Galiano and Ryan.
Had they?
Of course they had.
Was I being paranoid?
Galiano and Ryan.
What had they said?
I remembered an incident with Ryan. On a boat. I was wearing a T-shirt, cutoffs, and no underwear.
Oh, God.
Galiano and Ryan.
Ryan and Galiano.
I ran until my lungs burned and my leg muscles trembled. By the time I hit the showers my anger had eased down out of the red zone.
That evening I had dinner with Susanne Jean at Le Petit Extra on rue Ontario. She listened to my story of the Hardy Boys, a smile tugging the corners of her mouth.
“How do you know their conversation wasn’t strictly professional?”
“Female intuition.”
The delicate eyebrows rose. “That’s it?”
“The Men Are Pigs Theory.”
“ That’s not sexist?”
“Of course it is. But I have little else to go on.”
“Ease back, Tempe. You’re being hypersensitive.”
Deep down, I suspected that.
“Besides, from what you’ve said, they have nothing to compare.”
“According to The Theory, they make it up.”
She laughed her full, throaty laugh.
“Girlfriend, you are losing it.”
“I know. How’s the skull coming?”
Susanne had converted the CT scans, and would have the model ready by four on Monday.
As we parted, she pointed a long dark finger between my eyes.
“Sister. You need a good romp in the feathers.”
“I’ve got no romping buddy.”
“Sounds like you’ve got one too many.”
“Hm.”
“How ’bout a BOB?”
“O.K., I’ll bite. What’s a BOB?”
“Battery Operated Boyfriend.”
Susanne often presented an interesting take on life.
On Sunday, I received a call from Mateo Reyes. The FAFG leader reported good progress with the Chupan Ya victims. Only nine skeletons remained unidentified. I told him the Specter situation was under control, and that I would be returning as soon as I wrapped up my Montreal cases.
Mateo passed on an appeal from Ollie Nordstern. The reporter had been phoning daily, urgently wanted to speak with me. I was noncommittal.
Mateo had good news about Molly Carraway. The archaeologist had been released from the hospital and was returning with her father to Minnesota. A full recovery was expected.
Mateo also had sad news. Senora Ch’i’p had died in her sleep on Friday night. The Chupan Ya granny was sixty-one.
“You know what I think?” Mateo’s voice was unusually tight.
“What’s that?”
“I think that old lady forced herself to keep breathing just long enough to see proper burial for her babies.”
I agreed.
Disconnecting, I felt a warm trickle slide down each cheek.
I backhanded a tear.
