Grave Secrets

“Did Gutierrez phone Senora De la Alda?”

“Yes. Got a late-night visit from the heavenly host.”

“An angel?”

“Ariel himself. Told Gutierrez he’d screwed up, suggested a rosary and confession.”

“Jesus.”

“I don’t think the big guy got involved.”

“Have you found anything to link Gutierrez to Patricia Eduardo?”

“Nada.”

“To the Paraiso?”

“Not yet. We’ll be working those angles a lot harder now.”

I thought a moment.

“The hair links Patricia to the Specter cat.”

“We’re working that, too.”

“Ryan’s doing some digging on the ambassador.”

“I asked him to, but I’m not optimistic.”

“Diplomatic firewall?”

“Like penetrating the CIA.”

After a silence, Galiano said, “Ryan’s keeping us in the loop on Nordstern.”

“We’ll know more when we go through his notes.”

“Hernandez and I confiscated a laptop when we tossed his room at the Todos Santos.”

“Anything useful?”

“Let you know when we crack the password.”

“Ryan’s pretty good at that. Listen, Galiano. I want to help.”

“I would like that.” I heard him draw a deep breath. When he spoke again his voice sounded huskier. “These deaths haunt me, Tempe. Claudia. Patricia. These girls were the age of my son, Alejandro. That is not an age to die.”

“Diaz will be livid if he hears about the CT scans.”

“We’ll get him a snow cone.” The melancholy was gone.

“I’m finished here. It’s time to refocus on Chupan Ya. If I can also help nail Patricia Eduardo’s killer, I’ll die a happy woman.”

“Not on my patch.”

“Deal.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“The perp’s full name.”

It took me a moment.

“Miguel Angel Gutierrez,” I said.

“A guilt-ridden id can break your balls.”

I finished my reports on the shrunken head and the dismembered torso, and informed LaManche of my plans to return to Guatemala. He told me to be safe, wished me well.

Ryan arrived as I was finalizing arrangements with Delta Airlines. He waited while I requested an aisle seat, then pried the receiver from my hand.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Comment ca va?”

I grabbed for the phone. My phone. Ryan stepped back and smiled.

“Mais, oui,” he purred. “But I speak English.”

I curled my fingers in a “gimme” gesture. Ryan reached out and wrapped his free hand around mine.

“Not really. But your job, now that’s difficult,” he said, voice oozing sympathy. “I couldn’t begin to keep all those flights and timetables straight.”

Unbelievable. The guy was turning the charm on a reservation agent in suburban Atlanta! My eyeballs rolled almost a full three-sixty.

“Montreal.”

And the bimbo was asking his whereabouts.

“You’re right. It’s not that far at all.”

Yanking my hand free, I slumped back in my chair, picked up a pen, and began sliding it end to end through