looked up at Galiano.
“You have a reputation for finding the truth, Dr. Brennan.” The Maybelline eyes were relentless. “Parents are in agony not knowing the truth about their missing kids.”
I thought of Katy and knew the fear I’d experience should my daughter disappear, the absolute terror that would grip me should she vanish in a place with unknown language, laws, and procedures, peopled by unfamiliar authorities who might or might not exert genuine effort to find her.
“All right, Detective. I’m listening.”
Zone 1 is the oldest part of Guatemala City, a claustrophobic hive of rundown shops, cheap hotels, bus terminals, and car parks, with a sprinkling of modern chain outlets. Wimpy’s and McDonald’s share the narrow streets with German delis, sports bars, Chinese restaurants, shoe stores, cinemas, electrical shops, strip joints, and taverns.
Like many ecozones, the sector follows a diurnal rhythm. Come dark, the vendors and pedestrians clogging its streets yield to cigarette sellers and hookers. The shoeshine boys, taxi drivers, buskers, and preachers vanish from Parque Concordia, and homeless children gather to bed down for the night.
Zone 1 is broken pavement, neon, fumes, and noise. But the quarter also has a grander side. It is home to the Palacio Nacional, the Biblioteca Nacional, the Mercado Central, Parque Central, Parque del Centenario, museums, a cathedral, and a spectacular Moorish post office. Police headquarters is located in an outlandish castle at the intersection of Calle 14 and Avenida 6, one block south of the Iglesia de San Francisco, famous for its carving of the sacred heart and for the banned books discovered in a roof cavity, hidden decades earlier by rebellious clergy.
Ninety minutes later Galiano and I were seated at a battered wooden table in a conference room on the castle’s third floor. With us were his partner, Sergeant-detective Pascual Hernández, and Juan-Carlos Xicay, head of the evidence recovery team that would process the septic tank.
The room was a cheerless gray, last painted about the time the padres were stashing their books. Putty-colored stuffing sprouted from my chair, and I wondered how many nervous, bored, or frightened buttocks had squirmed in that same seat.
A fly buzzed against the room’s single window. I felt empathy, and I shared the insect’s desire for escape. Beyond the window, through filthy blinds, I could see one of the castle’s battlements.
At least there was an upside. I was safe from attack by medieval knights.
Sighing, I shifted for the billionth time, picked up a paper clip, and began tapping the table. We’d been waiting twenty minutes for a representative from the DA’s office. I was hot, tired, and disappointed to be pulled from my FAFG work. And I was not hiding it well.
“Shouldn’t be long.” Galiano looked at his watch.
“Couldn’t I outline the procedure?” I asked. “It may take Señor Xicay some time to line up the equipment.”
Xicay scratched an eyebrow, said nothing. Hernández gestured his powerlessness by raising a hand and dropping it onto the tabletop. He was a heavy man, with black wavy hair that crawled down his neck. His forearms and hands were also layered with dark, wiry hair.
“I’ll check again.” Galiano strode from the room, his gait indicating annoyance.
With whom? I wondered. Me? The tardy DA? Some higher-up?
Almost immediately, I heard Galiano arguing in the corridor. Though the Spanish was rapid fire, and I missed many words, the animosity was clear. I caught my name at least twice.
Moments later the voices stopped, and Galiano rejoined us, followed by a tall, thin man in rose-pink glasses. The man was slightly stooped, with a soft belly that pooched over his belt.
Galiano made introductions.
“Dr. Brennan, may I present Señor Antonio Díaz. Señor Díaz heads up the criminal investigative section of the office of the district attorney.”
I rose and
“You have a reputation for finding the truth, Dr. Brennan.” The Maybelline eyes were relentless. “Parents are in agony not knowing the truth about their missing kids.”
I thought of Katy and knew the fear I’d experience should my daughter disappear, the absolute terror that would grip me should she vanish in a place with unknown language, laws, and procedures, peopled by unfamiliar authorities who might or might not exert genuine effort to find her.
“All right, Detective. I’m listening.”
Zone 1 is the oldest part of Guatemala City, a claustrophobic hive of rundown shops, cheap hotels, bus terminals, and car parks, with a sprinkling of modern chain outlets. Wimpy’s and McDonald’s share the narrow streets with German delis, sports bars, Chinese restaurants, shoe stores, cinemas, electrical shops, strip joints, and taverns.
Like many ecozones, the sector follows a diurnal rhythm. Come dark, the vendors and pedestrians clogging its streets yield to cigarette sellers and hookers. The shoeshine boys, taxi drivers, buskers, and preachers vanish from Parque Concordia, and homeless children gather to bed down for the night.
Zone 1 is broken pavement, neon, fumes, and noise. But the quarter also has a grander side. It is home to the Palacio Nacional, the Biblioteca Nacional, the Mercado Central, Parque Central, Parque del Centenario, museums, a cathedral, and a spectacular Moorish post office. Police headquarters is located in an outlandish castle at the intersection of Calle 14 and Avenida 6, one block south of the Iglesia de San Francisco, famous for its carving of the sacred heart and for the banned books discovered in a roof cavity, hidden decades earlier by rebellious clergy.
Ninety minutes later Galiano and I were seated at a battered wooden table in a conference room on the castle’s third floor. With us were his partner, Sergeant-detective Pascual Hernández, and Juan-Carlos Xicay, head of the evidence recovery team that would process the septic tank.
The room was a cheerless gray, last painted about the time the padres were stashing their books. Putty-colored stuffing sprouted from my chair, and I wondered how many nervous, bored, or frightened buttocks had squirmed in that same seat.
A fly buzzed against the room’s single window. I felt empathy, and I shared the insect’s desire for escape. Beyond the window, through filthy blinds, I could see one of the castle’s battlements.
At least there was an upside. I was safe from attack by medieval knights.
Sighing, I shifted for the billionth time, picked up a paper clip, and began tapping the table. We’d been waiting twenty minutes for a representative from the DA’s office. I was hot, tired, and disappointed to be pulled from my FAFG work. And I was not hiding it well.
“Shouldn’t be long.” Galiano looked at his watch.
“Couldn’t I outline the procedure?” I asked. “It may take Señor Xicay some time to line up the equipment.”
Xicay scratched an eyebrow, said nothing. Hernández gestured his powerlessness by raising a hand and dropping it onto the tabletop. He was a heavy man, with black wavy hair that crawled down his neck. His forearms and hands were also layered with dark, wiry hair.
“I’ll check again.” Galiano strode from the room, his gait indicating annoyance.
With whom? I wondered. Me? The tardy DA? Some higher-up?
Almost immediately, I heard Galiano arguing in the corridor. Though the Spanish was rapid fire, and I missed many words, the animosity was clear. I caught my name at least twice.
Moments later the voices stopped, and Galiano rejoined us, followed by a tall, thin man in rose-pink glasses. The man was slightly stooped, with a soft belly that pooched over his belt.
Galiano made introductions.
“Dr. Brennan, may I present Señor Antonio Díaz. Señor Díaz heads up the criminal investigative section of the office of the district attorney.”
I rose and
Similar Books
Tats Too
Layce Gardner
Shift Out of Luck (Bear Bites Book 1)
Ruby Dixon
Who Murdered Garson Talmadge
David Bishop
The Flamingo’s Smile
Stephen Jay Gould
The Penny Heart
Martine Bailey
Changing the Game
Jaci Burton
One Week in Your Arms
Patricia Preston
Another Chance
Rebecca.L. Winstone
She Weeps Each Time You're Born
Quan Barry