There was a moment of arctic silence. Ryan lit a cigarette.
“Did you discuss me in Spanish?”
“What?” My reference to the old days escaped him.
“Never mind.”
Ryan drew deeply, blew smoke upward into the air.
“Galiano had news about a suspect.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though reading the TV listings aloud.
“So he phoned someone with no involvement in the case.”
“He wanted to know what I had on the Specters, and he tried to phone you.”
“Really.”
“He called your cell. That’s what I came by to tell you.”
“You’re lying.”
“Have you checked your messages recently?”
I hadn’t.
Wordlessly, I went inside and dug the phone from my purse. Four missed calls. All from out of area. I hit the button for my voice mail. Two messages.
The first was from Ollie Nordstern. The reporter from hell had a few questions. Could I call him back? I hit delete.
The second was from Bat Galiano.
“Thought you’d like to know. Last night we arrested the scumbag who killed Claudia de la Alda.”
18
GALIANO DIDN’T RETURN MY CALL UNTIL LATE SATURDAY MORNING. When we spoke, he was in the process of interrogating the scumbag in question.
“Who is he?”
“Miguel Angel Gutierrez.”
“Go on.”
“Gutierrez was getting in touch with his roots at the Kaminaljuyu ruins last night. Gramps, our friendly neighborhood snoop, took a personal interest in the excursion and phoned the station. Gutierrez was nailed hoisting himself over the guardrail five yards up-slope from the De la Alda dump site.”
“Coincidence?”
“Like OJ’s glove. Gutierrez works as a gardener. The De la Alda home is one of his regular jobs.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Not much. Right now he’s talking to his priest.”
“And?”
“I think the Fifth Commandment might come up. In the meantime, Hernandez is out tossing his trailer.”
“Any link to the Paraiso or to Patricia Eduardo?”
“None we’re aware of. Anything on your end?”
I told him about the cat hair sample and the skull replication.
“Not bad, Brennan.”
It was exactly what Ryan would say.
“Let me know what happens.”
In the afternoon, I cleaned the condo and did laundry. Then I laced up my cross-trainers and went to the gym. As I pounded out three on the treadmill, two names kept cadence in my head.
Ryan and Galiano.
Galiano and Ryan.
My anger had diminished since the night before, when I’d ushered Ryan out with an icy good-bye. But it was still registering a six-point-oh.
Why?
Because he and his college compadre had discussed me as they might last Wednesday’s bowling date.
Ryan and Galiano.
