THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE

By Blas Ruiz Grau

In the case of true love, the soul is given to the other long before the body. 

Carolina suffers the terrible and gruesome murder of her father in circumstances surrounded by mystery, intrigue and danger.  The young Detective Nicolás Valdés is drawn into a centuries old battle between two allies become foes.  Together Carolina and Nicolás fight against the killers who lurk in the shadows, while they grow ever more drawn to each other in a web of repressed desire.  They pursue a hidden secret that could change the world, and for which many are prepared to kill. 

Nothing is as it seems, and who will live and who will die in this struggle is uncertain.  Some pursue power and some pursue truth, and some, the lucky few, find love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blas Ruiz Grau
• Release date: Feb 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781547516896

Book preview

Chapter I

Madrid, Tuesday the 17th of August. XXX.

His eyes were closed and his head rested against the wall.  It wasn’t quite time yet but he had already begun to apply the breathing techniques that had been so difficult to master.  It was no easy task but he had now reduced his rate of breathing to the point of getting just enough air to his lungs to enable them to fulfill the task of keeping him alive.  He was motionless, almost an inanimate object, virtually undetectable. 

He moved his hands slowly, but deliberately.  He would continue this until the agility in his fingers was at 100 percent, and that was unfortunate for his prey, most unfortunate. 

He loosened up his cervical vertebrae in the same way and for the same purpose, without fearing that the friction with the wall would leave any trace of hair. The hairnet that he wore was for that purpose exclusively, and despite its exasperatingly ridiculous appearance it was essential to the task of avoiding any trace of his having passed.

He was forced to admit that entry had cost him more than he would have expected.  The set of picks had been nearly obsolete when faced with the formidable hydraulic lock system of the main door, but once again ingenuity had triumphed over adversity and here he was, impatient to complete his job.

It was peculiar that job was his self-chosen denomination for what he did, especially in light of his having experienced many other types of employment without ever having experienced the thrill and joy that he now did in completing his assigned tasks.  Anyone who did not share the instinct with him could never understand the ecstasy of emotion he felt after successfully completing his missions.  They would have called him a psychopath.... or a sadist, but that to him was of no consequence.  The sheeple sinned by using those appellations without knowing their true meaning, without knowing that what he was, fell far short of the labels that they used.  A sadist acts to satisfy blood lust, and a psychopath lives in a world apart from the reality that surrounds him.  He was only an errand boy, a soldier, a sword. 

And there was nothing wrong with enjoying the ripping out of a life who had accrued debts with his employer.  That after all was what he was paid to do, and he had his work ethic. 

It was unnecessary even to make the slight motion of glancing at his watch, thanks to the enormous grandfather clock that was in close proximity.  It was time.  He would arrive at any moment.

Every day the same routine, like a ritual, the card couldn’t have been more predictable, the job couldn’t have been easier. 

He heard the sound of the elevator as he knew he would. The card’s old legs could no longer carry him up 3 flights of stairs.  The sound of the bell signaling the opening of the elevator doors was a gift to his ears, but still he slowed his breathing and remained cold inside, motionless, lethal.  He heard the keys come out of the pocket and go into the first of the three locks, locks that he had left as if undisturbed so as not to arouse suspicion.  Second lock... and he noticed a surge of adrenaline that he quickly damped down before it could take hold.  Third lock... and the door opened.  He knew that the keys would now be left in a wooden bowl beneath the mirror of the attractive entryway table.  The second act would be a drink of water, and so it was.  The hot August sun could be relied upon as could the creature of habit.

Now he would enter the living room, turn on the television and tune in the news on the public broadcasting channel before losing the suit until the following day and changing into something more comfortable.  Though that day for him, would never come.  He wouldn’t even make it as far as to turn on the television. 

The time had come.  His movement was calm, but swift and certain.  The action was taken.  The job was completed, the card was punched, and his breathing was still hardly detectable, cold inside.  The ecstasy would come later.

Chapter II

Madrid, Tuesday, August 17th. Plaza de Colón.

