Grave Secrets

Galiano shifted into reverse. Then he draped an arm over the seat, turned his head, and shot backward. His fingers brushed my neck as he swiveled forward.

My skin tingled.

My eyes flew open.

Jesus, Brennan. A young woman is dead. A family will be devastated. You are working the case. This is not a date.

I stole a peek at Galiano. Headlights slid across his face, altering the size and shape of his features.

I thought of the pansies in the produce binder. Had Galiano felt me flinch when my cheek pressed against his chest? Had he really clasped me longer than necessary?

I thought of the Volkswagen bouquet in my hotel room.

Jesus.

“Goddamn sharks.” Galiano’s voice startled me. “No, they’re worse than sharks. They’re like hyenas circling a carcass.”

He cracked his window. I reeked of mud and rotting flesh, and wondered if I was the cause.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asked.

“I did a prelim, but need to confirm.”

“She’s headed to the morgue.”

“Does that mean I won’t see the body again?”

“Not if I have anything to say.”

“There are four molar restorations for the dental ID. Plus there’s the old arm fracture for additional confirmation.”

We drove in silence a few moments.

“Why wasn’t Díaz all over this one?” I asked.

“Maybe Monday is his lawn bowling day.”

Twenty minutes later Galiano pulled up at my hotel. I had the door open before the wheels stopped turning. His hand closed around my arm as I reached for my pack.

Oh, boy.

“You did a hell of a job today.”

“Thanks.”

“If there is some twisted psycho out there, we’ll nail him.”

“Yes.”

He released my arm, brushed hair from my cheek with his fingertips.

More tingling.

“Get some sleep.”

“Oh, yeah.”

I flew from the car.

Dominique Specter had other plans.

She was waiting in the lobby, half concealed by its one rubber plant. She rose when I entered, and a copy of Vogue slid to the tile.

“Dr. Brennan?”

The ambassador’s wife was wearing a pantsuit of pale gray silk, a black pearl choker around her neck. She looked as out of place in that hotel as a cross-dresser at a Baptist convention.

I was too stunned to answer.

“I realize this is a bit irregular.”

She took in my hair, my mud-caked nails and clothes. Perhaps my scent.

“Is this absolutely too terribly inconvenient?” The practiced smile.

“No,” I said warily. “Detective Galiano just dropped me off. Maybe I can catch him.”

I dug for my cell phone.

“No!”

I looked up. The electric-green eyes were wide with alarm.

“I—I’d prefer talking to you.”

“Detective Galia—”

“Alone. Comprenez-vous? ”

No. I didn’t understand. But I agreed.

12

MRS. SPECTER RETURNED TO HER VOGUE, WHILE I WENT UPSTAIRS. I wasn’t sure if her patience derived from courtesy or from distaste for my state of hygiene. I didn’t care. I was filthy, itchy, exhausted, and depressed from six hours of recovering a body. I needed a shower.

I took advantage of everything my toilet kit had to offer. Chamomile shampoo and conditioner, citrus bath gel, honey and almond body cream, green tea and cypress mousse.

As I dressed, I looked longingly at my bed. What I wanted was sleep. What I didn’t want was an intense, prolonged conversation with a wounded and suffering mother. But I was caught by what-ifs. What if Mrs. Specter had held back and was now willing to bare herself? What if she was about to make revelations that might unlock one or more cases?

What if she knew where Chantale was?

Dream on, Brennan.

I rejoined Mrs. Specter, smelling like a Caswell-Massey shop. She suggested a park two blocks north of the hotel. I agreed.

Parque de las Flores was a small square framed by rosebushes and divided by paths cutting diagonally from corner to corner. Trees and wooden benches occupied the four triangles formed by the gravel X.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” said Mrs. Specter, removing a newspaper and settling onto a bench.

It’s eleven o’clock, I thought.

“It reminds me of a summer night in Charlevoix. Were you aware that that’s my home?”

“No, ma’am. I wasn’t.”

“Have you ever visited that part of Quebec?”

“It’s very scenic.”

“My husband and I keep a little place in Montreal, but I try to visit Charlevoix as often as I can.”

A couple passed in front of us. The woman pushed a stroller, its wheels crunching softly on the gravel. The man’s arm was draped around her shoulder.

I thought of Galiano. My left cheek burned where his fingers had touched me. I thought of Ryan. Both cheeks burned.

“It’s Chantale’s birthday.” Mrs. Specter’s words brought me back. “She’s seventeen today.”

Present tense?

“She’s been gone more than four months now.”

It was too dark to read her expression.

“Chantale would not have allowed me to suffer as I am. If she was anywhere from where she could communicate, she would have done so.”

She fidgeted with the tab on her purse. I let her go on.

“This past year has been so terribly difficult. What did Detective Galiano call it? A rough patch? Oui, a rough patch. But even when Chantale went a fait une fugue — How do you say that?”

“Ran away.”