“Any progress on netting Zuckerman or Jorge Serano?”
“Not yet. Galiano has Zuckerman’s clinic and home staked out, has an APB out on her car. He’s also set up surveillance at the Paraiso. We should nail ’em before the ten o’clock news.”
“Did Galiano get his warrant?”
“He’s talking to a judge now.”
I clicked off, replaced the washcloth, and lay back on the pillows.
This really didn’t make sense. Or did it? Was Dr. Lucas working for Diaz? Had the doctor ordered the destruction of Patricia Eduardo’s bones at the request of the DA? Or was it the other way around? Did Lucas have influence over Diaz?
Diaz could link to Chupan Ya, perhaps even to the shooting of Carlos and Molly. But why would he want the Paraiso bones confiscated? Why would he have an interest in the murder of a pregnant young girl? Carlos and Molly! Had their attackers really spoken my name? Was I the next target? Whose?
Feeling frightened and chilled, I crawled under the blankets.
Still my head swam with questions.
Lucas must know Zuckerman. Two Guatemalan doctors at an Australian research facility at the same time could hardly fail to be aware of each other. Were they now working together? On what?
What was Nordstern’s big secret? And how had he learned it?
Was there a Bastos-Diaz connection other than their time together in the army? Why did Nordstern circle the picture of Diaz with Bastos together reviewing the parade at Xaxaxak?
Did all these things tie together? Did any of them? Were these just episodes of corruption in a corrupt country?
Was I in danger?
The jackhammers obliterated the clamor of rush hour traffic. The fan hummed. Slowly, the room dimmed, the sounds ebbed.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the room phone shrilled. When I bolted upright, it was dark.
Breathing. Then a dial tone.
“Goddamn inconsiderate bastard!” Must have called the wrong extension and just hung up.
I slammed the receiver.
Sitting on the edge of the bed I held my hands to my cheeks. They felt cooler. The meds were helping.
Rat-a-tat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat-taaaaat. Rat. Rat. Rat.
How much cement could there be down there?
“Enough of this.”
I got a Diet Coke from the mini-fridge and tried a sip.
Oh yes.
I knocked back several swallows as a test run, and set the can on the table. Then I stripped off my clothes and showered until the bathroom was gray with steam. I closed my eyes, let the water pound my breasts, my back, my distended abdomen. I let it roll off my head, my shoulders, my hips.
After toweling off, I combed out my hair, brushed my teeth, and pulled on cotton socks and a set of FBI sweats.
Feeling like a new woman, I dug out Nordstern’s files and settled at the table. In the next room I heard the TV go on, then aimless channel switching. My neighbor finally settled on a soccer match.
The first folder I picked up was labeled “Specter.” It held press clippings, notes, and an assortment of photos of Andre Specter and his family. There were two Polaroids of the ambassador with Aida Pera.
The second folder was unlabeled. It contained restaurant and taxi receipts. Expense records. Pass.
I finished my Coke.
Outside, the jackhammers droned on.
I recognized the label on the third folder: “SCELL.” I was halfway through when I found it.
As I read the report, my chest tightened.
A research team at the Salk Institute in La Jolla, California, had developed a technique for sourcing stem cells from human postmortem samples. The finding was reported in the journal
“Jesus Christ.”
My voice sounded loud in the empty room.
I read on.
When placed in a succession of solutions, the tissues of an eleven-week-old baby and a twenty-seven-year-old man had yielded immature brain cells. The Salk team had used the technique on others of different ages, and on specimens extracted as long as two days after death.
