Free The Paradise Prophecy by Robert Browne

there.
    This, in itself, wasn’t an earth-shattering revelation. It doesn’t matter what profession you practice, anytime somebody new comes along, somebody hoisted on you by management or, as in this case, the governor and the police superintendent, you tend to feel a certain amount of resistance to their presence.
    But what surprised Callahan were Martinez’s efforts to disguise this with the buttery charm of a Shopping Channel pitchman, a charm carefully accented by a disarming smile and a calculated twinkle in the eyes. The only thing that ruined the picture was a faint but unmistakable trace of fear behind that twinkle. Callahan had long ago learned to read people almost instantly, and her impression of the lieutenant was that he was a conflicted, frightened man.
    What he was frightened of was anyone’s guess.
    “Agent Callahan,” he said. “So wonderful to meet you. I’m so sorry we must become acquainted under such tragic circumstances.”
    He spoke in his native tongue, but Callahan had no trouble understanding him. She was proficient in nine languages and fluent in seven, including Portuguese. Brazilian Portuguese. Which was, undoubtedly, one of the reasons she’d been given this assignment in the first place. Martinez would have received word of this in the briefing packet Section had faxed him.
    Callahan knew she had a choice here. She could play the charm card right back at him—something she was quite adept at—or she could simply play the cold, officious, no-nonsense State Department hard-ass who was here to get the job done.
    Pulling her hand free, she went with option number two. “Why don’t we forgo the formalities and get down to business?”
    Martinez’s smile froze. “Whatever you wish.”
    They were standing in the detectives’ squad room of the Special Investigations Department of the Polícia Civil do Estado de São Paulo . A couple of Martinez’s investigators were slumped in chairs nearby, one of them running his gaze up and down her body without apology, as if she were nothing more than what the locals called a program girl, here to service the troops.
    Had she not learned long ago to ignore such things, she might have been a bit perturbed by it. But this was Brazil, after all, in all its modern, complex, sexually liberated glory.
    “These are Detectives Santos and Rivera,” Martinez said. “They wish to express their gratitude that the superintendent has asked you to join our investigation.”
    “They do, do they?”
    For a moment Callahan was tempted to tell them that they might want to consider adjusting that “gratitude” before she adjusted it for them.
    But she was too tired to bother.
    Instead, she opted for the high road. “Shall we take a look at the victim’s body now?”
     
     
    T he word body was being kind.
    Despite the crime-scene photos, Callahan was surprised by its condition, a charred mass of bones and wasted internal organs that were barely identifiable as human. What was left of Gabriela Maria Abrino Zuada lay in a heap on the medical examiner’s table, giving off a sharp, putrid smell that invaded the nostrils without mercy, making Callahan’s stomach do a sudden flip-flop the moment she walked into the crime lab.
    She managed to hold back the airline peanuts long enough for the nausea to pass, then turned to the medical examiner, a sober-looking guy named Pereira, who didn’t seem at all bothered by the smell.
    “So what can you tell me about this?” she asked.
    “Other than the obvious? Very little.”
    “Run it through for me.”
    Pereira glanced at Martinez, who stood just inside the doorway. That trace of fear she’d seen earlier had gotten more pronounced and Pereira seemed to share it.
    What the hell was going on here?
    “The victim was female,” Pereira said. “Twenty-three years old, identified through dental records as Senhorita Gabriela Zuada. The body was nearly incinerated by fire, and one of the witnesses said he smelled