Wrecked (Josie Gray Mysteries #3)(57)
He nodded. “The murderer hasn’t been found, but we think he may have been wearing this necklace.”
She shuddered.
“Can you tell me about the necklace?”
She looked at the necklace through the baggie. “Can I take it out?”
“It’s evidence. You’ll have to look through the bag.”
She ran her middle finger lightly over the pendant through the plastic.
“Santa Muerte. Yes, this is definitely mine.”
“Explain what you mean by Santa Muerte.”
“Se?ora de la Noche, Lady of the Night.” She studied the piece for a moment and seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. “Some believe she protects those who work at night—police officers, taxi drivers, prostitutes. She’s a saint. People pray to her for favors and miracles. She protects the truly faithful from death.”
“But I thought she was a saint used by criminals. Basically, murderers who want her to protect them from other murderers.” Otto was becoming frustrated that this so-called saint apparently had multiple purposes depending on the needs of the believer. He had hoped for a clear path to the Medranos.
She tilted her head in thought. “Criminals request miracles from God just like policemen, correct? God doesn’t only allow prayers from policemen.”
“As a Catholic, doesn’t it bother you making art that goes against your beliefs?”
“That’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”
Otto felt his face redden in embarrassment. It had been an inappropriate question.
She continued. “Does an author who writes about murder fret because she doesn’t condone murder?”
“I can’t answer that,” he said. He worried he was losing control of the interview, and he needed to get to the point of his visit.
“Like it or not, death is part of the human experience,” she said. “And that is what art strives to represent. Life in its most basic forms.”
“CC, I need to ask you a question that is key to our investigation.” He looked at her until she nodded once. “Is it true that you create jewelry for the Medrano cartel?”
Her neck and chest turned a deep red and her lips turned down in a disapproving frown. “I don’t quiz my patrons about their vocation or their religion. What they do with the art that I make for them is none of my business.”
He held a hand up. “I’ve offended you and I’m sorry for that. I’m not being judgmental. I’m trying to track down the person who wore this necklace. Santa Muerte followers are not that common, at least not around here. If you can look at this pendant and tell me who purchased it, that would be a huge break for the murder case, CC.”
She considered Otto for quite some time, and then turned her attention back to the piece of jewelry. “This pendant is one of a series I created about two years ago. I’ve sold probably thirty necklaces from that series. But I can’t give you names of my customers. I don’t keep that kind of information.”
He said nothing and she finally sighed, her shoulders slouching forward as if the conversation had weighed down her good spirits.
“Will you keep this confidential?”
Otto nodded.
“I’m certain that cartel members have purchased jewelry from me.” She raised her hands as if to say, What can I do? “But so have others who follow Santa Muerte who are perfectly good people. People hoping for protection from the violence they face each day.”
Otto said nothing, wondering how many perfectly good people actually worshiped the saint.
She scowled, seeming to have picked up on Otto’s train of thought. “My cousin who lives in Mexico City has a shrine to Santa Muerte. He says life is so dangerous here on earth that people have to rely on her for protection. He’s a good man. He just wants to keep his family safe from harm.” She shrugged as if to indicate it wasn’t her job to judge a person’s beliefs. Then her expression changed suddenly. “You have a family in Artemis who’s purchased several Santa Muerte pieces over the past several years.”
“Who’s that?”
“Do you know the Conroys?”
This was the second time that the Conroys had come up in reference to Santa Muerte. Otto knew them, a dysfunctional family who’d been living on the margins of the law for years. But the family had a white sheep among the black: Dave Conroy, the local elementary school principal, was one of the Conroy sons. Otto was up and moving, thanking CC as he walked out the door. Dead saints, praying crooks, smiling skulls. Hopefully the Conroys would provide some path from the bizarre necklace to its wearer.
SEVENTEEN
On his way back into town Otto stopped by the Artemis Elementary School to talk to Dave Conroy. The school was a one-story L-shaped building with a flat roof that made it look squashed. It was located on a patch of land surrounded by miles of wide-open desert and mile-high blue skies. A few short trees dotted a playground that was filled with bright red swing sets and playground equipment and enclosed by a chain-link fence.
Otto parked in the circle drive in front of the school and was buzzed into the building. A young woman in a pale blue button-down sweater and slacks looked up and offered a pleasant hello upon recognizing him. He asked if Dave was available and she leaned back in her chair toward his office to make sure he wasn’t on the phone. She motioned Otto into Dave’s office, just behind her desk.