Carolina arrived at the door of the café Colon punctually, as was her custom.  The emblematic café was situated flanking the homonymous plaza in the very heart of the capitol, Madrid.  It was nothing extraordinary in her personal opinion but her father was fond of saying that nowhere else in the world could you get a cup of coffee like what they made here, and that was an affirmation that she was unable to contradict.  Its décor was sparse, save a few ancient photos of the City hanging on the walls, and the space was rather small.  Barely five tables made up the furnishing, a few of them having seen better days and an ancient but well-maintained bar that had served as support for the coffee cups and elbows of numerous celebrities completed the accouterments.  The current owner, Juan Manuel, son of the founder, don Rafael Menárguez, claimed not to enjoy bragging that it was common to find one or another well-known celebrity, enjoying one of the house specialties. 

Carolina was accustomed to this fact and didn’t even cast a glance at the famous singer and his companion already in attendance as she made her way to her usual table.  She consulted a watch and smiled to see that it was three minutes past four, the time appointed for this particular rendezvous.  Another late appearance to be added to don Salvador Blanco’s long list, she thought to herself.  Normally she would wait for the arrival of her father before ordering both of their usual coffees, black with artificial sweetener for him and cappuccino topped with cream and essence of vanilla for her; but as this particular Tuesday 17th of August was unusually warm and her body was damp with sweat, she went ahead and ordered bottled water.  She looked around, and being acutely aware of her appearance was relieved to see that there were no presumptuous young men of her acquaintance with which to cross paths at the moment. She wore jeans that hugged her curves in all the right places and flared out just enough at others to accentuate her exquisite contours.  Her plain white blouse, translucent with perspiration clung to the more prominent features of her torso and produced a rather delightful effect, and the most attractive feature to mention is that this woman was not altogether aware that because of the stunning beauty she had inherited from her paternal grandmother she would turn heads regardless of what she might be wearing.  Anyone perusing the old photos that she kept couldn’t help but notice that she and her grandmother were like twin drops of pure rain.  She had inherited those remarkable eyes that were sometimes hazel and sometimes green depending on the light, and there were not a pair of eyes that didn’t contemplate hers, whenever she went out in public.  Her well-kept tresses, dangerously close to blonde in tone, were the only thing that differentiated her from her father’s mother in her youth.

Carolina chose to deny her beauty in favor of her studies.  Her studies had been the focus of her life since adolescence, she had never had a boyfriend and had never felt the absence of one, not even now that she was no longer an adolescent but a grown 22-year-old woman and poised to begin her professional career.  She was happy with her life. She was comfortably accustomed to it, and she had her father, and he had her.  She needed nothing more for the present, but she did have a vague awareness that life was a carousel.  Who knows what the future might hold?

Carolina thanked the waiter for the water and looked at her watch again.  It was 4:22. This was more than his accustomed impunctuality, he would have called.  This was unusual. She wondered if he hadn’t called the café instead of calling her.  He had the number, and did that sometimes to avoid her reproaches. 

Luis—she called to the waiter as he passed her table.

Do you know if my father has called to say that he would be late?

Not that I know of Miss, but I’ll ask the boss.  He’s the one who answers the phones

Carolina thanked him with a smile.  He must have called. He was probably just lost in his work without being aware of the time, as always.

A few moments later the waiter returned.

Your father has not called Miss

Oh.... Well don’t worry.  I’ll just call and see what’s keeping him.

The waiter nodded and disappeared in the direction from which he had come.

Carolina fished her phone from the black purse she carried and dialed her father’s number from memory.  Five rings later she was offered the option of leaving a voice mail.  After trying again with the same results, she became perplexed and called his office. 

Her father was the director of The National Museum Of Archeology, and had held the position for the last 15 years.  It was because of his efforts that the museum had regained its splendor of old, due in great part to his insistence that some collections and individual pieces of importance repose at home, as he was fond of saying.  She in turn was fond of exasperating him by making the observation that if they were really reposing at home they would be in the deserts and other locales from which they had been extracted.  A vein in her father’s neck bulged and he turned two shades redder every time she provoked him in this way.  She only did it for entertainment.  The truth of the matter was that she had a deep love of history, no doubt as a result of her father’s influence.  Carolina had chosen her own career in the same field with the aim of being able to work on important excavations as her father had done in his youth.  She had that very morning received the long-awaited call that offered this opportunity.

