Shadow Ritual by Eric Giacometti, Jacques Ravenne Page A

undermining his colleague.
    Marcas had turned toward the cloakroom when he heard Pink Martini’s “U Plavu Zoru,” a heady mix of violins, congas, and chanting. He recognized the warm, sensual voice of China Forbes, the group’s vocalist. Marcas closed his eyes to savor the moment.
    His reverie didn’t last long. He opened his eyes to the sight of Zewinski standing in front of him, hands on her hips. She was blocking his way.
    “We’re needed.”
    “We?”
    Zewinski held out a crumpled paper. “Yes, we. You and me. The cursed couple. The spook and the hoodwinker, if you prefer. Here. You do know how to read, don’t you?”
    Marcas began scanning the fax, bristling at her repeated use of the word “hoodwinker.” The term was a reference to the blindfold a Freemason wore during his initiation, when he acquired knowledge and moved from darkness to light. Marcas put the insult out of his mind and read the missive. “The above-mentioned police officer will make himself immediately available to the consular authorities. He will fully cooperate with the head of security.”
    Great. Marcas thrust the paper back at her. “I presume you aren’t responsible for this.”
    “You are clever, aren’t you? If it were up to me, I would have my men toss you out of the embassy. It seems that your friend Jaigu told the brass that you were here.”
    “Listen, let’s not play games,” Marcas responded. “Neither you nor I want to spend any more time together than necessary. I’ll send you a report tomorrow certifying that I didn’t see anything upstairs. You’ll keep your investigation, and I’ll be left alone. I’ll go back to Paris and that will be that.”
    “Deal,” she said, smiling for the first time. “And of course, not a word to your friends at the lodge.”
    “That goes without saying. Besides, if I described you to them, they wouldn’t believe me. So much kindness and grace in a single person is the stuff of dreams.”
    “It will be a pleasure not to see you again, Inspector.”
    “Same to you.”
    She shot him a biting look and headed toward a group of guards near the kitchen doors.
    Marcas started to leave but changed his mind. Instead, he moved closer to the group. Jade’s voice was raised. She looked furious. One of the men pointed at Marcas. She rolled her eyes.
    “What now?” she said.
    “Here’s my card. I’m staying at the Zuliani in case you need me,” he said, flashing her a smile.
    She looked him up and down. “You’re too kind, but I don’t think I’ll need you or your card. Just drop your letter off at the embassy.”
    He surveyed the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
    “Nothing. The butler is coming to. He was knocked out, apparently by one of the waitstaff hired for the evening. With any luck, he’ll be able to describe her. Good night,” she said, turning her back on him.
    Marcas shrugged and took off for the cloakroom. The spook and the hoodwinker—he liked it. It was just possible that she had a sense of humor.
    The vision of the young woman’s body came back to him. Who was twisting the Hiram ritual, a key Freemason observance? Who would push provocation so far as to execute another person in that way? The reenactment of Hiram’s death in Freemason rites was a parable full of philosophical meaning. So what was the message the killer or killers were trying to send?
    The murderer had to have inside knowledge. The witness mentioned a woman—a Mason-killing woman. It was grotesque and worrisome. His head spinning, Marcas left the embassy and hailed a cab at the end of the street.
    He was fatigued and confused. But in the backseat of the cab, his brain rebooted. He analyzed, compared, and reconstructed the scene. Inside the embassy, a young woman’s life had come to a tragic end. Whether he liked it or not, she was a Freemason sister, and her homicide was now his problem.
    The taxi stopped at his hotel, which was in one of the few quiet neighborhoods in the Eternal City.