Nordstern pulled a notepad from one of the four zillion pockets on his camouflage vest, flipped the cover, and poised pen above paper.
“I want to learn all I can about Dr. Snow and the FAFG.”
Before I could respond, a man appeared at the open door. He was dark-skinned, with a face that looked as if it had taken some hits. The brows were prominent, the nose humped and slightly off angle. A scar cut a tiny white swath through his left eyebrow. Though not tall, the man was muscular and carried not an ounce of fat. The phrase Thugs Are Us popped to mind.
“Dr. Brennan?”
The man held out a badge. SICA. Special Crimes Investigative Unit, Guatemala National Civil Police. My stomach went into free fall.
“Mateo Reyes directed me here.” The man spoke in unaccented English. His tone suggested the call was not social.
“Yes?”
“Sergeant-detective Bartolome Galiano.”
Oh, God. Was Molly dead?
“Does this have to do with the shooting near Solola?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
Galiano’s eyes shifted to Nordstern, returned to me.
“The subject is sensitive.”
Not good, Brennan. What interest could SICA have in me?
“Could it wait a few minutes?”
His dead gaze gave me the answer.
3
SERGEANT-DETECTIVE GALIANO TOOK THE CHAIR RELUCTANTLY vacated by Ollie Nordstern, crossed ankle over knee, and impaled me with a stare.
“What is this about, Detective?” I forced my voice steady, scenes from
Galiano’s eyes held me like a bug on a pin.
“We at the National Civil Police are aware of your activities, Dr. Brennan.”
I said nothing, lowered hands to lap, leaving two sweaty palm prints on the plastic blotter.
“I am largely responsible for that.” A small oscillating fan ruffled a half dozen hairs on the crown of his head. Otherwise, the man was motionless.
“You are.”
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“Part of my youth was spent in Canada, and I still follow the news up there. Your exploits do not go unnoticed.”
“My exploits?”
“The press loves you.”
“The press loves to sell papers.” He may have heard my irritation. “Why have you come to see me, Detective Galiano?”
Galiano withdrew a brown envelope from his pocket and placed it in front of me. Hand-printed on the outside was a police or coroner dossier number. I looked at but did not reach for it.
“Take a look.” Galiano resumed his seat.
The envelope contained a series of five-by-seven color photographs. The first showed a bundle on an autopsy table, liquid oozing from the edges to form a brown puddle on the perforated stainless steel.
The second showed the bundle untangled into a pair of jeans, the lower end of a long bone protruding from one ragged cuff. The third featured a watch, and what were probably pocket contents: a comb, an elastic hair binder, two coins. The last photo was a close-up of a tibia and two metatarsals.
I looked at Galiano.
“That was discovered yesterday.”
I studied the skeletal elements. Though everything was stained a deep chocolate brown, I could see flesh clinging to the bones.
“A week ago toilets began backing up at the Pension Paraiso, a small hotel in Zone One. Though the place ain’t the Ritz, guests grumbled, and the owners went poking in the septic tank. They found the Levi’s blocking the
