Read The Paradise Prophecy Online

Authors: Robert Browne

The Paradise Prophecy (11 page)

BOOK: The Paradise Prophecy
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Martinez said nothing, and she knew she hadn’t dissuaded him. But that was his problem, not hers.
“According to the inventory sheet, you found a cell phone in the room.”
He nodded. “On the floor. Near the mop and bucket.”
“I assume it was Gabriela’s?”
“Yes.”
“And I assume you went through the calls?”
Martinez looked for a moment as if he wanted to slap her, but held himself in check. “There was only one recent outgoing call, shortly before her death.”
“To who?”
“Her manager. Alejandro Ruiz.”
Callahan remembered the name from the dossier. “He’s the one who smelled gasoline.”
Martinez nodded. “That’s what he told the responding officers, yes.”
“I only saw his preliminary statement in the file. Did you ever follow up? Ask him about that phone call?”
“Why do I suddenly feel as if I’m on trial?”
“Look,” Callahan said, “I know you don’t like me much and I know you didn’t ask for me to be here. But we have a mystery to solve and I intend to do my best to solve it—so just answer the question, all right?”
Callahan was acutely aware that she’d made an enemy for life. But in a contest of who has the bigger balls, it’s best to assert yourself quickly and aggressively and without mercy, and she couldn’t let this man’s fear get in the way of her investigation.
“Well? Did you follow up or not?”
Martinez stared at her a moment. “Ruiz is in seclusion and I decided to leave him alone for now, out of respect. He and Gabriela were very close.”
“All the more reason to question him,” Callahan said. “Where do we find him?”
“He has a suite of private rooms in her penthouse.”
Callahan raised an eyebrow. “I guess they
were
close.”
10
 
W
hen Callahan stepped through the doorway of Gabriela’s penthouse, the first word that popped into her mind was
museum
.
She had half expected to find a sleek, postmodern, glass and chrome showroom, and there was certainly some of that. But what surprised her were the collection of artifacts Gabriela had amassed, a juxtaposition of her two worlds—music and religion.
There were enough guitars mounted on one large wall to fill a goodsize Hard Rock Cafe, each one accompanied by an identifying placard: Gibson Les Paul, Paul Reed Smith Golden Eagle, pre-FMIC Strato-caster, Gibson SG, Martin D-28, Taylor 810ce. Callahan couldn’t play these instruments, but she appreciated their beauty. The majority of them were signed by well-known rock stars, which meant this wall was worth a mint.
A Yamaha grand sat in a nearby corner atop a plush white carpet, and mounted above it was just the beginning of Gabriela’s religious collection: a stark, black-and-white etching of a winged Lucifer, cast out of heaven.
A Gustave Doré. And it looked like an original.
Framed copies of Gabriela’s CD covers lined another wall, along with plaques commemorating their gold and platinum status. And just below this were two long glass cases holding more religious artifacts than Callahan had seen outside of the Alexandria National Museum.
Most of the statuary, artwork and jewelry inside these cases looked very old and quite valuable, and the sight of it all gave the young pop star a weight and depth that Callahan hadn’t considered before. No one spent this kind of money, or surrounded herself with this kind of history, without a deep appreciation of both the artistry and message it conveyed. Maybe Gabriela had felt a kind of kinship with its creators—other artists sharing their love of God with the world.
There was something about this notion that saddened Callahan, and her suspicion that Gabriela had been murdered took even deeper root in her mind.
The timeline, she thought. There must be something wrong with the timeline.
Either that, or someone was lying.
Alejandro Ruiz?
The woman who had greeted them in the foyer—a middle-aged housekeeper named Rosa—stepped through a doorway behind them and said, “Mr. Ruiz will be with you in a moment. He’s looking for his phone.”
Martinez turned. “Thank you.”
Rosa was about to leave when she hesitated and looked at Callahan. There was a trace of tears in her eyes. “Please go easy on him. He’s taking this very hard. We all are.”
Callahan wasn’t quite sure why
she
had been singled out, but she nodded. “Were you at the concert hall when Gabriela died?”
Rosa shook her head. “I was at home. With my children.”
“Do you know if Gabriela had any enemies? People who might want to do her harm?”
Rosa’s eyes widened. “Why do you ask? Do you think someone—”
“I’m just trying to be thorough,” Callahan said. “You were around her a lot, so I assume you know a lot about her private life. Does anyone come to mind?”
“No. No one. We all loved Gabriela. She was a good girl. Treated everyone like family.”
“What about Alejandro? Did she treat him like family, too?”
The implication was clear and the question seemed to catch Rosa by surprise, but she managed not to stutter. “Yes. Of course. They were very fond of each other. Like brother and sister.”
Uh-huh, Callahan thought. “While we’re waiting, could you point me to her bedroom?”
Rosa looked conflicted, as if she were about to violate a trust. “Is that really necessary?”
“I’m afraid it is, yes.”
Rosa glanced at Martinez, then said, reluctantly, “Just down that hall, first room on your right.”
 
