I thanked her and rang off.
Would there be no end to the mistakes I would make on this case? What a moron I was. I’d explained it to Ryan, failed to grasp it myself.
Guimauve’s hair wasn’t with the bones in the Paraiso tank. The hair came from Guimauve’s littermate. Guimauve’s sibling. An animal with identical mitochondrial DNA. Patricia Eduardo’s barn cats had shed the hair I found on her jeans.
Andre Specter wasn’t a murderer. Just a horny slimeball who deceived his family and gullible young women.
I fell asleep with a million questions swirling in my brain.
Who killed Patricia Eduardo?
Why had Diaz not wanted me to identify the body?
Why had Patricia Eduardo and Dr. Zuckerman argued?
How many people had been responsible for ChupanYa?
Who shot Molly and Carlos?
What had Ollie Nordstern discovered that got him killed? Why couldn’t we discover it?
Why the interest in stem cell research?
Always questions, never answers.
I slept fitfully.
Galiano didn’t arrive until eight-thirty. By then I’d had three cups of coffee and was wired enough to put two coats on Shea Stadium. He brought cup number four.
I wasted no time describing my conversations with Senora Eduardo and Mrs. Specter. Galiano showed no surprise. Though I might not have seen it behind the Darth Vader lenses.
“One of his staff has been pretty forthcoming,” Galiano said.
“Looks like Specter’s a lecher, but otherwise harmless.”
“What happened last night?”
“Pera must have warned him. Specter never showed.”
The clinic was bustling on a Friday morning. At least a dozen women sat in chairs ringing the waiting room. Several held infants. Most were pregnant. Others were there to avoid becoming so.
Four toddlers played with molded plastic toys on the floor. Two older children colored at a child-sized table, a tub of crayons equidistant between them. The wall behind was a record of the exuberance of thousands of their predecessors. Kick marks. Food splotches. Crayon graffiti. Gouges from Tonka trucks.
Galiano stepped to the receptionist and requested an audience with Dr. Zuckerman. The young woman looked up, and light flashed off the lenses of her glasses. Her eyes widened when she saw the badge.
She hurried down a corridor to the right of her desk. Time passed. The women stared at us with wide, solemn eyes. The kids colored on, faces tense with the effort of staying inside the lines.
A full five minutes later, the receptionist returned.
“I’m sorry. Dr. Zuckerman is unable to see you.” She waved a nervous hand at the uterus brigade. “As you can see, we have many patients this morning.”
Galiano stared directly into the lenses.
“Either Dr. Zuckerman comes out here—now—or we go in there.”
“You can’t go into the examining room.” It was almost a wail.
Galiano unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in his mouth, never breaking eye contact.
The receptionist gave a deep sigh, threw both hands into the air, and retraced her steps.
A baby began to cry. Mama raised her blouse and directed the infant’s mouth toward a nipple. Galiano nodded and smiled. Mama turned a shoulder.
A door flew open down the hall. Zuckerman steamed into the waiting room like the little engine that could. She was a thick woman with dirty-blonde hair cut very short. At home. In poor lighting. With dull scissors.
“What the hell do you people think you’re doing?” Accented English. I guessed Australian.
The receptionist crawled behind her desk and hunched over something lying on it.
“You can’t come barging in here, traumatizing my patients—”
“Shall we traumatize them further, or would you prefer to take this somewhere more private?” Galiano gave the doctor an icy smile.
“You refuse to understand, sir. I do not have time for you this morning.”
Galiano reached under his jacket, produced a set of handcuffs, and dangled them in front of her.
Zuckerman glared.
Galiano dangled.
“This is preposterous.”
