The Paradise Prophecy

underwear, and half a dozen changes of clothes. Any additional wardrobe or luggage (or weapons, for that matter) were procured locally by Section and waiting for her in her hotel room, depending on the needs of the particular assignment at hand. The life Callahan led was often complicated, and traveling light was one of the best ways she knew to alleviate the stress of the job.

Not that this had been working lately. The panic attacks, the tremors, and the inability to sleep put the lie to that particular belief. And after years of back-to-back assignments, maybe what she needed was a vacation.

As she crossed the lobby toward the exit to the street, she noticed a young dark-haired girl sitting at a nearby bench, surrounded by luggage. The girl was sobbing uncontrollably, a newspaper clutched in her hands, Gabriela’s face staring up at her from the front page.

This girl, she thought, was a live version of what was playing on the lobby television screens, her tears a palpable manifestation of a very real pain. By her reaction, you would think her sister had just died, yet it was unlikely she had known Gabriela beyond the carefully manufactured image that was projected on those screens.

For just a moment, their gazes met, and Callahan tried to show her a bit of sympathy, although she doubted it would matter. The poor thing was beyond consoling at this point.

But in that moment, Callahan was hurled backwards to her own childhood, to a time shortly after her father killed himself. She had been very young when it happened, and she was devastated. Partly because he was everything to her, and partly because he’d left her behind with her stepmother, who was, quite possibly, the biggest stone-cold bitch on the face of the planet.

Leaving the girl to her tears-and her memories to the crowded lobby-Callahan carried her bag through the sliding glass doors and went outside, immediately struck by a stifling humidity that made her regret wearing a blazer. She went straight toward the curb, where she hoped to grab an air-conditioned cab.

The street was crowded with them, from small white Fiats to brightly colored VW vans, but before she could hail one, a teenage boy stepped into her path, said something unintelligible, then thrust a flyer into her free hand.

Callahan was about to tell him that unless he was handing her a portable swamp cooler, to kindly fuck off, when he gave her a big toothy grin, then turned and headed toward his next victim.

Another messenger from Section?

No, she thought, not this time. He was a little too young to be a Section operative, and was more than likely just a kid trying to make a living.

Still, her gaze drifted to the flyer. It featured a photograph of a gaudily painted tour van rolling through what looked like a Brazilian shantytown. The text read, in English:

FAVELA TOURS

Experience true adventure! Explore the Wild West of South

America in Sao Paolo’s Favela Paraisopolis!

Callahan had heard of these tours before. They were usually taken by callous idiots who had a morbid fascination with how the poor and impoverished lived. The modern-day equivalent of a freak show. The very definition of the term slumming.

Shoving the flyer into her jacket pocket, she once again threw her hand in the air and flagged a cab.

It struck Callahan the moment she met him that Lieutenant Manuel Martinez didn’t want her 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 Policia Civil do Estado de Sao 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?”

The 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 gasoline.” He cleared his throat. “But this is where it becomes complicated.”

“How?”

“There is no evidence of any gasoline.”

“Then what kind of accelerant was used?”

“This is the complication. If the victim doused herself, as we originally suspected, she would have breathed in fumes, and some of the residue from those fumes would, in all probability, be in her lung tissue.”

Callahan studied the mess on the table. “Good luck with that.”