She led me down the hallway. We passed the living room, the TV on, a Spanish soap opera she was addicted to. She ignored it and continued down the hall toward the last room in the apartment, at one time the master bedroom. She’d given it up years ago, moving her bed into the tiny room off the living room.
“We will speak in the Ile,” she said.
It was the first time I’d heard her refer to the room where she saw her clients as a house church.
“Why Ile and not cuarto de los santos?”
“My friends encouraged me. Y así paso. I do not mean to say that it takes the place of church.”
I knew what she meant: that she was still a churchgoing Christian. She prayed to Olofi-who served as humanity’s personal God on earth-but she prayed to God’s son Jesus as well. For her, there was no conflict.
“When someone comes to me to consult the orishas, I tell them, ask your church and your congregation to pray for you too.”
“So you have become a godmother, a madrina?”
“I am…just me. There are others with much greater knowledge.” She told me about some kid named Carlos, twelve years old, a child of Obatala, she said, with great powers, but I’d stopped listening. We had stepped into the cuarto de los santos, which I hadn’t been in since she had given it up as her bedroom, and I was stunned.
There were makeshift shrines everywhere. One with a dish and rock like the one by the door, this one much more elaborate, adorned with red and white beads, a jewel-encrusted crucifix, a dollhouse draped with a wilting vine. A few feet away another with pictures of saints wrapped in colored cellophane and a small cheap-looking plastic skeleton covered with rosary beads. And there were more: dolls with peacock feathers and fake flowers, stacks of fruit, toys, candles, pictures of saints and orishas, even a Buddha. I didn’t see a Star of David, but there probably was one.
My grandmother had always had a few modest shrines made from candles and pictures of saints, but nothing had prepared me for this.
“It looks like you’ve spent way too much money at the local botánica, uela.”
She told me not to make fun, that it was a pecado, a sin, that almost everything had been created by people who came to her for consultations.
In the center of the room were three benches like pews, plain wood, pockmarked and weathered as if they had been left outside during some church demolition, which was entirely possible. I asked her where she’d gotten them and she said that a local padrino had found them for her.
She told me to sit down in one of the pews, and I did. She touched the sleeve of my white shirt. “This was a good one to wear, una señal.”
“It was my only clean shirt,” I said.
“And you think that is not a sign?”
Then she told me she had seen another room, but not to draw, just to listen. She had felt something in this room, a presence of something evil. Then she described what sounded a lot like my apartment, an apartment she had never seen.
I was about to show her my sketches of the man I was trying to draw, but she had more to say, and another vision she wanted me to draw.
45
I realize this is delicate,” said Collins, “which is why I came to you, Chief Denton.”
“Perry, please. And I appreciate that, Monica.” Denton tried to imagine the FBI agent nude, but could not.
“There’s just a bit too much coincidence. Nothing concrete, not enough for an arrest, but I have to say we’re watching him.”
“Of course. I understand.” Denton tried not to smile. This was the best news he’d had all day. “I can see where you’re coming from. I’ll keep an eye on Rodriguez too.”
Agent Collins tried to concentrate but was getting lost in the chief’s blue eyes. She didn’t think a man like Denton would be interested in her, but there had been his arm on hers at the meeting, a conspiratorially wink or two, and now the way he was leaning in to whisper.
“Personally, I was against the idea from the beginning. It was Russo who encouraged it. Could be Rodriguez convinced her he’d be able to help.” Denton shrugged to make his comment seem offhand, but he wanted to be sure he seeded the possibility there was something going on between Rodriguez and Russo. “Don’t get me wrong. Russo’s a good cop. Sure, she’s made a few bad decisions in the past, but what cop hasn’t?” If Collins had not remembered Russo’s past, now she would.
“Right now it’s mainly a question of proximity,” said Collins. “And Rodriguez left prints all over the vic’s apartment, though there’s no way to date them. For argument’s sake, let’s say they’re new, that Rodriguez made them when he discovered the body.”
“That’s very generous of you, Monica.” Denton smiled.
Collins sat back and crossed her legs. “What I don’t like is that he traipsed across the apartment. I mean, why would a cop intentionally contaminate a crime scene?”
“I see your point.”
“I understand he was curious to see the drawing, but still…”
“If you’d like, I can put one of my own men on him.”
Collins looked surprised, and Denton worried he might have pushed it too far, supporting her suspicions over one of his own men. He laid his hand on her knee to distract her. “Can I be honest with you, Monica?”
“Oh.” Collins flinched a bit. “Please do.”
“I suggested my own surveillance because…well…if it turns out Rodriguez had anything to do with this, I’d like to know first.”
“I understand completely,” she said, feeling the heat from Denton’s hand. “And you needn’t worry. Whatever we find on Rodriguez, I’ll make sure you know about it.”
I had been drawing for a few minutes, my grandmother beside me, but I wasn’t getting anywhere.
“It is…an explosion,” she said, her eyes closed. “But I cannot tell you more. I cannot see more than that.”
“And do you know where this explosion is happening?”
“No sé. Es un…presentimiento.”
We were both into feelings these days.
I tried to get more information, but it was all she could come up with, so I put it aside and told her that I thought the unsub had been in my apartment.
She crossed herself, but did not seem surprised. She said she had been worried for days, that she had consulted the orishas and set up the bóveda all for me. She said she wished I was part of the faith and she could make me a saint.
“Me? A saint?” I laughed.
“Pórtate bien,” she said, behave, then asked what else had happened.
I didn’t want to tell her about Cordero and my fears that I’d become a suspect.
She looked into my eyes and laid her hand on my heart. “There is a problem, aquí adentro. Sometimes we anger the orishas and we do not know it. Sometimes it is not our fault and still the gods are angry with us.”
I knew exactly what I had done to piss off the gods, but couldn’t say it.
“There are things we can do, Nato, to scare away the espiritus malévolos.” She explained about receiving Eleggua and the warriors. Then she draped one of the beaded necklaces around my neck and I didn’t fight her. It felt strangely comforting.
She smiled, but it faded fast. “I do not have the power. It should be a babalao.” A male priest of the highest order with power over the future, she explained. A part of me wished he were here. My whole life I had resisted, but now I wanted to believe. I was like the dying man who has never been to church who suddenly wants the sacrament.