by J. D. Robb
“Maybe.”
“Early education, State, but private Catholic high school and college.”
“Private?” Eve interrupted, and snarled when a Rapid Cab cut her off. “Takes dough.”
“Yeah. Maybe a scholarship? I’ll check on that. He entered the seminary straight out of college, spent several years working and living in Mexico. Held dual citizenship. Transferred to St. Cristóbal’s November of 2054. Huh, there’s a lag here, though. His last position was at a mission in Jarez until 2053, June.”
“So where was Flores for over a year, and what was he doing? He had to have a boss—like López. A pastor or whatever. Let’s find out. Any youthful high jinks of the criminal variety?”
“Nothing here, and no flag indicating a sealed record.”
“Private Catholic education’s gotta be pricey. Unless there was a scholarship, and it covered most of the ground, how did he afford it? Where’d the money come from? We’re going to need to peel some layers.”
Eve frowned as she skirted around a maxibus. “The vic had a wrist unit on him—cheap one—and just under forty dollars in his wallet. Who pays these guys? Do they get paid? He had a standard ID, no credit or debit cards, no driver’s license. A silver cross.”
“Maybe the Pope pays them.” Peabody’s square face turned thoughtful. “Not directly, but he’s the head guy, so maybe it comes from him. I mean they must get paid something. They’ve got to live—buy food, clothes, pay for transportation.”
“Under forty on him, no money in his room. We’ll check bank accounts.” Eve tapped her fingers on the wheel. “Let’s go by the morgue, see if Morris has established COD.”
“If it was poison, it doesn’t feel like self-termination. Plus,” Peabody added, “I know Catholics are way against that, so it doesn’t skew right for a priest to off himself.”
“Pretty harsh to do it in front of a church full of people at a funeral service,” Eve commented. “Or . . . ironic. But no, it doesn’t play. Wit statements are that he was moving right through the service, SOP. If you’re going to knock back some wine laced with poison, even if you’re dead—ha-ha—set on it, you’d show some nerves, some hesitation. A little moment of: Okay, here goes nothing. Whatever.”
“Maybe it wasn’t target specific. Maybe whoever laced the wine just wanted to kill a priest. Like a religious vendetta.”
“It wasn’t in the wine for the morning service, and it was in—if it was—for the funeral. Maybe somebody snuck in, broke into the box-thing, laced the wine without knowing who’d be taking the first drink. But my vote is Flores was the target.”
But she’d hold her report in reserve until she talked to Morris.
Into the chilly, artificial air, death slipped and snuck—the god of all thieves. No amount of filtering, sealing or cleaning could quite banish the insidiously sweet and human smell. Used to it, Eve wound through the white, harshly lit corridors of the morgue—thought fleetingly about hitting Vending for a tube of Pepsi to kick up the caffeine level—and pushed open one of the doors of an autopsy room.
It surprised her to be immediately assaulted with the romantic perfume of roses. They stood, red as fresh blood, on one of the rolling tables used to hold the nasty tools of the trade performed there. Eve studied the small forest of them, and wondered if the naked corpse behind them appreciated their elegance.
Elegant, too, was the man who hummed along with the choral music drifting through the rose- and death-scented air. Chief Medical Examiner Morris wore black today, but there was nothing ghoulish or funereal in the sharply tailored suit. The lightning-bolt blue T-shirt—probably silk—kicked it up a notch, Eve supposed. He’d pinned one of the red rosebuds to his lapel, and wound red and blue cords through his long black ponytail.
The clear, protective cloak didn’t diminish the style, and when he turned his exotic eyes to her and smiled, Eve had to admit that kicked it up another notch.
“Nice flowers,” she commented.
“Aren’t they? A token from a friend. I decided to bring them in. They class up the place, don’t you think?”
“They’re mag.” Peabody walked over, took a sniff. “Man, there are like two dozen easy. Some token.”
It was an obvious ploy for more information, but Morris only continued to smile. “She’s a very good friend. It occurred to me I should have had flowers in here before. It’s traditional, after all, to bring them to the dead.”
“Why is that?” Eve wondered.
“I believe they’re symbolic of a resurrection, a kind of rebirth. Which,” Morris continued, “your current interest should appreciate. Along with, I hope, the music. Mozart’s ‘Requiem.’ ”
“Okay.” Eve looked over at Flores and doubted he appreciated much of anything, being dead, on a slab, and currently opened by one of Morris’s delicate and effective Y cuts. “How’d he get here?”
“The road is long and winding. But his ended with a dose of poison with his wine and wafer.”
“Cyanide.”
