Eve felt a muscle begin to twitch just under her eye. “It’s Lieutenant. I’m a police officer in New York City. Can you tell me when you last saw Miguel Flores?”
“When he took it into his head he needed a year, or more, to travel, to explore his faith, to determine if his calling was a true one. Nonsense!” Rodriguez slapped his bony hand against the arm of what looked like a wheelchair. “The boy was born a priest. But the bishop gave him leave, and he took it.”
“That would have been about seven years ago?”
Rodriguez stared off into the distance. “The years come and go.”
Wasting my time, Eve thought, but persisted. “I’m going to transmit a photograph.”
“Why would I want your photograph.”
“No, not my photo.” She wondered if there was a particular saint she could hit up for enough patience to get through this interview without screaming. “I’m going to transmit a photograph. It’s going to come up on-screen. Can you tell me if this is Miguel Flores?”
She ordered the transmission, watched Rodriguez squint his eyes into crepey slits as he leaned forward until his nose nearly touched his screen. “It may be. It’s not a clear picture.”
Only clear as glass, Eve thought. “Is there anyone else available who knew Flores?”
“Didn’t I tell you I know him?”
“Yes, you did.” Eve cancelled the photo, took a deep breath. “Have you heard from him, from Flores, since he left on his travels?”
“Sabbatical.” Rodriguez sniffed at the word. “They sent Father Albano to replace him. Always late, that one. Punctuality is a sign of respect, isn’t it?”
“Flores. Have you heard from Miguel Flores since he left?”
“Didn’t come back, did he?” Rodriguez said with considerable bitterness. “He wrote me once or twice. Maybe more. From New Mexico—he came from there. From Texas, or Nevada, I think. And somewhere else. There was a letter from the bishop. Miguel requested and was given a transfer to a parish in New York.”
“Can you give me the name of the bishop who granted the transfer?”
“The who?”
Eve repeated, slowly easing up the volume again.
“Bishop Sanchez. Or it might have been Bishop Valdez.”
“Do you have the letters? The letters Flores wrote you?”
“No.” Rodriguez frowned, or Eve thought he did. It was hard to tell. “There was a postcard. Did I keep the postcard? Of the Alamo. Or . . . that might have been from Father Silvia.”
One day, Eve reminded herself, one day she would be as old and irritating as Rodriguez. Then she would just eat her weapon and get it over with.
“If you find it and it is from Flores, I’d appreciate you sending it to me. I’ll return it to you. I’m going to text you my contact information.”
“Why would I send you a postcard?”
“I’m investigating the death of a priest identified as Miguel Flores.”
Some of the blurriness cleared from the black eyes. “Miguel? Miguel is dead?”
“A man identified as Miguel Flores died this morning.”
The old man bowed his head, and murmured in Spanish what Eve took to be a prayer.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“He was young, eager. An intelligent man who questioned himself often. Perhaps too often. How did he die?”
“He was murdered.”
Rodriguez crossed himself, then closed his hand over the crucifix around his neck. “Then he is with God now.”
“Father Rodriguez, did Flores have a silver medal, one of the Virgin of Guadalupe?”
“I don’t remember. But I remember he carried, always, a small medallion of Saint Anna to honor his mother who was killed when he was a boy.”
“Did Flores know, have business or dealings with someone named Lino?”
“Lino? It’s not an uncommon name here. He may have.”
“Thank you, Father.” Chasing your own tail now, Eve warned herself. “I appreciate the time.”
“Young Miguel has gone to God,” he murmured. “I must write Monsignor Quilby.”
“Who is that?”
“Miguel’s sponsor. His mentor, you could say. He would want to know that . . . Oh, but he’s dead. Yes, long dead now. So there is no one to tell.”
“Where did Miguel meet Monsignor Quilby?”
“In New Mexico, when he was a boy. Monsignor saw to it that Miguel had a good education, and mentored him into the priesthood. He was Miguel’s spiritual father. Miguel spoke of him often, and hoped to visit him during his travels.”
“Was he alive when Flores took his sabbatical?”
“Yes, but dying. It was part of Miguel’s purpose in leaving, and part of his crisis in faith. I must go pray for their souls.”
Rodriguez ended the transmission so abruptly, Eve only blinked.
Letter from New Mexico, spiritual father dying in New Mexico. It was a sure bet Flores had paid Quilby a visit during his sabbatical.
So, Eve wondered, where do priests go to die?
3
EVE HAD A MORE STRAIGHTFORWARD CONVERSATION 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 o
f 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?”
“Do
n’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.”