It was my day for flowers. Back in my room I found an arrangement the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. The card was classic Ryan.

Tanks for the memories. Bone jour.

AR

I laughed for the first time in over a week.

After showering, I studied myself in the bathroom mirror, much as I would a stranger on the street. What I saw was a middle-aged woman with a delicate nose and cheekbones, starburst wrinkling at the corners of the eyes, jawline holding firm. Chicken pox scar above the left brow. Asymmetric dimples.

I brushed bangs from my forehead and did a two-handed tuck behind my ears. My hair was fine, blonde turned brown now galloping toward gray. I'd always coveted my younger sister's thick blonde hair. Sprays and volumizing gels never entered Harry's thoughts, while I'd spent thousands on mousse alone.

For a moment I stared directly at myself. Tired green eyes stared back, each underbrushed with pale violet. A new furrow winged down at the inner edge of my left eyebrow. Lighting? I shifted to my right, back a half step. The line was real. Great. One week in Guatemala and I'd aged a decade.

Or was it worry over Galiano's warning? Was it a warning? I squeezed Crest onto the toothbrush, began on my upper molars.

What was the point of the conversation in the Gucumatz? Just a prompt to be alert? To be careful where I went and with whom? Walking back we'd talked mostly about the septic tank case. Galiano had little to report.

A visit to the Zone 1 family planning or APROFAM clinic had produced zilch. Ditto for a private clinic, Mujeres por Mujeres. Though reluctant, the doctor on call, Maria Zuckerman, had agreed to check her patient database. She found two Eduardos, Margarita and Clara, both in their thirties. No Lucy Gerardi, Claudia de la Alda, or Chantale Specter. If any of the missing women had made an appointment or been examined by a doctor, she'd done so using a false name.

Big surprise.

Galiano also learned that nonappearances at the clinic raised no flags. Many patients booked, then failed to show up. Some came once or twice, then vanished. Many were in the age range of the lady in the tank. Many were pregnant. With no picture or descriptive information, Dr. Zuckerman refused to allow her staff to be 'bothered' with questioning.

Galiano had requested a list of everyone who'd phoned or been seen over the past year. As expected, Zuckerman had refused, citing patient confidentiality. Galiano intended to pursue a court order when more descriptors were available.

I swished and spat, feeling another wave of guilt. If I'd done a better prelim at the tank, we'd have more descriptors.

I'd asked Galiano about the attack on Carlos and Molly. He'd heard about the shooting, but knew little since the investigation was being handled in Sololá. He'd promised to find out what he could.

I pumped cream onto my palm and spread it over my face.

We'd also talked about Andrew Ryan. I'd told Galiano about Ryan's work with the SQ. He'd shared new tales from their bad-boy years together.

As he was leaving, Galiano told me that his partner would be visiting the Eduardos and De la Aldas in the morning, and he'd be calling on the Gerardis and Specters. Given the discovery at the Paraiso, they felt Sunday visits were warranted. I asked to be included. Wouldn't be dangerous, I argued, and an outsider's eye might even be useful. Though skeptical, he agreed.

I clicked off the light, opened the windows as far as they would go, set the alarm, and climbed into bed.

It seemed hours that I listened to traffic and hotel noises and watched the curtains fill and deflate. I finally fell asleep with my head under the pillow. I dreamed of Ryan and Galiano partying in the Maritimes.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Galiano picked me up at eight. Same greeting. Same shades.

Over a quick breakfast, he told me he intended to put pressure on Mario Gerardi, Lucy's older brother.

'Why Mario?' I asked.

'Bad vibes.'

'Groovy.' I hadn't heard about vibes since the Beach Boys faded.

'Something about the kid bothers me.'

'His socks?'

'Sometimes you go with your gut.'

I couldn't disagree with that.

'What does Mario do?'

'As little as he can.'

'Is he a student?'

'Physics degree, Princeton.' Galiano scooped the last of his eggs and beans onto a tortilla.

