Salvation in death

3

EVE HAD A MORE STRAIGHTFORWARD CONVER-SATION with Sister Patricia, Alexander Quilby’s attending physician during his last days at the Good Shepherd Retirement Home.

While she mulled it, added it to her notes, Peabody staggered in, and held up her hands.

“I’m cut to pieces by red tape. The loss of blood is making me weak.”

“Soldier up. Where’s the dental?”

“Tied in the bloody tape. I got the dentist, but the dentist is also a deacon, and a dick. He hits the three Ds. He won’t release the records unless his bishop approves.”

“Get a court order.”

“I’m working on that.” She shot out both hands. “Can’t you see the scars? The dentistry is affiliated with the church, and judges and stuff get all wishy-washy when religion weighs in. Our subject is dead, has been officially ID’d. Nobody wants to push on dental records until this bishop guy gives his blessing or whatever. Pretty much the same deal for the New York records.”

“Well, talk to the bishop and have him sign off.”

“Do you see the blood pooling at my feet?” Peabody demanded, pointing at her red-hot airskids. “I got as far as the bishop’s assistant, which was a vicious battle with many casualties. And the upshot is I had to put in a request, in writing and in triplicate, and send that in. The bishop will consider the request, and give us his decision within ten days.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I want an alcoholic beverage, and a nap.”

“Get him on the ’link. From here.”

“As long as I get to watch.”

Peabody put through the transmission, then dropped into Eve’s single, rickety visitor’s chair.

The assistant, Father Stiles, came on-screen. Eve decided he looked pious and smarmy at the same time.

“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I spoke with your assistant.”

“Partner,” Eve said and got a weary double thumbs-up from Peabody.

“Partner, excuse me. And I explained the protocol for your request.”

“And now I’m going to explain something to you. There’s a dead guy in the morgue who may or may not be Miguel Flores. The longer you run around with me on this, the longer he’s going to be lying on a slab. And the longer he’s lying on that slab, the easier it is for information-such as some New Mexican guy in a pointy hat obstructing a murder investigation-to leak.”

Pure shock, and it seemed sincere, widened Stiles’s eyes. “Young woman, your lack of respect won’t-”

“Lieutenant. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, Homicide, New York Police and Security Department. I don’t respect you. I don’t know you. I don’t know your bishop, so, hey, no respect there either. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you respect me, but you will respect the law.”

She gave him half a second to sputter, before she continued the pounding. “And you’d be smart to respect the power of the press, pal, unless you want this all over the media. Screw with me, you better believe I’ll screw with you. So you better get your bishop New York talking to your bishop Mexico, and have both of them tell the respective dentists to have those records on my desk by noon tomorrow, New York time, or there will be hell to pay. Savvy?”

“Threats will hardly-”

“You got it wrong. No threats. Facts. Hell. To. Pay.”

“There are reasonable channels within the church, and this is a dual request, and international. Such matters take-”

“Priest poisoned with sacramental wine at funeral service. Catholic hierarchy blocks police investigation. There’s a headline. There’ll be more. Oh, how about this one?” she continued, gleefully now. “Priest’s body rots in morgue while bishops block official identification. It’s dental records. It’s freaking teeth. I have them by noon, or I’m coming to see you personally, and I’ll have a warrant for obstruction with your name on it.”

“I will, of course, speak to the bishop.”

“Good. Do that now.”

She cut transmission, sat back.

“I am your slave,” Peabody stated. “I wipe tears of awe from my cheeks.”

“Okay, that was fun. I just had a more mellow, if less entertaining conversation with a nun-a doctor-a doctor nun,” Eve supposed, “at a priest’s retirement home in-”

“They have those? Retirement homes?”

“Apparently. the priest who sponsored and mentored Flores, saw to his education and so on, was her patient. Flores took a sabbatical seven years ago from his job in Mexico. Supposed to be for a year or so. This old priest, Quilby, was ill. Dying. Flores visited him. Sister M.D. remembered him, as Quilby had spoken of him often, and they’d corresponded.”