Don Ignacio Fonseca, an illustrious historian and archeologist (and her father’s best friend) had requested that she join his team of experts for the purpose of commencing excavations of a site in Northern Iraq, with all due haste.  She had made sacrifices in order to be in a position to have this opportunity and she did not intend to let it pass unseized. 

On her second attempt, Maria, the secretary at her father’s office answered her call.

Don Salvador Blanco’s office, Maria speaking.  What can I do for you?

Maria, it’s Carolina.  Is my father still at work?

No.  He left a little after three thirty.  He mentioned that he would be meeting you at the café, like every Tuesday, but that he would go home to change first because of this awful heat.  Isn’t it just awful how hot it is?

Carolina wondered at his absence, having had ample time to change and make it to the café.  He didn’t live very far away. 

Thank You Maria. I suppose he just got side tracked by something

You’re very welcome, if you need anything, here I am.  Chao chao

Chao

She hung up, concerned.  Minor delays were the norm with her father but a half hour delay was out of the ordinary.  She left a five-euro bill on the table, signaled it to the waiter and left without thinking what a bottle of water might actually cost. 

The suffocating late afternoon heat hit her in the face as she stepped out of the air-conditioned café and into the city that was in its grip.  Removing her shades from her purse and starting a quick and nervous walk towards her father’s home, her mind was filled with imagined situations that would explain and excuse his absence.  A conscious effort filtered out the less pleasant alternatives as she continued trying to put a call through to him, and hoped to hear his voice blurting out one of his standard excuses, but no one answered.  Reaching the entrance to the paseo de castellana and taking out her set of keys, she ignored the elevator and took the stairs two at a time.  In an instant she had reached the main entrance door to the residence.  The door announced the opulence of the occupant, its solid oak construction bearing the meticulous hand carving, bespoke by don Salvador himself of the sculptor who had created it.  It was indicative of what was to follow.

Carolina opened the door and poked her head inside.

Papá?

There was no answer.  She didn’t know what to make of it and her nerves were getting the best of her.

The flat was almost 2300 square feet, 4 bedrooms, two baths (one of them enormous), living room, dining room, kitchen and a spacious terrace.  Her eyes went straight to the entry way table, that she had purchased herself, and there she saw the small bowl containing his keys, right where he always left them.  Carolina felt a chill and spoke again

Papá!

Again, no answer.

She reached the living room and found the double doors wide open, though the shutters must have been down, because the room was poorly lit. Carolina entered this room in just the same way that she had entered the foyer and expected to find it just as empty, but what she saw made her fall to her knees and a terrifying scream poured from her throat, and then she cried....... with all her strength.

Chapter III

Madrid, Tuesday August 17th.  Outside the residence of inspector Nicolás Valdés.

Nicolás boarded the metallic grey Peugeot 407 and waited for his partner to do the same.  They shared a flat ever since their last assignment at the Alicante state police headquarters.  They didn’t stay long at that post but the things they had seen there made an impression on them both.  They had become friends at Avila, while still at the federal police Academy, studying to become inspectors.  They connected, as unlikely as that seemed considering their differences.  Nicolás was introverted, serious, responsible and conscientious, but had a furtive sense of humor that could ambush you at the most unlikely moments.  Alfonso on the other hand was the life of the party, with a bulldozer personality and according to his colleagues a bit of a pain in the ass as well. 

Either in spite of these differences or maybe because of them, they had bonded.  Nicolás found in Alfonso the kind of friend that he could confide in, and who he knew would have his back regardless.  The Alicante case had cemented that bond. 

Nicolás checked himself in the rear-view mirror.  His beard carefully trimmed to look neat in a couldn’t care less style, went well with his blue eyes and short modern haircut.  His buddies called him the ´Clark Gable´ of the Canillas central homicide unit of Madrid.  One of the older inspectors made the comment and it caught on, even though most of the younger officers had only a vague idea of who Clark Gable might be, and none at all of what he looked like.  He was fit, as was appropriate for a man of his profession, and he was muscular as well.