'So the boy's no dummy. What's he doing now?'

'Probably working out alternatives to Planck's Constant.'

'Detective Galiano knows quantum theory. Impressive.'

'Mario is rich, good-looking, a regular Gatsby with the ladies.'

'Detective Galiano knows literature. Next category. How about "Why doesn't Bat like young Mario?"'

'It's his socks.'

'Curious that Lucy and Chantale Specter disappeared at virtually the same time.'

'More than curious.'

Ignoring my protest, Galiano snatched and paid the check, then we headed toward Zone 10.

Creeping with the slowly moving log jam on Avenida la Reforma, we sat for a full ten minutes by the Botanical Gardens of San Carlos University. In my mind's eye I saw Lucy Gerardi walking down that sidewalk, long dark hair framing her face. I wondered about that day.

Why did she go to the gardens? To meet someone? To study? To dream girl dreams she'd never realize?

Were hers the bones Diaz had taken from me? I turned from the window, feeling guilty again.

'Why are we seeing the Gerardis first?'

'Señora Specter is not an early riser.'

I must have looked surprised.

'I believe in holding firm on the big issues and letting the little ones slide. If her ladyship likes to sleep, let her. Besides, I want to get to the Gerardis while Papa's still there.'

Just past the American embassy, Galiano turned onto a narrow, tree-shaded street and pulled to the curb. I got out and waited while he answered a call. The May sun felt warm on my head.

Had Lucy gone to the gardens because it was a sunny day? To feed the squirrels? To watch birds? To wander without purpose and observe what was there? To be alone with all the possibilities of youth?

The Gerardi residence was centered within manicured hedges surrounding a manicured lawn. A flagstone path led from the sidewalk to the front door. Brightly colored flowers lined both edges of the walkway, and crowded gardens wrapped around the house foundation.

A driveway, complete with Mercedes 500 S and Jeep Grand Cherokee, ran along the right side of the property. Chain-link fencing formed a small enclosure on the left. Inside the fence, a schnauzer the size of a woodchuck raced from end to end, barking frantically.

'I guess that would pass for the dog,' Galiano said, pressing the bell.

The door was answered by a tall, gaunt man with silver hair and black-rimmed glasses. He wore a dark suit, blazing white shirt, and yellow silk tie. I wondered what calling required such formality on a Sunday morning.

'Buenos dias, Señor Gerardi.' Galiano.

Gerardi's chin raised slightly, then his eyes shifted to me.

'Dr. Brennan is the anthropologist helping on your daughter's case.'

Gerardi stepped back, indicating that we could enter, and led us down a polished tile corridor to a paneled study. Beshir carpet. Burled walnut desk. Big-ticket collectibles aesthetically positioned on mahogany shelves. Whatever Gerardi did, it paid well.

We'd hardly crossed the threshold when a woman appeared in the doorway. She was overweight, with hair the color of dead leaves.

'Buenos dias, Señora Gerardi,' Galiano greeted her.

Señora Gerardi regarded him with fear and revulsion, as she might a scorpion in the bathroom sink.

Gerardi spoke to his wife in full-throttle Spanish that was lost on me. When she started to reply, he cut her off.

'Por favor, Edwina!'

Señora Gerardi clutched one hand with the other, reversed grip, reversed again, knuckles bulging white under flaky, pink skin. Indecision battled in her eyes, and for a moment, I thought she would object. Instead, she bit down on her lower lip and withdrew.

Señor Gerardi gestured at two leather chairs facing the desk.

'Please.'

I sat. The leather had the smell of a new Jag. Or what I imagined the scent of a new Jag would be, having never ridden in one.

Galiano remained standing. So did Gerardi.

'Unless you have news, this session is pointless.' Gerardi held both arms rigid at his sides.

'How 'bout a skeleton?' The tone told me Galiano was coiled.

Our host showed no reaction.

