“About what?”
We both turned. Galiano stood in the doorway.
“Who’s Alejandro Bastos?”
“Army colonel. Went on to become minister of something under Rios Montt. Died a couple of years ago.”
“Was Bastos involved in the massacres?”
“Up to his eyeballs. That prick was a perfect example of why amnesty was a lousy idea.”
Ryan handed Galiano the picture.
Galiano looked up.
“With Diaz.” This time in English. “Sonovabitch.”
A fly buzzed the window. I watched it and again felt a shared frustration. I wasn’t getting anywhere either.
“What’s up with Specter?” I asked Galiano
“Turns out the ambassador has an airtight alibi for the week surrounding Patricia Eduardo’s disappearance.”
“He and Dominique were at a nunnery renewing their vows.” Ryan.
“An international trade conference in Brussels. Specter gave daily presentations, attended nightly cocktails.”
“Aida Pera would have thought it was neat.” Ryan.
“It’s not her fault.”
Both men looked at me like I’d said Eva Braun wasn’t so bad.
“Specter’s obviously a black-belt sleaze. Pera’s a kid.”
“She’s eighteen.”
“Exactly.”
For several seconds, the only sound came from the fly.
“Patricia Eduardo had to have some contact with the Specter household for Guimauve’s hair to get into her jeans,” I volunteered for no particular reason.
“Maybe the hair transferred from Specter while he was getting into her jeans.” Ryan.
“Eduardo disappeared on October twenty-ninth.” Galiano said.
“She didn’t necessarily die that day.”
“Did you track down Dr. Zuckerman?”
Galiano pulled out the ubiquitous notepad.
“Maria Zuckerman earned an MD at NYU, did a residency in OB/GYN at Johns Hopkins, spent a couple of years in Melbourne, Australia, at some institute of reproductive biology.”
“So she’s no dummy.”
“The good doctor’s on staff at the Hospital Centro Medico. Served as Patricia Eduardo’s direct supervisor for the past two years. I talked to a few of Eduardo’s coworkers. One was aware of Eduardo’s run-in with Zuckerman, but didn’t know the cause. Here’s an interesting sidebar. Seems I’ve already spoken to Dr. Zuckerman.”
Ping!
“Zuckerman runs the Mujeres por Mujeres clinic in Zone One!” I said.
“The very one. She’s going to enjoy my next visit even less than she enjoyed my first one.”
“I’d like to go along.”
“Bus leaves at oh-eight-hundred.”
Poor Mateo. I’d have to call him again.
“Here’s another intriguing sidebar. The coworker thought Patricia was seeing someone behind her boyfriend’s back. An older man.”
When I look back, I recall that meeting as the beginning of the spiral. From then on details multiplied, information proliferated, and our perceptions formed and re-formed like patterns in a kaleidoscope.
Ryan and I spent another couple of hours going through Nordstern’s tapes and books. Then we dragged ourselves home, grabbed a quick dinner, and went to our rooms. He didn’t make a pass. I didn’t care.
I’d been distracted since Galiano’s report. I thought his revelation about Maria Zuckerman had been the ping I’d felt at the Eduardo home, but something else kept bothering me.
What? Something I’d seen? Something I’d heard? The feeling was like a vague itch that I couldn’t quite scratch.
Ryan phoned at nine-fifteen.
“What are you doing?”
