Mapuche by Caryl Férey, Steven Randall Page B

climbed the stair to the landing on the third and last floor. Music was playing in the neighboring apartment. Rubén examined the lock on the door, selected one of his lock picks, and manipulated the lock until a click indicated that it was open. Silently, he slipped into María Victoria’s loft, making his way by the light coming in from outside, lowered the shades on the street side, and then turned on a lamp. The apartment was spacious, modern, and sober: an American-style kitchen, two long black sofas decorated with multicolored cushions, an architect’s table near the tall bay window, and a photography studio set up behind a screen—umbrella lamps, floodlights, a white background for photo shoots. Rubén took a few steps across the brown wooden floor: a dozen photos were hanging from a string stretched across a corner of the room, held in place by clothespins. Her most recent prints, no doubt. He recognized the concerned look of the attractive brunette with curly hair—María Victoria’s self-portrait, with a charming little lizard tattooed below her ear. The other photos, stage photos, showed a rock singer; his shaved head, eyes with black makeup, and convoluted poses rang a faint bell. He copied them on his BlackBerry, put on a pair of plastic gloves, and had a look at the office area.
    A slogan was attached to the wall above a vintage lamp: “Don’t create models of life, create model lives.” There were piles of press kits, fanciful postcards thumbtacked to the wall, an enlarged portrait by Helmut Newton in which a tall, nude blonde perched on stiletto heels stared into the lens, an ashtray without butts holding a neighborhood shoemaker’s card, a small box in the Peruvian style filled with coffee beans, and, in the middle of the desk, what seemed to be the place usually occupied by a portable computer. Ruben observed the loft, imbuing himself with its atmosphere.
    Food in the fridge, recent purchases, clothes in the washing machine, there were multiple reasons for rejecting the hypothesis that Victoria had run away or committed suicide. An open bottle of fruit juice, leftovers, a few eggs and containers of soy yogurt—all perishable foods. Nothing that told him much. An ancient Polaroid was set on the chest of drawers, next to the landline phone. Rubén picked up the receiver: an electronically-generated voice announced a new message, recorded at noon—a certain Miss Bolivia, who was thanking María for her photos. Rubén took down her name and number. No address book or appointment calendar was visible anywhere around the telephone. He briefly flipped through administrative papers that had been put in folders, stuck the latest phone bill in his pocket, and called María’s cellphone number, just to see: telephone out of order. Had she cut her line? Rubén went upstairs, doubtfully, and refrained from smoking.
    The bed was made, clothes were scattered across the quilt. No sign of a cell phone. María had probably taken it with her. He went into the adjoining bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet: a bottle of sleeping pills, antianxiety medications, the rest beauty products. No prescription. He returned to the bedroom, went through the drawers in the night table—trinkets, condoms, a short, chrome dildo, heat-rub, a few photography magazines, a small bag of marijuana that smelled rather stale, a packet of powder . . . Rubén wet his finger: cocaine. Very poor quality. You could find anything in Buenos Aires, and coke in particular, but the proximity to Colombia did not prevent it from smelling of kerosene. He left the little chest of drawers and opened the closets, counted about twenty pairs of shoes. A careful search of the jackets and pants yielded nothing, as did going through the clothes lying on the bed. He bent down and saw three black hairs intersecting on the pillow: long, curly, similar to the photographer’s hair. Rubén put