“Could she ID him from the photo?”

“Unsure. Close to seven years ago when he paid his call. Looks like him, she says, but she remembers, thinks she remembers, him being a little fuller in the face, having less hair. Both of which can and do fluctuate, so that’s no help either way. Flores left her his ’link and e-contact information, asking her to contact him when Quilby died. She contacted him about five months later, at Quilby’s death. He didn’t respond, nor did he attend the funeral. And it had been Quilby’s wish, to which Flores agreed, that Flores personally perform the funeral mass. He hasn’t contacted the home since he said good-bye to Quilby in July of ’53.”

“Guy who educated you, who you make a point to visit shortly after leaving your job, dies and you don’t acknowledge it? Not very priestly. Not very human, either.” Peabody studied the photo on Eve’s board. “We need to find more people who knew Flores before he came to New York.”

“Working on it. And I’ve got another couple angles to play. Flores’s DNA isn’t on file, but I’ve got Morris sending a sample of the vic’s to the lab. Could get lucky. Meanwhile, whether he’s Flores or Jack Shit, he’s still dead. Let’s go talk to Roberto Ortiz.”

She’d assumed the funeral and its aftermath would be done. Eve found out differently when she tracked down Roberto Ortiz, and a couple hundred close friends and family, at Abuelo’s, the family restaurant.

He was a tall, striking man who carried his eighty-plus years well on a sturdy frame. At Eve’s request to speak to him and his wife, he escorted them up to the third floor, where the noise level dropped significantly, and into a tidy parlor with colorful sofas and bold poster art.

One of the posters sported Eve’s oldest friend and current music vid queen, Mavis, wearing what seemed to be a rainbow hue of hair extensions artfully twined over nipples and crotch, and a big smile.

In sharp contrast, the mood screen was set on a quiet meadow under a candy blue sky.

“We keep this apartment for family. My cousin’s granddaughter has it now. She’s in college, and helps out in the restaurant. Please sit.” When they had, he lowered himself to a chair with a long, soft sigh.

“It’s a difficult day for you,” Eve began.

“My father had a life. Every moment of every day, he lived. Full. He opened this restaurant when he was twenty-five years old, and named it for his grandfather. Then he became a father, and his children had children, then theirs. Family, community, church. These were his strongest loves, and strongest beliefs. The order varied,” Roberto said with a smile. “For every moment of every day for the rest of my life, I’ll miss him.”

He sighed again. “But it’s not my father you’re here to speak of. Father Flores. May God keep him.”

“You knew him personally?”

“Oh, yes. He was active in the parish, in the community. He gave much of his time and energies to the youth center. My family is active there-contributes monetarily and, those who can, in time and energy as well. For this to happen, and in the church, it’s unspeakable.”

“You and your wife were the first to arrive, with the funeral staff.”

“Yes.” He looked over as two women and a young man came in carrying trays of food and drink. “You’ll eat,” Roberto said as plates, glasses, food were set down.

“I brought iced tea.” The older woman, a golden blonde with hazel eyes, poured two glasses. “I’m Madda Ortiz. I’m sorry to interrupt.” She waved the other two away with an absent smile, then sat on the arm of her husband’s chair. “Please, go on.”

“Can I just say first, this looks amazing.”

Madda smiled at Peabody. “Enjoy.”

“We’re sorry to intrude, Mrs. Ortiz. You and your husband were the first to arrive at the church this morning.”

“We went to the funeral home, and then to the church with Hector. Father Flores-” She crossed herself. “And Father López met us.”

“That would have been about eight-forty.”

“More or less,” Roberto agreed. “We’d only just arrived and begun to transfer the flowers into the church.”

“Did you see anyone else at that time?”

“Some began to arrive soon after-to help. My uncles as well, with my cousins to help them.”

“Did you notice anyone go into the anteroom?”

