by three-inch wooden shutters, slats closed to the morning sun.

“Would you like tea or coffee?” She looked from Galiano to me.

We both declined.

“So, Detective. Please tell me that you have good news.”

“I’m afraid not.” Galiano’s voice was gentle.

All color drained from her face. The smile quivered, but held.

“But no bad news,” he added quickly. “I just wanted to touch base, check a few facts, and see if anything has occurred to you since our last conversation.”

She dropped the chest hand to the armrest, allowed her spine to curve into the chair back.

“I’ve tried, really I have, but other than what I’ve told you, I’ve come up blank.”

Despite her best efforts, the smile collapsed. She began pulling at one of several loose threads in the upholstery by her knee.

“I lie awake nights going over and over the past year. I—it’s difficult to say this. But I obviously missed a lot that was happening in front of me.”

“Chantale was riding out a rough patch.” His tone was a galaxy from where it had been with Gerardi. “As you’ve said, she was being less than open with you and your husband.”

“I should have been more observant. More perceptive.”

Her face looked dead white within its halo of orange hair. One lacquered nail worked the threads, as though commanded by an independent source.

My heart ached for her, and I groped for comforting words.