“What happened to her?”
“No blows. No cuts. No bullets. No ligatures. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Hyoid?”
Galiano referred to a horseshoe-shaped bone that floats in the soft tissue at the front of the throat. In older victims, the hyoid may crack during strangulation.
“Intact. But that means nothing with someone this young.”
This young. Like the kid in the septic tank. I saw something flicker in Galiano’s eyes, and knew he was sharing the same thought.
I tried to rise. My knees rebelled and I stumbled forward. Galiano caught me as I fell against him. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. My cheek felt hot against Galiano’s chest.
Surprised, I stepped back and concentrated on peeling off gloves. I sensed Guernsey eyes on my face, but didn’t look up.
“Did Hernandez learn anything else?” I asked.
“No one saw or heard zilch.”
“Do you have De la Alda’s dental records?”
“Yes.”
“Should be a straightforward dental ID.”
I glanced up at Galiano, back down at the gloves. Had the embrace lingered after I was safely on my feet, or had I imagined it?
“Finished here?” he asked.
“Except for digging and screening.”
Galiano looked at his watch. With Pavlovian promptness, I looked at mine. Five-ten P.M.
“You’re going to start that now?” he asked.
“I’m going to
“Yes.”
“And the more people tramping around here, the more this scene is compromised.”
The name Diaz did not need saying.
“And you’ve seen that mob up top. This story is going to break like a tropical thundershower.” I tucked the gloves into the body bag.
“The transport team can take the body. Be sure they strap it down.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Was the bastard grinning? Was I imagining
Colom, Xicay, and I spent the next hour excavating and sifting six inches of topsoil from the portion of gully that had held the remains. The screen produced both missing teeth, three phalanges, several finger and toe nails, and one gold earring.
When Galiano returned, I showed him the stud.
“What is it?”
“It’s what we call a clue.” I sounded like Fredi Minos.
“De la Alda’s?”
“That’s a question for her family.”
“She wore no jewelry in any of her photos.”
“That’s true.”
Galiano dropped the baggie into his pocket.
Night was falling as we crested the ridge and stepped onto the road. The press trucks were gone, the obligatory body bag footage safely on tape. A few reporters lingered, hoping for a statement.
“How many, Galiano?”
“Who is it?”
“Is it a woman? Was she raped?”
“No comment.”
As I got into Galiano’s cruiser, a woman snapped me with one of three cameras draped around her neck.
I hit the lock, leaned back against the headrest, and closed my eyes. Galiano climbed in and started the engine. I heard a tap on my window, ignored it.
Galiano shifted into reverse. Then he draped an arm over the seat, turned his head, and shot backward. His fingers brushed my neck as he swiveled forward.