“Fathers Flores and López, of course, to put on their vestments for the service. Ah, my granddaughter, my nephew, Madda’s cousin. They were serving as Eucharistic ministers.”

“I think Vonnie went back,” Madda said. “To speak to Father Flores about her reading.”

“Anyone before either of the priests went in?”

“Not that I noticed,” Roberto told them. “We were in the vestibule for some time, and many of us were in the church proper. We’ve heard you believe Father Flores was poisoned, so you’re asking if we saw anyone who might have done that. There’s no one.” Roberto spread his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a big service. You couldn’t have known everyone who attended.”

“No.” Roberto frowned for a moment. “I think between Madda and me we knew most. Family, of course. And others we know well, or know by name, by face. But no, not all.”

“It wouldn’t have been family,” Madda insisted. “Even if someone could do such a terrible thing, family would never have disrespected Hector in such a way.”

Regardless, Eve spoke to all three who’d participated in the service. She didn’t get anything new, but Peabody got her fill of Mexican food, and an enormous take-away bag.

“My God, that was the best enchilada I’ve ever had in my life. And the chilies rellenos?” She cast her eyes upward, as if giving thanks. “Why is this place on the other side of the world from my apartment? On the other hand, I’d gain five pounds just sniffing the air in there.”

“Now you can walk it off. Take the subway and go home. I’m going to tug at those other angles, and I’m not driving back down to the other side of the world. I’ll work at home.”

“Mag. I can probably get home from here only about an hour past end of shift. I’m practically early. Dallas, will you really leak that stuff if we don’t get the dental by noon?”

“Don’t make threats unless you intend to follow through. Start running the names of known attendants from this morning. Take the first twenty-five. That ought to keep you busy on the ride home.”

For herself, Eve drove back to the church. People walked in and out of the bodega-seemed to slink in and out of the pawnshop. Groups of young toughs hung out in doorways, on the sidewalk.

She walked to the church door, broke the seal, used her master.

She walked down the center aisle, and had to admit it was just a little weird hearing her own footsteps echo while she strode to the altar and the suffering Jesus over it. At the anteroom door, she broke the second seal, unlocked it.

Came in just like this, she imagined. Maybe through the back or the side, but just as easily. Bottle of cyanide in a pocket or a purse.

Had the keys, that’s what I think. Had the keys to the box. Just had to slip into the rectory, take them, walk over, walk in. Unlock the box, take out the little decanter. Sealed or gloved hands. Pour in the cyanide, replace, relock, walk out. Return keys to the rectory.

Five minutes, tops. Ten maybe if you wanted to gloat.

Did you attend the morning Mass? Maybe, maybe, but why stand out? Why stand out in so small a group when later you’d be covered by a crowd?

You know what time the service starts every day, what time it usually ends. You just have to wait for the priests to leave the rectory, go in, take the keys. You could step into the vestibule, listen outside the door if you wanted. Wait until they leave, do the job, go wait-stay close. Priests return, Rosa comes over to the church to help her family. Keys go back to the rectory, you circle around, join the mourners.

You had to watch it happen. You’d need to watch him go down.

Because it’s revenge. Public poisoning. Execution. That’s vengeance. That’s punishment.

For what?

She stepped back out, replaced the seal, locked the door.

Then looked up at the cross. “Didn’t worry about you, or didn’t care. Hell, maybe he thought you were on the same team. Eye for an eye? Isn’t that one of yours?”

“That’s from the Old Testament.” López stood just inside the front doors. “Christ taught forgiveness, and love.”

Eve gave the cross another scan. “Somebody didn’t listen.”

“This was His purpose. He came to us to die for us.”

“We all come here to die.” She waved that off. “Do you lock the rectory when you come over to do Mass?”

“Yes. No.” López shook his head. “Rarely.”

“This morning?”

“No. No, I don’t think I did.” He closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I understand, Lieutenant, all too well, that our faith in our neighbors may have helped cause Miguel’s death. The church is never locked. The anteroom yes, because of the tabernacle, but the church is always open to anyone in need. I know someone used that to murder my brother.”