'Would Lucy have had reason to be in Zone One?' Galiano asked.

'I made clear in my statements that my daughter did not frequent public places. She went—' His lips pursed, relaxed. 'She goes to school, to church, and to our club.'

'Have you remembered the names of any friends she might have mentioned? Fellow students?'

'I have already answered that question. My daughter is not a frivolous young woman.'

'Was Lucy close to Chantale Specter?'

'They saw each other occasionally.'

'What did they do together?'

'This is all in my statement.'

'Humor me.'

'They studied, watched movies, swam, played tennis. The ambassador and I belong to the same private club.'

'Where is your son, Señor Gerardi?'

'Mario is taking a golf lesson.'

'Uh. Huh. Did Chantale Specter spend time in your home?'

'Let me clarify something for you. Regardless of her father's position, I did not encourage my daughter's relationship with the Specter girl.'

'Why was that?'

Gerardi hesitated a moment.

'Chantale Specter is a confused young woman.'

'Confused?'

'I do not feel she is a good influence for my daughter.'

'What about boys?'

'I do not allow my daughter to date.'

'I imagine she was ecstatic about that.'

'My daughter does not question my rules.'

I folded my hands in my lap, looked at them. Lucy, I thought. Your daughter's name is Lucy, you cold, arrogant prick.

'Yes.' Galiano grinned cynically. 'Anything else you might have remembered since our last conversation?'

'I know nothing more than what you know. I made that clear on the phone.'

'And I made clear that I wanted to talk to Mario today.'

'These lessons are scheduled weeks in advance.'

'Wouldn't want to compromise the boy's chip shot.'

Gerardi fought to suppress a twitch of anger.

'Frankly, Detective, I had hoped for progress by now. This affair has been dragging on for over four months. The strain is unbearably difficult for my wife and son. This recent attack on our pets was barbarous.' Allusion to hair sample collection by the police, I presumed.

Galiano made a clicking sound with his mouth. 'I'll talk to the schnauzer.'

'Don't patronize me, Detective.'

Galiano leaned across the desk and brought his face to within inches of Gerardi's.

'Don't underestimate me, señor.'

Galiano stepped back.

'I will find Lucy,' he said, regarding our host coolly. 'With or without your cooperation.'

'I have cooperated fully, Detective, and I resent your implication. No one is more concerned about my daughter than I.'

A clock bonged somewhere outside the room. For the full ten count no one spoke. Galiano broke the silence.

'I keep getting caught up in one thought this morning.'

Gerardi's face was a closed door.

'I tell you a skeleton surfaced and you show about as much interest as you would in a weather report.'

'I assume that if this skeleton has relevance to my daughter's disappearance you will say that.' A red wash was spreading upward from Gerardi's perfectly white collar.

'Seems you've also assumed a lot about your daughter's life.'

'Is this person you've found my daughter?' Gerardi's upper lip was white with anger.

Galiano did not reply.

'Obviously you do not know.'

My face felt hot with embarrassment. Correct, Mr. Gerardi. Because I was queasy and intimidated by pink spectacles.

Gerardi aligned his vertebrae even straighter than they had been. 'I think it's time you leave my home.'

'Buenos dias, Señor Gerardi.' Galiano nodded to me 'Regresaré.' I'll be back.

He strode toward the door.

I rose and followed.

===OO=OOO=OO===

'¡Hijo de la gran puta!' Galiano reached out and twisted a knob on the police scanner. The static receded to a sputter.

'Tell me what you really think of him.'

'He's a pompous, overbearing, self-righteous ass.'

'Don't hold back.'

'What sort of parent sees adolescent friendship as frivolity?' Galiano's voice dripped disdain.

'My thought exactly. What does Daddy do to afford the Mercedes and Beshir?'

'Gerardi and his brother own the largest auto dealership in Guatemala.'

We were in the car, heading toward the ambassador's residence.

