“Detective Galiano, it’s always a pleasure to see you.” French accent. “Though I’d rather it were under different circumstances, of course.”
“How are you today, Mrs. Specter?” Her fingers looked ghostly enveloped in Galiano’s brown hand.
“I’m well.” She turned her smile on me. A practiced smile. “Is this the young woman of whom you spoke?”
“Tempe Brennan,” I introduced myself.
The Chinese-red nails shot out. Her skin was so soft, her bones so delicate, it felt like shaking the hand of a child.
“Thank you so much for making yourself available to the local authorities. This means a great deal to my husband and me.”
“I hope I can help.”
“Please, forgive my beastly manners.” She placed one hand on her chest, gestured with the other. “Please. Let’s sit down.”
She led us to a conversational grouping tucked into a bay on the right of the room. Each window was covered by three-inch wooden shutters, slats closed to the morning sun.
“Would you like tea or coffee?” She looked from Galiano to me.
We both declined.
“So, Detective. Please tell me that you have good news.”
“I’m afraid not.” Galiano’s voice was gentle.
All color drained from her face. The smile quivered, but held.
“But no bad news,” he added quickly. “I just wanted to touch base, check a few facts, and see if anything has occurred to you since our last conversation.”
She dropped the chest hand to the armrest, allowed her spine to curve into the chair back.
“I’ve tried, really I have, but other than what I’ve told you, I’ve come up blank.”
Despite her best efforts, the smile collapsed. She began pulling at one of several loose threads in the upholstery by her knee.
“I lie awake nights going over and over the past year. I—it’s difficult to say this. But I obviously missed a lot that was happening in front of me.”
“Chantale was riding out a rough patch.” His tone was a galaxy from where it had been with Gerardi. “As you’ve said, she was being less than open with you and your husband.”
“I should have been more observant. More perceptive.”
Her face looked dead white within its halo of orange hair. One lacquered nail worked the threads, as though commanded by an independent source.
My heart ached for her, and I groped for comforting words.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Specter. None of us can entirely control our children.”
Her eyes shifted from Galiano to me. Even in the dim light I could see they were the brilliant green of colored contacts.
“Do you have children, Dr. Brennan?”
“My daughter is a university student. I know how difficult teenagers can be.”
“Yes.”
“Could we go back over a few things, Mrs. Specter?” Galiano.
“If it will help.”
He produced a notebook and began clarifying names and dates. Throughout the exchange, Mrs. Specter unconsciously worried the threads, alternating between twisting and smoothing. Now and then a nail would flick the fabric, sending filaments hurtling into space.
“Chantale’s first arrest was one year ago this past November.”
“Yes.” Flat.
“The Hotel Santa Lucia in Zone One.”
“Yes.”
“Her second arrest was last July.”
“Yes.”
“The Hotel Bella Vista.”
“Yes.”
“Chantale was in Canada from August until December of last year for treatment of drug dependence.”
“Where?”
“A rehab center near Chibougamau.”
