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I nodded and said, “Inverted, arms out to his side, looking down at the graffiti.”
“Yes, now put a narrow beam of wood behind him from above his toes to below his head, and a second one holding his arms out at right angles.”
I saw it, and my eyes flew open. “An upside-down cross?”
“The cross of the apostle Saint Peter,” Louis said. “Do you know this story?”
Though lapsed, I’d been raised a Catholic by my staunch mother, and vaguely remembered the story. “When the apostle Peter was condemned to death for spreading Christ’s word, he asked his executioners to crucify him upside down because he thought he was unworthy of dying as Jesus had died.”
“This is correct,” Louis said.
“But what does that have—”
He held up his hands and said, “Over the centuries, Saint Peter’s upside-down cross also became an anti-Christian symbol, one that suggested the religion’s ultimate demise, especially among Islamists and during the Crusades.”
“Crusades?” I groaned. “I hope you’re not telling me this is one of those hokey stories that link a killing to some secret Christian society and a valuable ancient whatever belonging to Saint whomever.”
“No, no,” he snorted. “No evidence of that, thank God. I’m just saying that you can interpret Richard’s body position as anti-Christian, and perhaps pro-Islamist. That’s how it struck me at first view, but I had no other link. Now, with pictures of Richard role-playing a priest having sex with a Muslim woman, and Richard writing an opera about a torrid affair between a Catholic priest and a Muslim woman, I’d say we have the link.”
“So who killed Richard? Father? Brothers? And who was the redhead?”
“I don’t—”
The door blew open behind us and the little flat became crowded with men aiming pistols at us.
Chapter 24
SHAREN HOSKINS CAME in behind her men. Her face contorted and red, she snapped, “You are both under arrest.”
“On what charges?” Louis demanded.
“Obstruction of justice!” the homicide investigator shouted. “Evidence tampering! And I can probably come up with six more!”
“We were given permission by the widow to be here,” I said. “And we followed Interpol search procedures. This place was tossed before we got here.”
Hoskins’s expression soured, and she said, “You have absolutely no say in any of this, Monsieur Morgan.”
Louis said, “Can we help it if La Crim moves at a snail’s pace, while Private Paris makes discoveries missed by whoever searched this place first?”
Hoskins narrowed her left eye and said, “What discoveries?”
Langlois told her about Richard’s opera libretto. I showed her the hijab and veil, and the pictures. She studied them coldly while Louis explained his belief that the women were all one and the same, and that the opera director’s body position was meant as an anti-Christian statement.
“Do you see?” he asked. “Now imagine if we are under arrest and we explain this to every journalist we can get interested in our case.”
Hoskins set the photographs down, thought for several moments, and then said, “For finding this evidence you are no longer under arrest.”
“It was just a mix-up,” Louis said in a magnanimous tone.
“Yes,” I said. “And in a gesture of goodwill, I can offer you Private Paris’s forensics team to work this room. They are fully certified.”
“I’m sure,” she said, cool. “But we can take care of it.”
The investigateur stepped toward Louis, hardened, and shook a finger in his face, saying, “But so help me God, Louis, if you or your boss breathe one word of what you’ve seen in here, or if you pursue anything having to do with what you’ve seen in here, Monsieur Morgan will be deported immediately, and you, Louis, will be held incommunicado for as long as I see fit.”
“You don’t have that authority,” he said in a soft growl.
“But I know people who do,” Hoskins said. “Now, gentlemen, I need you to get far, far out of my way.”