'But he is right.' I made a print on the dashboard with my index finger, wiped it away with the heel of my hand. 'We don't know dick about that skeleton.'

'We will.'

I made another print.

'Think Lucy was as compliant as her father believes?'

Galiano turned one palm up and raised shoulders and eyebrows, a very French gesture for a Guatemalan cop.

'Who knows? Experience tells us they almost never are.'

Two more prints. Trees flashed by outside the window. Several turns, then we pulled onto a street of large homes set far back on spacious and professionally tended lots. In most cases, the only thing visible was a tile roof.

'Gerardi may have been right about one thing, though.'

'What's that?' I asked.

'Chantale Specter.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

The ambassador and his family lived behind hedges identical to those surrounding the Gerardi place. They also lived behind an electrified fence with enormous scrolled wrought-iron gates and a matched set of uniformed guards.

Galiano angled onto the drive and held his badge to the window for guard number one. The man leaned close, then stepped to a control booth. Seconds later the gates swung in.

We made a wide sweep to the front of the house, where guard number two examined ID. Satisfied, he rang. The door opened, and the guard handed us off to a house servant.

'Mrs. Specter is expecting you.' The man looked at us without looking at us. 'Please follow me.'

The setting was a repeat of the Gerardi home. Paneled study, expensive tile, furniture, and objets d'art. This time the carpet was Bakhtiari.

The encounter couldn't have been more different.

Mrs. Specter's hair was copper, her lips and nails Chinese red. She wore a three-piece silk pants suit the color of sunflower petals, and matching strap sandals on her feet. The filmy material flowed around her as she crossed to greet us. So did a cloud of Issey Miyaki.

'Detective Galiano, it's always a pleasure to see you.' French accent. 'Though I'd rather it were under different circumstances, of course.'

'How are you today, Mrs. Specter?' Her fingers looked ghostly enveloped in Galiano's brown hand.

'I'm well.' She turned her smile on me. A practiced smile. 'Is this the young woman of whom you spoke?'

'Tempe Brennan,' I introduced myself.

The Chinese-red nails shot out. Her skin was so soft, her bones so delicate, it felt like shaking the hand of a child.

'Thank you so much for making yourself available to the local authorities. This means a great deal to my husband and me.'

'I hope I can help.'

'Please, forgive my beastly manners.' She placed one hand on her chest, gestured with the other. 'Please. Let's sit down.'

She led us to a conversational grouping tucked into a bay on the right of the room. Each window was covered by three-inch wooden shutters, slats closed to the morning sun.

'Would you like tea or coffee?' She looked from Galiano to me.

We both declined.

'So, Detective. Please tell me that you have good news.'

'I'm afraid not.' Galiano's voice was gentle.

All color drained from her face. The smile quivered, but held.

'But no bad news,' he added quickly. 'I just wanted to touch base, check a few facts, and see if anything has occurred to you since our last conversation.'

She dropped the chest hand to the armrest, allowed her spine to curve into the chair back.

'I've tried, really I have, but other than what I've told you, I've come up blank.'

Despite her best efforts, the smile collapsed. She began pulling at one of several loose threads in the upholstery by her knee.

'I lie awake nights going over and over the past year. I — it's difficult to say this. But I obviously missed a lot that was happening in front of me.'

'Chantale was riding out a rough patch.' His tone was a galaxy from where it had been with Gerardi. 'As you've said, she was being less than open with you and your husband.'

'I should have been more observant. More perceptive.'

Her face looked dead white within its halo of orange hair. One lacquered nail worked the threads, as though commanded by an independent source.

My heart ached for her, and I groped for comforting words.

'Don't blame yourself, Mrs. Specter. None of us can entirely control our children.'

Her eyes shifted from Galiano to me. Even in the dim light I could see they were the brilliant green of colored contacts.

'Do you have children, Dr. Brennan?'

'My daughter is a university student. I know how difficult teenagers can be.'

'Yes.'