“Will you lock it now?”

“No. This is God’s house, and it won’t be closed to His children. At least not once you allow it to reopen.”

“The scene should be cleared sometime tomorrow. The next day latest.”

“And Miguel? When will we be able to wake and bury him?”

“That may take longer.”

She gestured for López to walk out ahead of her, then resealed the door, locked it. Overhead, an air blimp blatted out a stream of Spanish that all seemed to revolve around the words Sky Mall!

A sale, Eve supposed, was a sale, in any language.

“Does anybody ever actually listen to those damn things?” she wondered.

“What things?”

“Exactly.” She turned, looked into those deep, sad eyes. “Let me ask you this, which is more to the point. Is killing ever permitted in your religion?”

“In war, in self-defense or to defend the life of another. You’ve killed.”

“I have.”

“But not for your own gain.”

She thought of her blood-slicked hands after she’d stabbed the little knife into her father. Again and again. “That might be a matter of degrees.”

“You protect, and you bring those who prey on others to justice. God knows his children, Lieutenant, and what’s in their hearts and minds.”

She slid her master back into her pocket, left her hand in there with it. “He probably doesn’t like what’s in mine a lot of the time.”

On the sidewalk, people bustled by. On the street, traffic chugged. The air buzzed with the sound of them, of business, of busy, of life, while López stood quietly studying Eve’s face.

“Why do you do what you do? Every day. It must take you places most can’t look. Why do you? Why are you a cop?”

“It’s what I am.” Weird, she realized, that she could stand with a man she barely knew, one she couldn’t yet eliminate as a suspect, and tell him. “It’s not just that someone has to look, even though that’s just the way it is. It’s that I have to look.”

“A calling.” López smiled. “Not so different from mine.”

She let out a short laugh. “Well.”

“We both serve, Lieutenant. And to serve we each have to believe in what some would call the abstract. You in justice and in order. In law. Me, in a higher power and the laws of the church.”

“You probably don’t have to kick as many asses in your line.”

Now he laughed, an easy and appealing sound. “I’ve kicked my share.”

“You box?”

“How-ah, you saw my gloves.” With that, the sadness dropped away. Eve saw through the priest to the man. Just a man standing on the sidewalk on a spring evening.

“My own father taught me. A way to channel youthful aggression and to prevent your own ass from being kicked.”

“You any good?”

“As a matter of fact, we have a ring at the youth center. I work with some of the kids.” Humor danced over his face. “And when I can talk one of the adults into it, I grab a few rounds.”

“Did Flores ever spar?”

“Rarely. Dropped his left. Always. He had an undisciplined style, more a street style, I’d say. But on the basketball court? He was a genius. Smooth, fast, ah… elastic. He coached both our intramural and seniors. They’ll miss him.”

“I was going to go by the youth center before heading home.”

“It’s closed tonight, out of respect. I’ve just come from counseling a number of the kids. Miguel’s death hits hard, his murder harder yet.” He breathed out a sigh. “We wanted the kids to be home, or with each other tonight, with family. I’m holding a service there tomorrow morning, and continuing the counseling where it’s needed.”

“I’ll be by tomorrow then. Before I take off, can you tell me what FHC might stand for? Flores had that in his appointment book.”

“First Holy Communion. We’ll be holding First Holy Communion for our seven-year-olds in a couple of weeks, where they’ll receive the sacrament of the Eucharist for the first time. It’s an important event.”

“Okay. And Pre-C counseling?”

“Pre-Cana. Counseling the engaged couple before the sacrament of marriage. The wedding at Cana was Christ’s first miracle. Changing the water into wine.”

She nearly said, “Nice trick,” before she caught herself. “Okay, thanks. Ah, do you need a lift anywhere?”

“No, thanks.” He angled to scan the street, the sidewalk, the people. “I can’t talk myself into going home, even though I have work. It’s so empty there. Martin-Father Freeman-will be in later tonight. He changed his shuttle flight when I contacted him about Miguel.”

