Karma Read Free Page B

ignoring the grumbling from the audience. So the knife had not been hidden in the box. Where had it come from? Chupa-da was dressed as Padmasvana had been—in a flowing robe that hung open over a gold T-shirt and pants. There was no place to conceal a knife. As he stood up, I noted the tight fit of the shirt as it outlined his ribs—a perfect target to drive a knife into.
    I tried to run the minute prior to the stabbing through my mind. I remembered Padmasvana kneeling, his arms raised, his chin just above the edge of the altar. He had made no move that could be construed as stabbing.
    And yet he had been alone on stage.
    His assistant was tucked away downstairs, his followers beyond the barrier of the stage. Did the guru have any enemies? What if he did? Had they flown down invisibly to stab him?
    There was only one conclusion that could be drawn from the facts I had—one of the facts had to be wrong. One seemingly solid fact was not as solid as I had thought. As I reviewed the scene once again, it became obvious where the break had to be.

Chapter 3
    I BORROWED A FLASHLIGHT from a patrol officer and, pushing back the altar curtain, shone it on the floor. There just might be a trapdoor … and there it was.
    I beckoned the print man, and while he dusted the trapdoor, the ladder that hung from it and the area below, I briefed Connie Pereira, one of the patrol officers who would assist me. Then, leaving her in charge, I climbed down the ladder, noting the grime-covered nails that secured it at the top.
    The basement room I found myself in was the width of the stage. The temple was built on a down slope so that the front door was at ground level, but the rear section—where the stage was—was sufficiently above ground to allow space for this half basement.
    Along all four walls were brightly labeled cartons of Padma Herb Tea. The weary red-robed Penlops were a familiar sight, hawking their tea at all hours of the day on Berkeley streets. I wondered how much this little enterprise grossed. From the persistence with which the Penlops tackled prospective customers (and from the number of complaints we’d had), it should have been quite a profitable business.
    Four doors led from the room. Up a few steps behind me was a small, low door. I pulled it open and found myself facing the first row of the audience in the temple. I shut it before anyone noticed me.
    At the rear of the room was a door to the outside. It was locked.
    Still, anyone who had access to the key—or a credit card to load the lock—could have entered here and popped up through the trapdoor to kill Padmasvana.
    Coming back down the steps I looked at the two remaining walls. One was blank; the other held two doors—one at the top of the stairs that led to the side of the stage, the one Braga had used; and a lacquered red door.
    I pushed open the red door.
    The room behind it might have been a well-appointed law office, with its rosewood desk and padded leather chair, its Oriental rug and, in the far corner, an antique safe. On top of the safe were piles of greenbacks—mostly fives—enough to make theft a very inviting prospect. I crossed the room toward it.
    “Hold it!”
    I spun to face a handgun and Rexford Braga.
    “Oh, it’s you,” he said, eyeing my jeans. He lowered the weapon and, glancing at it, added, “It’s okay. I have a permit.”
    “Do you always carry a gun, Mr. Braga?”
    “Of course not. I keep it here in my desk. You can ask anyone. They all know I keep it in the desk drawer. It’s for protection.”
    “Protection. Were you afraid one of Padmasvana’s followers might hold you up?”
    He strode past me, planting himself in front of the money-laden safe. Taking a breath, he stood up straighter and looked at me as he might have done with an audience. “Of course, Officer, I have no such worries about the devotees. Certainly none of them would consider theft, even though crime had become a way of life for many before they came under