It seemed hours that I listened to traffic and hotel noises and watched the curtains fill and deflate. I finally fell asleep with my head under the pillow. I dreamed of Ryan and Galiano partying in the Maritimes.
Galiano picked me up at eight. Same greeting. Same shades.
Over a quick breakfast, he told me he intended to put pressure on Mario Gerardi, Lucy’s older brother.
“Why Mario?” I asked.
“Bad vibes.”
“Groovy.” I hadn’t heard about vibes since the Beach Boys faded.
“Something about the kid bothers me.”
“His socks?”
“Sometimes you go with your gut.”
I couldn’t disagree with that.
“What does Mario do?”
“As little as he can.”
“Is he a student?”
“Physics degree, Princeton.” Galiano scooped the last of his eggs and beans onto a tortilla.
“So the boy’s no dummy. What’s he doing now?”
“Probably working out alternatives to Planck’s Constant.”
“Detective Galiano knows quantum theory. Impressive.”
“Mario is rich, good-looking, a regular Gatsby with the ladies.”
“Detective Galiano knows literature. Next category. How about ‘Why doesn’t Bat like young Mario?’”
“It’s his socks.”
“Curious that Lucy and Chantale Specter disappeared at virtually the same time.”
“More than curious.”
Ignoring my protest, Galiano snatched and paid the check, then we headed toward Zone 10.
Creeping with the slowly moving log jam on Avenida la Reforma, we sat for a full ten minutes by the Botanical Gardens of San Carlos University. In my mind’s eye I saw Lucy Gerardi walking down that sidewalk, long dark hair framing her face. I wondered about that day.
Why did she go to the gardens? To meet someone? To study? To dream girl dreams she’d never realize?
Were hers the bones Diaz had taken from me? I turned from the window, feeling guilty again.
“Why are we seeing the Gerardis first?”
“Senora Specter is not an early riser.”
I must have looked surprised.
“I believe in holding firm on the big issues and letting the little ones slide. If her ladyship likes to sleep, let her. Besides, I want to get to the Gerardis while Papa’s still there.”
Just past the American embassy, Galiano turned onto a narrow, tree-shaded street and pulled to the curb. I got out and waited while he answered a call. The May sun felt warm on my head.
Had Lucy gone to the gardens because it was a sunny day? To feed the squirrels? To watch birds? To wander without purpose and observe what was there? To be alone with all the possibilities of youth?
The Gerardi residence was centered within manicured hedges surrounding a manicured lawn. A flagstone path led from the sidewalk to the front door. Brightly colored flowers lined both edges of the walkway, and crowded gardens wrapped around the house foundation.
A driveway, complete with Mercedes 500 S and Jeep Grand Cherokee, ran along the right side of the property. Chain-link fencing formed a small enclosure on the left. Inside the fence, a schnauzer the size of a woodchuck raced from end to end, barking frantically.
“I guess that would pass for the dog,” Galiano said, pressing the bell.
The door was answered by a tall, gaunt man with silver hair and black-rimmed glasses. He wore a dark suit, blazing white shirt, and yellow silk tie. I wondered what calling required such formality on a Sunday morning.
Gerardi’s chin raised slightly, then his eyes shifted to me.
“Dr. Brennan is the anthropologist helping on your daughter’s case.”
Gerardi stepped back, indicating that we could enter, and led us down a polished tile corridor to a paneled study. Beshir carpet. Burled walnut desk. Big-ticket collectibles aesthetically positioned on mahogany shelves. Whatever Gerardi did, it paid well.
We’d hardly crossed the threshold when a woman appeared in the doorway. She was overweight, with hair the color of dead leaves.
Senora Gerardi regarded him with fear and revulsion, as she might a scorpion in the bathroom sink.