Alfonso arrived at a run and practically jumped into the seat, all the while loudly proclaiming that they were going to be late because of Nicolás, and that he should ‘get the lead out’.  Nicolás didn’t hurry, but he smiled and was grateful for Alfonso’s good humor, grateful that not even the Alicante episode was able to put a dent in it.  Though in the back of his mind he feared that it would catch up to Alfonso one day.  His partner felt things deeply though it never showed, he was sure of that, but all the same in a selfish but sincere way, he was grateful for the strength that his friend projected.  It helped him with his own issues. 

He started the engine and they made their way to work.  It had been a year now, since they were transferred with the rank of inspectors to the Canillas homicide and missing persons unit.  The squad had Spain’s most important H&MP unit and they were brought in on the most difficult and high-profile cases.  They made it to the station in just five minutes, having had the foresight to rent a flat close by. 

Entering the room that they shared with 4 colleagues, they noticed tension on the faces of the senior inspectors.  It was certainly work related.  The relationship between the six who shared this space was friendly and cordial.  Each had his own desk and work space and all were willing to help out the others, even on cases to which they were not assigned.  They shared information freely, and generally displayed exemplary teamwork.  Nicolás and Alfonso were just getting comfortable and powering up their laptops when Valdés’s phone buzzed.  Chief Inspector Martín wanted him in his office and Valdés was quick to comply.

¿Chief? He announced himself.

Come in. The routine response.

Chief Inspector José Martín was a seasoned veteran with over 20 years of experience commanding elite law enforcement units.  His men knew his impressive credentials and knowledge, and that they were fortunate to have him.  He had been transferred to homicides and missing persons five years ago and they took advantage of the opportunity to soak up whatever they could of his expertise.

Yes chief?

Take a seat.  We have a homicide and there are 2 things about it that are setting off PR alarms.  One of them is that the victim is the director of the National Museum, and we are not at all interested in receiving the attention that this will bring on us. I believe you have some experience controlling these types of situations Valdés.  Do it. 

And the second thing chief?

Martín hesitated for a moment.

The responding officer took this with his cell phone.  It came up the chain to me

Martín turned his monitor around so that Valdés could see the picture and the inspector couldn’t hide his surprise at the scene before his eyes.

Is this some kind of ritualistic killing.  He blurted out.

I expect you to find that out, inspector.  Get on it.  Here’s the address

The Chief handed him the file.

Yes sir, I’m on it.  I suppose forensics is already on the scene?

You suppose right, or at least they will be, by the time you arrive. 

Great said Nicolás as he rose to leave.  ¿Sir, who called 911?

It was the victim’s daughter.  She found him the way you saw in the photo.  I’ve sent Marta Balaguer, she might be of some help handling that.

Valdés declined to comment.  Everyone knew what he thought of Marta Balaguer, and it wasn’t anything nice.  Rather there was a mutual, visceral loathing between them and no apologies were made for it by either party.  From Nick’s point of view, psychiatrists and psychologists were nothing more than quacks.  His personal experiences with them had been less than beneficial.

He left the Chief’s office without another word, took a moment on the way out to fill Alfonso in on the details of the new case, and then went straight out to his car. 

He could have taken any of the department vehicles but Nicolás preferred his own ride.  It had all the right music loaded in the cd changer, and this was a matter of some importance to him. 

It took him three songs to get there.  In August, three quarters of Madrid’s residents are elsewhere in search of sun, beach, and excitement.  The eight kilometers of roads to the crime scene were nearly devoid of traffic. 

Valdés recognized the cars carelessly parked in front of the building at the scene, the black forensic van standing out among the others.  He also recognized the shrink’s red mini Cooper and silently cursed his luck at having to work alongside her, but given the situation he had to accept it.  It wasn’t his call. 

There were two agents guarding the entrance to the building and keeping away curious onlookers and especially the press, that were already starting to arrive in strength. Doubtless, someone had already been shooting off their mouth.  They saluted the inspector as he flashed his badge, and stepped aside resuming their positions behind him as he passed.  Such a heavily frequented, public access stairway, was unlikely to yield results for forensics but he still mounted the stairs carefully so as not to destroy any evidence.  When he reached the third story landing he encountered a young woman sitting on the access to the next level.  She was crying.  Marta