Batty shook his head and sighed. “Paradise Lost revolves around Satan’s fall from grace and the corruption of mankind, and despite your victim’s obsession with it, I’d have a hard time equating any part of it to a murder or a Satanic ritual.”
“Would you mind taking a look at the crime-scene photos?”
“If I refuse, will you let me go?”
“Not likely.”
“I’m not sure how much good it’ll do you.”
“Just take a look and tell me if anything jumps out at you.”
She brought out a cell phone, played with it for a moment, then handed it to Batty. “Just touch the arrow to flip through the photos.”
Batty did as he was told and the screen came to life with a publicity shot of Gabriela Zuada. Before now, he’d only had a vague idea of what she looked like, but the moment he saw that face, his heart rate kicked up.
He’d seen her before. And not on TV.
This was the girl from his nightmare the other night. The one whose screams had awakened him. The one consumed by a wall of fire.
He sat there, unmoving, staring at her image, then reluctantly touched the screen again, advancing through the next several photos.
What he saw was a burned body. Burned beyond recognition. Then shots of a floor marred by dark scorches that roughly formed a circle with an A at its center.
Goose bumps rose on the back of Batty’s neck.
He stared at the screen wordlessly, suddenly swept away to a place he didn’t want to go. To a moment in time he had spent the last two years trying to obliterate.
Struggling to pull himself back, he said, “Where did they find this body?”
“In a backstage storage room at the local performing arts center.”
“I need to go there. Right now.”
Callahan frowned at him. “That’s probably not a good idea, Professor. I’m sure anything you have to contribute can be handled right-”
“You don’t understand. I’m not asking, I’m telling you. It’s imperative that I see that storeroom. You’re in danger. Grave danger. And so is anyone else involved in this investigation.”
“Danger? What are you talking about?”
Batty got to his feet again. She could try to stop him, but this time he had adrenaline on his side.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” he said. “Take me to the crime scene or stay the hell out of my way.”
18
They took a cab to the performing arts center.
Callahan had tried to get LaLaurie to spill-to tell her what he’d seen in those photographs that she couldn’t see-but he had refused to budge. On the ride over, he remained evasive, and the more time she spent time with him, the more her irritation grew.
Danger. Grave danger.
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did she have another Lieutenant Martinez on her hands?
As they were waved through the barricades, Callahan noted that the crowd outside had grown considerably, and she wondered how long it would be before it was too big to be controlled.
LaLaurie took it all in with a trace of wonder in his eyes. “A lot of fuss and bother for one little girl.”
Callahan arched a brow. “Do you have any idea how famous Gabriela was?”
“Not a clue.”
“There’s the pope, then there’s Santa Gabriela. And in some circles even the pope has to play catch-up.” She looked at him. “Are you ready to talk to me now?”
“About what?”
“About what you saw in those photographs.”
“Not until I know for sure.”
“Know what for sure?”
“I’ll tell you when I know.”
“And when will that be?”
“Soon,” LaLaurie said. “Very soon.”
Infuriating.
Less than five minutes later, they were climbing the loading-dock steps. They entered the building, crossed through a small warehouse, then followed a hallway until they came to the storeroom where Gabriela’s body had been found.
LaLaurie paused at the doorway, just short of the police tape. “You smell that?”
“What?” Callahan asked. “And if you say gasoline, I’ll kick your butt.”
“Sulfur,” he said. “It’s not strong, but it’s there.”
“You must have a better nose than I do.” Callahan pulled the crime-scene tape aside and flicked on the light. “The reason I mentioned gasoline is because one of the witnesses insists he smelled it. But we haven’t found any evidence of it.”
“I’m not surprised. Who was this witness?”
“Her boyfriend.”
LaLaurie nodded. “Like a husband having sympathy pains when his wife goes into labor.”
“Say what?”
He didn’t respond. He was staring at the scorch mark now, his jaw tightening at the sight of it. He seemed to go away for a moment, lost in a memory-and not a pleasant one at that. She was about to call him back, when he abruptly moved past her and put a palm against the wall, closing his eyes.
He stayed that way for what seemed an eternity, and Callahan said, “Pardon the intrusion, Professor, but what the hell are you doing?”
“Trying to feel the energy in the room. Looking for signs.”
What the hell? Was he some kind of psychic?
She didn’t remember reading that in his file.
“Please tell me I misunderstood what you just said.”
He moved to the scorch mark again and hunkered down next to it. He studied it a moment, then closed his eyes and slowly-almost reluctantly, it seemed-lowered his hand, pressing his palm against it.
The moment he made contact, his entire body went rigid. He clamped his jaw tight and began to shake, as if a current of electricity were shooting through him.
“Professor?”
She was sure he was about to go into a full-fledged grand mal seizure, when he suddenly jerked his hand away and opened his eyes. His face had gone pale and his breathing was labored.
She moved toward him. “Professor, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, waving her off. Then he got to his feet, staggered slightly and steadied himself against a wall, struggling to catch his breath. “Just what I was afraid of. Take me to Gabriela’s apartment.”
“Maybe I should take you to a hospital instead. You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”
“I told you, I’m fine. Take me to her apartment.”
“Not until you explain to me what just happened.”
“I’m not sure you’re ready to hear it.” His color was returning and his breathing was back to normal.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Callahan said. “Ready to hear what?”
“I’ll explain it all when we get there.”
“How about you explain it now and we can pretend we waited.”
He looked at her. “Let’s just say that what happened here isn’t an isolated incident. That’s why I warned you.”
“You’re gonna have to give me a hell of a lot more than that.”
“At Gabriela’s apartment. I promise I’ll tell you everything.”
Callahan gave the cab driver the address for Gabriela’s high-rise.
There was something about LaLaurie-his inflexible will, perhaps-that made it impossible to turn him down.
Or maybe it was the pain behind his eyes. She’d noticed it the moment she pulled that blindfold free, only to see it compounded by his little parlor act at the crime scene.
She had to wonder if it had something to do with the scars on his wrists, and was beginning to think that the file Section had given her had been heavily redacted.
He was damaged goods, no doubt about it, and she couldn’t help thinking that whatever that damage was, it was somehow related to what he’d seen in that storeroom.
If LaLaurie was convinced Gabriela’s death wasn’t an isolated incident, then Callahan needed to know why. And as much as she wanted to smack him around until he finally broke down and told her, she decided to let him play this out.
It wasn’t like she had anything better to do.