Grave Secrets

His skepticism irritated me. Or perhaps it was my inability to provide answers.

Irrationally, my thoughts turned to the stumbling episode. Was there such a thing as tactile memory? Did my cheek really tingle where it had grazed his chest?

Of course not.

I listened in silence as he told me about the investigation of Claudia de la Alda’s murder. Galiano’s English was unaccented, but spoken with a Latin cadence. I liked his voice. I liked his crooked face.

I liked the way he looked at me. I liked the way he looked.

Business, Brennan. You’re a scientist, not a schoolgirl.

When the check arrived I grabbed it, dug out my Am Ex card, and thrust it into the waiter’s hand. Galiano did not object.

Back in the car, Galiano turned sideways and dropped an elbow over the seatback.

“What’s bugging you?” A neon sign pulsated blue and yellow slashes across his face.

“Nothing.”

“You’re acting like someone who’s just learned that people were trying to kill her.”

“A penetrating observation.” Though a misdiagnosis.

“I’m a sensitive guy.”

“Really.”

“I read Venus and Mars. ”

“Hm.”

“Bridges of Madison County.”

He reached out and ran a thumb around the corner of my mouth. I turned my head sideways.

“Took notes.”

“Where is Mrs. Galiano this evening?”

For a moment, he looked confused. Then he laughed.

“With her husband, I presume.”

“You’re divorced?”

Galiano nodded. He lifted my hair and drew a finger down the side of my neck. It left a smoldering trail.

“What about Ryan?” he asked.

“A working relationship.”

True. We worked together.

Galiano leaned close. I felt the warm wetness of breath on my cheek. Then his lips slid behind my ear. Onto my neck. My throat.

Oh, boy.

Galiano took my face in his hands and kissed me on the lips.

I smelled male sweat, cotton, something tangy, like citrus. The world kicked into slo-mo.

Galiano kissed my left eyelid, my right.

Galiano’s cellular shrieked.

We flew apart.

He yanked the phone from his belt and clicked on, one hand lingering in my hair.

“Galiano.”

Pause.

“Ay, Dios.”

I held my breath.

“When?”

Longer pause.

“Does the ambassador know?”

I closed my eyes, felt my fingers curl into fists.

“Where are they now?”

Please, God. Not another body.

“Yeah.”

Galiano disconnected, ran his hand across my head, and dropped it onto my shoulder. For a moment, he just stared at me, the Guernsey eyes liquid in the darkness of the car.

“Chantale Specter?” I could hardly get the question out.

He nodded.

“Dead?”

“She was arrested last night in Montreal.”

14

“SHE’S ALIVE?” I KNEW IT WAS STUPID AS SOON AS I SAID IT .

“Lucy Gerardi was with her.”

“No way!”

“They were nailed shoplifting CDs at the MusiGo at Le Faubourg.”

“Shoplifting?” I sounded like a moron, but this wasn’t making sense.

“Cowboy Junkies.”

“Why?”

“Guess they’re into folk rock.”

I rolled my eyes, another pointless response in the dark.

“What could have brought them to Montreal?”

“Air Canada.”

Asshole. This reply I held back.

Galiano started the engine, pulled out of the lot.

On the drive back I sat with feet up, knees hugged to my chest. The protective posturing was unnecessary. The news about Chantale Specter had squelched any amorous intentions either of us might have harbored.

At the hotel, I popped the door before we stopped rolling.

“Call me as soon as you know anything.”

“Will do.”

I flapped a hand in the air between Galiano and me.

“Will this be a problem?” My face burned.

Galiano grinned. “None at all.”

Too agitated to sleep, I checked my messages in Montreal and Charlotte. Pierre LaManche had called to say that a mummified head had been found in an attic in Quebec City. Newspaper wrappings suggested it dated to the thirties. The case was not urgent. However, a putrefied human torso had drifted ashore in Lac des Deux-Montagnes, and he wanted me to examine it as soon as possible.

There were no anthropology cases in North Carolina.

Pete said both Birdie and Boyd were fine.

Katy was not in.

Ryan was not in.

I ate two doughnuts from a box I’d stashed in the kitchenette, turned on CNN.

Tropical storm Armand was threatening the Florida panhandle. Three Canadians had been arrested for a stock scam in Buenos Aires. A bomb had killed four in Tel Aviv. A train accident near Chicago had left over one hundred hurt, most with soft tissue injuries. Happy lawyers.

Next I bathed, deep-conditioned my hair, shaved my armpits and legs, plucked my eyebrows, and creamed my entire body.

Hairless and smooth, I crawled into bed.

My mind was still humming, and sleep wouldn’t come.

Claudia de la Alda was a homicide victim here in Guatemala. Patricia Eduardo was still missing but she might be the girl in the septic tank. Chantale Specter and Lucy Gerardi were alive and busted in Canada.

What had drawn Chantale and Lucy to Montreal? How had they gotten there without leaving a trail? Where had they been hiding out, and why?