“I heard they were tight.”

“Yes, good friends. They enjoyed each other a great deal, and this is hard, very hard on Martin. We’ll talk when he gets in, and that may help us both. Until then… I think I’ll walk awhile. It’s a nice evening. Good night, Lieutenant.”

“Good night.”

She watched him walk away, saw him stop and speak to the toughs in doorways and in clusters. Then walk on, oddly dignified, and very solitary.

It wasn’t the other side of the world, as Peabody had put it, from Spanish Harlem to home. But it was another world. Roarke’s world, with its graceful iron gates, its green lawns, shady trees, with its huge stone house as distant as a castle from the bodegas and street vendors.

All that stood behind those iron gates was another world from everything she’d known until she’d met him. Until he’d changed so much, and accepted all the rest.

She left her car out front, then strode to the door, and into what had become hers.

She expected Summerset-Roarke’s man of every-thing and resident pain in her ass-to be standing like some black plague in the wide sweeping foyer. She expected the fat cat, Galahad, poised to greet her. But she hadn’t expected Roarke to be with them, the perfectly cut stone gray suit over his tall, rangy body, his miracle-of-the-gods face relaxed, and his briefcase still in his hand.

“Well, hello, Lieutenant.” Those brilliantly blue eyes warmed-instant welcome. “Aren’t we a timely pair?”

He walked toward her and wham! there it was. There it always was, that immediate, staggering lift of her heart. He cupped her chin, skimmed his thumb down its shallow dent, and brushed that gorgeous mouth over hers.

So simple, so married. So miraculous.

“Hi. How about a walk.” Without taking her eyes off his, she tugged his briefcase from his hand, held it out toward Summerset. “It’s nice out.”

“All right.” He took her hand.

When she got to the door, Eve looked down at the cat who’d followed and continued to rub against her legs. “Want to go?” she asked him, opening the door. He scrambled back to Summerset as if she’d asked him to jump off a cliff into a fiery inferno.

“Outside means the possibility of a trip to the vet,” Roarke said in that voice that hinted of the misted"1eof the hills and green fields of Ireland. “A trip to the vet means the possibility of a pressure syringe.”

Outside, she chose a direction, wandered aimlessly. “I thought you were somewhere else today. Like Mongolia.”

“Minnesota.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A continent or so.” His thumb rubbed absently over her wedding ring. “I was, and was able to finish earlier than scheduled. And now I can take a walk with my wife on a pretty evening in May.”

She angled her head to watch him while they walked. “Did you buy Mongolia?”

“Minnesota.”

“Either.”

“No. Did you want it?”

She laughed. “I can’t think why I would.” Content, she tipped her head to his shoulder for a moment, drew in his scent while they wound through a small grove of trees. “I caught a new case today. Vic was doing this Catholic funeral mass and bought it with poisoned Communion wine.”

“That’s yours?”

She watched the evening breeze dance through the black silk of his hair. “You heard about it?”

“I pay attention to New York crime, even in the wilds of Mongolia.”

“Minnesota.”

“You were listening. That was East Harlem. Spanish Harlem. I’d think they’d assign a murder cop from that sector, with some ties to the parish perhaps.”

“Probably didn’t to ensure more objectivity. In any case, it’s mine.” They came out of the trees, strolled across a long roll of green. “And it’s a mess. It’s also prime media bait, or will be if I’m right.”

Roarke cocked a brow. “You know who killed him?”

“No. But I’m pretty damn sure the dead guy in Morris’s house isn’t a priest. Isn’t Miguel Flores. And a whole bunch of people are going to be really pissed off about that.”

“Your victim was posing as a priest? Why?”

“Don’t know. Yet.”

Roarke stopped, turned to face her. “If you don’t know why, how do you know it was a pose?”

“He had a tat removed, and a couple of old knife wounds.”

He shot her a look caught between amusement and disbelief. “Well now, Eve, some of the priests I’ve bumped into over the years could drink both of us under the table and take on a roomful of brawlers, at the same time.”

