As I drove, I thought about the parents of Chantale and Lucy. Senor Gerardi, arrogant and overbearing. His cowed wife. Mrs. Specter, with her colorized eyes and painted nails. The absent Mr. Specter. They were the fortunate ones. Their daughters were alive.
I imagined Senora Eduardo, still frantic, wondering what had befallen Patricia. I envisioned the De la Aldas, despondent over Claudia’s death, perhaps burdened with guilt that they couldn’t prevent it.
I pulled into the lot and parked between two cruisers. Claude was leaning against the quarter panel of the Specter Mercedes, arms and ankles crossed. He nodded as I passed.
Entering the station at the main door, I stepped to the counter, showed ID, and explained the purpose of my visit. The guard studied the photo, checked me for a match, then ran her finger down a list. Satisfied, she looked back up.
“The lawyer and the mother have gone ahead. Leave your things.”
I slipped my purse from my shoulder and handed it across the counter. The guard secured it in a locker, scribbled something in a ledger, and turned it toward me.
As I entered the time and my name, she picked up a phone and spoke a few words. In moments a second guard appeared through a green metal door to my left. Guard number two swept me with a handheld metal detector, indicated that I should follow. Our movements were tracked by overhead cameras as he led me down a fluorescent-lit corridor.
The drunk tank lay straight ahead, its occupants lounging, sleeping, or clinging to the bars. Beyond the tank, another green metal door. Beyond the door, the cell block. Across from the tank, a counter. Behind the counter, a wooden grid, hat-check station for incoming prisoners. Standard jailhouse design.
We passed several doors marked
Conversations with detainees who were not ambassadorial offspring.
Bypassing the prisoner interview rooms, the guard stopped at a door marked
Though larger, the room was as stark as those allotted to prisoners’ girlfriends and families. Aside from a phone, a metal table and chairs were the only furnishings.
Around the table sat Mrs. Specter, her daughter, and a man I assumed to be the family lawyer. He was tall, with a girth almost as great as his height. A fringe of gray hair ringed his head and curled up the collar of his two-K suit. His face and crown were high-gloss pink.
Mrs. Specter had switched to her summer color chart. She wore an ecru linen suit, off-white panty hose, and open-toed pumps. A gold band studded with delicate seed pearls held back the copper curls. Seeing me, she gave a taut, flickery smile, then her face receded behind its perfect Estee Lauder mask.
“Dr. Brennan, I would like you to meet Ihor Lywyckij,” she said.
Lywyckij half rose and extended a hand. The man’s face, once muscular, had been softened by years of rich food and liquor. I smiled into it as we shook. His meaty grip registered a four.
“Tempe Brennan.”
“Delighted.”
“Mr. Lywyckij will be representing Chantale.”
“Ooh, yeah. Don’t send me to the big house.” Chantale’s voice oozed sarcasm.
I turned to her. The ambassador’s daughter sat with legs splayed, eyes down, hands jammed into the pockets of a sleeveless denim jacket.
“You must be Chantale.”
“No. I’m Snow Fucking White.”
“Chantale!”
Mrs. Specter laid a hand on her daughter’s head. Chantale shrugged it off.
“This is bullshit. I’m innocent.”
Chantale looked as innocent as the Boston Strangler. The blonde hair was now shoe-polish black. Below the jacket she wore a pink lace bustier. A black Spandex miniskirt, black tights, black engineer boots, and black makeup completed the ensemble.
I took a chair opposite the wrongly accused.
“The security guard found five CDs in your backpack, Miss Specter.” Lywyckij.
“Fuck you.”
“Chantale!” This time Mrs. Specter’s hand went to her own forehead.
“I’m here to help you, miss. I can’t do that if you fight me.” Lywyckij sounded like Mr. Rogers.
“You’re here to send me to some fucking concentration camp.”
When Chantale looked up, I felt as if I was gazing into pure hatred.
“And what the hell’s she doing here.” She jerked an elbow in my direction.
Mrs. Specter jumped in before I could answer.
“We’re all concerned, darling. If you’re having a problem with drugs, we want to find the best solution for you.
