I flapped a hand in the air between Galiano and me.
“Will this be a problem?” My face burned.
Galiano grinned. “None at all.”
Too agitated to sleep, I checked my messages in Montreal and Charlotte. Pierre LaManche had called to say that a mummified head had been found in an attic in Quebec City. Newspaper wrappings suggested it dated to the thirties. The case was not urgent. However, a putrefied human torso had drifted ashore in Lac des Deux-Montagnes, and he wanted me to examine it as soon as possible.
There were no anthropology cases in North Carolina.
Pete said both Birdie and Boyd were fine.
Katy was not in.
Ryan was not in.
I ate two doughnuts from a box I’d stashed in the kitchenette, turned on CNN.
Tropical storm Armand was threatening the Florida panhandle. Three Canadians had been arrested for a stock scam in Buenos Aires. A bomb had killed four in Tel Aviv. A train accident near Chicago had left over one hundred hurt, most with soft tissue injuries. Happy lawyers.
Next I bathed, deep-conditioned my hair, shaved my armpits and legs, plucked my eyebrows, and creamed my entire body.
Hairless and smooth, I crawled into bed.
My mind was still humming, and sleep wouldn’t come.
Claudia de la Alda was a homicide victim here in Guatemala. Patricia Eduardo was still missing but she might be the girl in the septic tank. Chantale Specter and Lucy Gerardi were alive and busted in Canada.
What had drawn Chantale and Lucy to Montreal? How had they gotten there without leaving a trail? Where had they been hiding out, and why?
Was the septic tank girl linked to the murder of Claudia de la Alda, or were the cases unrelated? Was Galiano’s serial killer theory evaporating? Who had phoned about Claudia’s body?
Who was taking care of Claudia’s family? Was someone there to help ease their unbearable heartbreak?
Where was Patricia Eduardo? Was it indeed her body in the tank? A strangely disconnected thought: who was caring for Patricia’s horses?
Who had phoned Galiano about Chantale Specter? I’d been so surprised by the news, I hadn’t thought to ask.
Galiano.
Mental cringe. I felt like a kid caught necking on the couch.
And what about Ryan?
What
Ryan and I were seeing each other. We’d gone to dinner, visited the Musee des Beaux-Arts, attended a few parties, played tennis. He’d even talked me into bowling.
Were we a couple?
No.
Could we be?
The jury was deadlocked.
Where did Ryan and I stand? I liked him very much, respected his integrity, enjoyed his company.
Heat rippled across my stomach.
Found him sexy as hell.
So why was I attracted to Galiano?
Another ripple.
Easy one, slut.
Ryan and I had reached an accord. Not an accord, really, an agreement. A tacit agreement. Don’t ask, don’t tell. The policy worked for the United States military, and so far it was working for us.
Besides, I wasn’t going to get involved with Galiano.
Look on the bright side, I told myself. You haven’t done the deed with Ryan or Galiano. There’s nothing to tell.
That was the problem.
After thrashing about for another half hour, my frustrated libido and I drifted off.
The phone woke me from a deep sleep. Dim light filtered through the curtains hanging limp across my open window.
Dominique Specter sounded wired.
“You’ve heard?”
“I have.” I squinted at the clock. Seven-twelve.