“There’s more,” she said, and began to walk again as she told him.

When she got to the part with the bishop’s assistant, Roarke stopped dead in his tracks. “You swore at a priest?”

“I guess. It’s hard to be pissed off and lob threats without swearing. And he was being a dick.”

“You went up against the Holy Mother Church?”

Eve narrowed her eyes. “Why is it a mother?” When he cocked his head, smiled, she sneered. “Not that kind of mother. I mean, if the church is she, how come all the priests are men?”

“Excellent question.” He gave her a playful poke. “Don’t look at me.”

“Aren’t you kind of Catholic?”

The faintest hint of unease shifted into his eyes. “I don’t know that I am.”

“But your family is. Your mother was. She probably did the water sprinkling thing. The baptizing.”

“I don’t know that…” It seemed to strike him, and not comfortably. He dragged a hand through all that dark hair. “Well, Christ, is that something I have to worry about now? In any case, after today, if you get to hell first, be sure to be saving me a seat.”

“Sure. Anyway, if I browbeat him into getting the records, I’ll know for certain if I’m dealing with Flores or an imposter. And if it’s an imposter…”

“Odds are Flores has been dead for around six years.” Roarke skimmed a finger down her cheek. “And you’ll make him yours, by proxy.”

“He’d be connected, so… yes,” Eve admitted, “he’d be mine. The ID on Flores looks solid. So, let me ask you this. If you wanted to hide-yourself and maybe something else-why not a priest?”

“There’d be the whole going to hell thing, as well as the duties if you meant to solidify that pose. The rites and the rules and the, well, God knows all.”

“Yeah, but the advantages are pretty sweet. We’re talking about a priest with no family, whose spiritual family, we’ll say, was dead or dying. One who had a year or more leeway from his job to kick around, and no solid connections. Kill him-or he dies conveniently. You take his ID, his possessions. You have some good face work to make you look like him, enough like him to pass. No big to get a new ID photo.”

“Did you look up the older ones?”

“Yeah. It’s the dead guy, at least ten years back. Then, maybe.” She eyed Roarke thoughtfully. “You’d need some serious skills or money to hire somebody with serious skills to go in and doctor an old ID that passes scanners.”

“You do, yes.”

“And you need someone with serious skills who might be able to go in and see if whoever doctored those IDs left any trace of the switch.”

“You do.” He tapped her chin with his finger. “And, aren’t you lucky to be so well acquainted with someone with skills?”

She leaned in, kissed him. “I’ll program dinner first. How about Mexican?”

“Olé,” he said.

They ate on the terrace, washing down mole pablano with cold Mexican beer. It was, she thought, somehow indulgent-the easy meal, the evening air, the flicker of candles on the table. And, again, married.

Nice.

“We haven’t been to the house in Mexico for a while,” Roarke commented. “We should take the time.”

Eve cocked her head. “Have we been everywhere you’ve got a house?”

Obviously amused, he tipped back his beer. “Not yet.”

She’d figured. “Maybe we should make the complete circuit before we repeat any one place too often.” She dug into the nachos again, piling on salsa that carried the bite of an angry Doberman. “Why don’t you have one in Ireland?”

“I have places there.”

The salsa turned her mouth into a war zone. She scooped up more. “Hotels, businesses, interests. Not a house.”

He considered a moment, then found himself mildly surprised by his own answer. “When I left, I promised myself I’d only go back when I had everything. Power, money, and though I likely didn’t admit it, even to myself, a certain respectability.”

“You’ve hit those notes.”

“And I did go back-do. But a house, well, that’s a statement, isn’t it? A commitment. Even if you’ve a home elsewhere, having a house creates a solid and tangible link. I’m not ready.”

She nodded, understanding.

“Would you want one there?” he asked her.

She didn’t have to consider, and she wasn’t surprised by her answer. Not when she looked at him. “I’ve got what I want.”