was possible to run a DNA comparison. A profile obtained from Senora Eduardo’s saliva would be compared with one obtained from the fetal bones found with the Paraiso skeleton. Since mitochondrial DNA is passed through maternal lines only, the baby, its mother, and its grandmother would show identical sequencing.
“Already done. And I’ve collected the fetal bones from Mateo’s lab.”
“Has Senora Eduardo seen the sketch I faxed?”
“Yes.”
“Does she accept the idea that the skeleton is Patricia’s?”
“Yes. As does everyone here at headquarters.”
“She must be devastated.”
I heard him sigh. “
For a moment neither of us spoke. I thought of Katy. I pictured Galiano thinking of Alejandro.
“So. Do you want to ride along?”
I told him I did.
“What’s Pera’s story?”
“She’s been working as a secretary since finishing secondary school two years ago. Chantale wasn’t making that part up.”
“What does Pera say about Specter?”
“We haven’t dropped that on her yet. Thought we’d do it in person.”
“What time?”
“Eight.”
“Bring coffee.”
I hung up, stripped, and hopped into the bath. And flew right back out, sliding across the tile, and banging my hip on the sink. The water was cold enough to form an ice slick. Swearing, I wrapped a towel around myself and fiddled with the faucets. Both ran frigid.
Shivering and swearing some more, I slipped under the blankets.
Eventually the shivering subsided.
Ryan didn’t phone.
I fell asleep uncertain if I was annoyed or relieved.
The next morning I awoke to a jackhammer loud enough to impair my hearing for life. Throwing on clothes, I stuck my head out the window. Three floors down, six men were redesigning the sidewalk. It looked like a long-term project.
Terrific.
I phoned Mateo to let him know I was back in Guatemala, and that I would be at the FAFG lab that afternoon. Ryan was already waiting when I entered the lobby.
“How did we sleep, cupcake?”
“Like a boulder.”
“Mood improved?”
“You must have been tired last night.”
Galiano honked.
I clamped my open mouth shut, pushed through the glass doors, crossed the sidewalk, and climbed into the front seat so Ryan would have to get in back.
On the drive to Aida Pera’s apartment, Galiano filled us in on developments in the Claudia de la Alda case.
“The night Patricia Eduardo disappeared, Gutierrez was at his church preparing flowers for All Saints’ Day.”
“Anyone alibi him?” Ryan.
“About half a dozen parishioners, including his landlady, Senora Ajuchan. Ajuchan says she followed him home, swears Gutierrez couldn’t have gone out again, at least not driving, because she blocked him in the driveway with her car.”
“An accomplice?” Ryan.
“Ajuchan insists she wakes every time Gutierrez enters or leaves her house.” Galiano made a left. “She also insists the guy’s Mr. Rogers. Wouldn’t hurt a flea. Also a loner. No pals.”
“What did you find when you tossed his room?” I asked.
“The crazy bastard must have had forty prints of Claudia pasted to the mirror above his dresser. Arranged them like an altar. Candles and all.”
“What’s his story?” Ryan.
“Says he admired her virtue and piety.”
