Free The Poisoned Pawn by Peggy Blair Page A

the space like a pulse, as if the earth had a heartbeat.
    Ramirez looked around. The gallery smelled like a botánica , a shop that supplied herbs for Santería rituals. Dozens of paintings hung on its walls. An Afro-Cuban man piled books into stacks for sale, seemingly oblivious to the ceremonies taking place above ground.
    “Excuse me, we need your help,” Ramirez said to the man and showed him his badge. “My name is Inspector Ramirez.” He turned to introduce Latapier, but the detective had walked away and was examining a painting on the wall.
    “Of course,” the man said. “My name is Carlos Neruda. What can I do for you?”
    “The body of a woman was found not far from here early on New Year’s Day. An elderly woman. Afro-Cuban. She wasdressed completely in white. I’m hoping you might know who she was.”
    “Why would you think that has something to do with me?” Neruda asked, looking nervously around the gallery.
    “We assume she came from around here. And that she may have been an initiate.”
    “We, meaning who?” said the man.
    “The Major Crimes Unit. I’m the inspector in charge of the section that deals with homicides. And this woman’s death was no accident, believe me.”
    “How did she die?”
    “She was stabbed through the heart.”
    Ramirez gave him only part of the truth. The exact cause of death was still unknown, but in a police investigation, it was always useful to hold something back that only the killer could know. He made no mention of the fish knife. “The murder may be linked to that of two children. In one case, the victim’s heart was cut right out of her body.”
    Carlos Neruda visibly flinched. “We practice Santería here. Not brujería .”
    The noises above suddenly stopped. The silence was almost more startling than the drumming and screams had been.
    “No one has accused you of witchcraft,” said Ramirez.
    “You seek answers in the wrong place. A bruja would never be accepted into our initiations. We do not believe in black magic.”
    The dark man’s eyes flicked to a painting on the wall, the one Latapier was scrutinizing.
    “Look here,” Latapier said to Ramirez, calling him over.
    The inspector joined him. The painting was formed from splashes and dribbles of white, black, and red paint. The paint looked as if it had been thrown wildly on the canvas. And yet the image was immediately recognizable once one’s eyes adjusted tothe artist’s technique. As Ramirez examined it, a woman’s body emerged, almost as clear as a photograph.
    The portrait had incredible energy. An elderly black woman was garbed in white, her head flung back. Her body was twisted and contorted as she danced in front of the drums. There was no doubt in Ramirez’s mind: it was the woman who waited outside the gates.
    Ramirez pointed to the painting. “Was this woman initiated into Santería here, in Blind Alley?” he asked the gallery owner.
    The man shifted his weight from foot to foot. He avoided Ramirez’s eyes. “I have sworn an oath to the gods to keep our ceremonies secret.”
    “The name of the artist, Señor Neruda. Or I will arrest you for obstruction. I would not wish to see you in a situation where you had to rely on the gods to protect you in jail.”
    His bluff had the desired effect.
    Latapier and Ramirez walked back up the narrow stone steps.
    The drummers were gone. There was no sign of the initiate. The singers had melted away into the crowd. Turistas sat at the outside bar, holding watery, overpriced drinks as they were hustled for money and soap by jineteros.
    “This is good, Juan,” said Ramirez. “We have our first solid lead.” They had the artist’s name: Luis Martez. And Martez’s address.
    “She was just an old woman, Inspector Ramirez. I didn’t know her,” Luis Martez said. He lived about fifteen minutes from the Callejón, on the top floor of a building that was falling down. The one-room studio was full of stacked canvasses, a small metal bed,