 
A
bedroom tells you more about a person than any other room in the house.
This is where we feel most at ease. Where we keep the things that are most important to us, much of it within arm’s reach. Where we have our most intimate moments.
Alone. With a lover. With our God.
The bedroom is where our secrets are held and revealed. Where we can be ourselves without fear of anyone watching or listening or judging. What’s hidden within its walls is never meant to be seen by uninvited eyes, and Callahan felt a tiny twinge of guilt when she stepped into this one.
First impression: Gabriela was a reader. Voracious, from the looks of it. There was no television in the room and one wall supported several shelves of books. Fiction, nonfiction, hardback, paperback, some neatly vertical, while others were stacked horizontally on the edge of a shelf, as if waiting to be read:
The Heart of Catholicism, The Power of Miracles, Chastity and Spiritual Discipline
.
This last one suggested that Gabriela may not only have been trying to deepen her understanding of her faith, but was struggling to remain true to it.
There was an acoustic guitar tucked into a corner. A no-name brand, battered and scarred. A relic of her past, no doubt, and probably more valuable to her than any of the guitars in her living room.
On the neatly made bed was an open UPS box. Callahan checked the label and saw that it had come from the Garanti Auction House, Istanbul, Turkey. Probably another artifact. Pushing back the flaps, she reached inside and removed a small stone figurine of an angel fighting a dragon. She had no idea what it signified, but it was a beautiful piece and probably worth more than her yearly salary.
The opposite side of the room featured a window that overlooked the city, a wash of skyscrapers disappearing into the horizon. To the left of it was a walk-in closet, two overstuffed suitcases sitting near the open doorway. The timeline had shown that Gabriela had arrived back in São Paulo the day of her death, and it looked as if she hadn’t unpacked before heading off to the auditorium to prepare for her last show.
That the bags had been left untouched suggested to Callahan that the housekeeper’s role here was limited to cleaning only. While Gabriela may have enjoyed some of the comforts of money, she was self-sufficient enough to deal with her own luggage, and for reasons Callahan couldn’t quite explain, this made her like the girl.
Those untouched bags, however, also meant that Martinez and his team had once again proven their ineptitude. The suitcases should have been thoroughly searched for any possible evidence pointing to Gabriela’s killer—assuming he existed. A letter, a notation, a diary, a photograph. Anything that might steer them in the right direction.
But nobody had bothered.
In fact, as Callahan looked around, it seemed as if the room itself had barely been touched. Was Martinez so convinced that Gabriela’s death was some kind of otherworldly phenomenon that he’d decided to forego any real police work?
Maybe Callahan should simply step away and let the man tell his ridiculous cover story about the poor girl’s spiral into drug addiction.
Why should it matter to her?
But it
did
matter. There were too many unanswered questions surrounding this case and she couldn’t let them stand. Not without at least
trying
to figure them out.
Which was probably what Section was counting on.
Returning the figurine to its box, she moved around the bed, pulled the suitcases out of the closet doorway, and lay them flat on the carpet. Neither of them was locked, and when she opened the first one all she found was underwear. Tanks and socks and bras and enough frilly thongs and short-shorts to raise the eyebrows of even Gabriela’s most progressive followers.
The second bag held pairs of neatly folded jeans and cutoffs, along with several printed T-shirts carrying messages like
Faith Inside
and
Pray It Like You Mean It
and
Property of God.
One well-worn shirt carried a phrase that Callahan vaguely recognized:
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n
 
True enough, but she’d be damned if she could remember where she’d heard it.
Continuing through the bag, she found more of the same, then did a quick check of all the pants pockets, hoping to come up with something interesting.
All she managed was a pack of spearmint gum and a few balls of lint.
Oh well, it had been worth a try.
As she closed the suitcases, her attention was drawn to the walk-in closet. She saw a tiny sliver of light in the darkness there, coming from the very back—like the light from beneath a door.
Was there another room back there?
Curious, she got to her feet, moved into the closet doorway and flicked on the light. The closet was paneled in bleached maple, with built-in shelves, drawers and shoe racks, but surprisingly few clothes hanging from the rods. Judging by the contents of the suitcases, Gabriela hadn’t cared much about her offstage attire.
Callahan had expected to see a door along the back wall, but instead found more built-in shelves, divided into three columns.
So where had the light come from?
She certainly hadn’t imagined it.
Flicking off the overhead, she crouched in the darkness for a different angle, and sure enough, a thin crack of light ran along the bottom of the center column, just about the width of a door.
A
hidden
door.
Getting to her feet again, Callahan crossed to the shelf, put her palms against it and pushed. She’d seen these types of doors before and wasn’t surprised when it swung inward, a swath of sunlight spilling into the closet from the room beyond.
A small, private sanctuary. Not much bigger than your average bathroom.
The sunlight came from a solar tube high in the ceiling, and fell directly across an old wooden prie-dieu—or prayer desk—at the center of the room, which was essentially a narrow table with a padded kneeler in front.
A couple of half-melted altar candles flanked a small wooden cross atop the desk, and on the wall facing it was another symbol, this one far more elaborate than the one at the crime scene. It had been hand-painted in a deep cobalt blue, possibly by Gabriela herself:
BOOK: The Paradise Prophecy
10.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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