Grave Secrets by Kathy Reichs

torch and candle, and entering was like passing into a Mayan tomb. As my pupils dilated, a parrot shrilled greetings in Spanish and English. So did a man in white shirt, black pants, and apron.

    “Hola, Detective Galiano. Hello. ¿Cómo está?”

    “Muy bien, Señor Velásquez.”

    “Such a long time since we’ve seen you.”

    An enormous mustache handle-barred over Velásquez’s mouth, plunged south at the sides, then curled back north as though reaching for his nostrils. I thought of an emperor tamarin.

    “Working my tail off, señor.”

    Velásquez wagged his head in understanding.

    “Crime is so terrible today. Everywhere. Everywhere. The citizens of this city are privileged to have you on the job.”

    Another sad head shake, then Velásquez took my hand and pressed it to his lips. The facial hair felt like steel wool.

    “Bienvenido, señorita. A friend of Detective Galiano is always a friend of Velásquez.”

    Releasing my fingers, he flashed both eyebrows at Galiano and winked theatrically.

    “Por favor . My best table. Come. Come.”

    Velásquez led us to his prize pond-side seating, turned and beamed at Galiano. The detective tipped his head toward the restaurant’s interior.

    “Sí, señor. Of course.”

    Velásquez hurried us to an alcove constructed around a back corner, and gave Galiano a questioning look. My companion nodded. We entered the cave and sat. Another Groucho display for the great crime fighter, and our host withdrew.

    “That was as subtle as a baboon’s ass,” I said.

    “I apologize for the machismo of my brothers.”

    Within seconds a waitress appeared with menus.

    “Libation?” Galiano asked me.

    Oh, yeah.

    “Can’t do it.”

    “Oh?”

    “Over quota.”

    Galiano did not question that.

    He ordered a Grey Goose martini neat. I asked for Perrier with lime.

    When the drinks arrived, we opened our menus. The lighting had gone from low to nonexistent with our relocation to the underworld, and I could hardly make out the handwritten text. I wondered about Galiano’s motive for the move, but didn’t ask.

    “If you haven’t had caldos, I recommend it.”

    “Caldos being…?”

    “Traditional Mayan stew. Tonight they have duck, beef, and chicken.”

    “Chicken.” I closed my menu. I couldn’t read it anyway.

    Galiano chose beef.

    The waitress brought tortillas. Galiano took one, offered the basket.

    “Gracias,” I said.

    “When?” He settled back into his chair.

    I’d missed a bridge somewhere.

    “When?” I repeated his question.

    “When did you burn your allotment?”

    I made the connection, but had no intention of discussing my love affair with alcohol.

    “A few years back.”

    “Friend of Bill Wilson?”

    “I’m not a joiner.”

    “A lot of people rely on AA.”

    “It’s a wonderful program.” I reached for my glass. The bubbles made soft fizzing sounds as the ice settled. “Was there something you wanted to tell me about the case?”

    “Yes.”

    He smiled, sipped his martini.

    “You have a daughter, correct?”

    “Yes.”

    “I have a son. He’s seventeen.”

    I said nothing.

    “Alejandro, but he prefers Al.”

    Galiano continued, unconcerned by the lack of feedback.

    “Bright kid. He’ll start college next year. Probably ship him up to Canada.”

    “St-F.X.?” I hoped to blow a hole in his unassailable self-confidence.

    Galiano grinned.

    “That’s where you scored the Bat tidbit.”

    So he had caught my use of his nickname at headquarters.

    “Who?” he asked.

    “Andrew Ryan.”

    “Ay, Dios.”

    He threw back his head and laughed.

    “What the hell’s Ryan up to these days?”

    “He’s a detective with the provincial police.”

    “Using his Spanish?”

    “Ryan speaks Spanish?”

    Galiano nodded. “We used to discuss passing members of the opposite sex and no one knew what we were saying.”

    “Commenting on their intelligence, no doubt.”

    “Sewing skills.”

    I drilled