'Could we go back over a few things, Mrs. Specter?' Galiano.

'If it will help.'

He produced a notebook and began clarifying names and dates. Throughout the exchange, Mrs. Specter unconsciously worried the threads, alternating between twisting and smoothing. Now and then a nail would flick the fabric, sending filaments hurtling into space.

'Chantale's first arrest was one year ago this past November.'

'Yes.' Flat.

'The Hotel Santa Lucia in Zone One.'

'Yes.'

'Her second arrest was last July.'

'Yes.'

'The Hotel Bella Vista.'

'Yes.'

'Chantale was in Canada from August until December of last year for treatment of drug dependence.'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

'A rehab center near Chibougamau.'

Watching the downward drift of a liberated fiber, I felt a sudden jolt of neural electricity. I looked at Galiano. He gave no indication he'd noticed.

'That's in Quebec?'

'It's a camp, really, several hundred miles north of Montreal.'

I'd once flown to Chibougamau for an exhumation. The region was so heavily forested the view from the plane had reminded me of broccoli.

'The program teaches young people to assume personal responsibility for their drug abuse. The encounters can be harsh, but my husband and I decided the "tough love" approach was best.' She gave a wan version of the diplomat's smile. 'The remote location ensures that participants complete the entire course of therapy.'

Galiano's questioning continued for several minutes. I focused on the red nails, verifying. Finally, 'Do you have any questions for me, Mrs. Specter?'

'What do you know of these bones that were found?'

Galiano showed no surprise at her knowledge of the Paraiso skeleton. Undoubtedly, her husband's connections kept them well informed.

'I was about to mention that, but there's little to report until Dr. Brennan finishes her analysis.'

'Can you tell me anything?' Her gaze shifted to me.

I hesitated, not wanting to comment on the basis of photos and a cursory tank-side inspection.

'Anything?' Pleading.

My mother's heart battled with my scientist's brain. What if Katy were missing instead of Chantale? What if I were the one twisting threads on a tapestry chair?

'I doubt the skeleton is your daughter.'

'Why is that?' The voice was calm, but the fingers were moving toward Mach 1.

'I suspect the individual is non-Caucasian.'

She stared at me, thought working behind the electric-green eyes.

'Guatemalan?'

'Probably. But until I've completed my examination, that's little more than an impression.'

'When will that be?'

I looked to Galiano.

'We've run into a jurisdictional hitch,' he said.

'Which is?'

Galiano told her about Diaz.

'Why has the judge done this?'

'That's unclear.'

'I will explain the situation to my husband.'

She turned back to me.

'You are a kind woman, Dr. Brennan. I can tell by your face. Merci.'

She smiled, the ambassador's wife once again.

'You're sure I can't get either of you a drink? Lemonade, perhaps?'

Galiano declined.

'May I trouble you for a little water?'

'Of course.'

When she'd gone I bolted for the desk, tore a strip of adhesive tape from the dispenser, raced back to Mrs. Specter's chair, and pressed the sticky side to the upholstery. Galiano watched without comment.

Mrs. Specter rejoined us carrying a crystal glass filled with ice water, a lemon slice stuck onto the rim. As I drank, she spoke to Galiano.

'I'm sorry I have nothing else for you, Detective. I am trying. Truly, I am.'

In the foyer, she surprised me with a request.

'Have you a card, Dr. Brennan?'

I dug one out.

'Thank you.' She waved off a servant who was bearing down. 'Can you be reached locally?'

Surprised, I scribbled the number of my rented cellular.

'Please, please, Detective. Find my baby.'

The heavy oak door clicked shut at our backs.

Galiano didn't speak until we were in the car.

'What's with the upholstery-cleaning routine?'

'Did you see her chair?'

He fastened his seat belt and started the engine.

'Aubusson. Pricey.'

I held up the tape. 'That Aubusson has a fur coat.'

He turned to me, hand on the key.

'The Specters reported no pets.'