Morris inclined his head. “Potassium cyanide to be precise. It dissolves easily in liquid, and the dose was lethal. Enough, in fact, to have felled a rhino. I haven’t finished with him yet, but other than being dead, he appears to be a very healthy corpse. Fit as a fiddle, if not ready for love.”
“Sorry?”
“A play on an old song. The injuries were a result of his fall. He had bran cereal, rehydrated bananas, yogurt, and soy coffee about three hours before death. Sometime around puberty he suffered a broken radius, left arm—it healed well. I’m assuming he trained—let’s say religiously, because we can—and played sports.”
“That fits.”
“And may explain some of the wear on the joints, but doesn’t satisfy me regarding the scarring.”
“What scarring?”
Morris crooked his finger, then offered Eve a pair of microgoggles. “Let’s start here.” He adjusted his scope so Peabody could observe on the comp screen, then bent over Flores with Eve. “Here, between the fourth and fifth ribs. Very faint, and I believe someone made an attempt with Nu Skin or something similar to reduce the scarring. Nu Skin won’t help on the rib itself, which still carries its own scar. See here.”
Peabody made a gurgling sound behind them as Morris exposed the rib cage.
Eve studied the rib through the goggles. “Knife wound.”
“Yes, indeed. And a second one here.” He indicated the faint scar on the right upper pectoral. I’ll run tests, but my extremely expert opinion puts the first wound at no less than five, no more than ten years old, the second between ten and fifteen. And here, on the left forearm. Again, this would be barely visible to the naked eye. A good job.”
“That’s not a wound,” Eve muttered as she scanned the faint pattern on the skin. “Tat removal.”
“My prize student.” Morris gave her a quick pat on the back. “I’ll send a copy of the enhanced visual to the lab. They should be able to recreate the image your priest had on his arm. Now for something really interesting. He’s had face work.”
Eve’s head came up, her magnified eyes meeting Morris’s. “What kind?”
“A full compliment, I think. But again, I haven’t finished. I can tell you it was a first-class job, and first-class face work is very pricey. One would think out of the range of a servant of God.”
“Yeah, you would.” Slowly, she pulled off the goggles. “How long ago did he have the work?”
“I’ll need to work my magic to refine that, but again, about the same time he had the tattoo removed.”
“A priest with tats who gets into knife fights.” Eve set the goggles under a forest of red roses. “Who comes here going on six years ago with a new face. Yeah, it’s pretty interesting.”
“Who has jobs like us, Dallas?” Morris grinned at her. “Aren’t we the lucky ones?”
“Well, we’re a hell of a lot luckier than Father Dead here.”
You gotta wonder who,” Peabody said the minute they walked ba
ck down the white tunnel.
“Of course I wonder who. I get paid to wonder who.”
“No, well, yeah. But I meant about the roses. Who’d send Morris all those roses, and why?”
“Jesus, Peabody, the why’s obvious. I can’t believe I made you detective. The why is: Thanks for banging me into another plane of existence.”
“It doesn’t have to be that,” Peabody countered, just a little miffed. “It could be a thank-you for helping her move into a new apartment.”
“If you get a token for lifting furniture, it’s going to be a six-pack of brew. A big-ass bunch of red roses is for sex. Really good sex and lots of it.”
“I give McNab really good sex, and lots of it, and I don’t get big-ass bunches of red roses.”
“You cohab. Puts sex on the to-do list.”
“I bet Roarke buys you flowers,” Peabody muttered.
Did he? There were always flowers all over the place in the house. Were they for her? Was she supposed to acknowledge them? Reciprocate? Jesus, why was she thinking about this?
“And the who is probably the Southern belle cop with the big rack he’s been hitting on for the last while. Now, since that mystery’s solved, maybe we could spend a couple minutes contemplating the dead guy we just left.”
“Detective Coltraine? She hasn’t even been in New York a year. How come she gets Morris?”
“Peabody.”
“I’m just saying, it seems to me if somebody’s going to get Morris, it should be one of us. Not us us, because, taken.” Peabody’s brown eyes sizzled with the insult. “But one of us that’s been around more than five damn minutes.”
“If you can’t bang him, why do you care who does?”
“You do, too,” Peabody muttered as she dropped into the passenger seat. “You know you do.”
Maybe a little, but she didn’t have to admit it. “Could I interest you in a dead priest?”
“Okay, okay.” Peabody heaved a huge and sorrowful sigh. “Okay. The tattoo thing isn’t necessarily a big deal. People get tats then change their mind all the time. Which is why temps are smarter. He could’ve gotten it when he was younger, then decided it wasn’t, I don’t know, dignified enough for his job.”
“Knife wounds.”
“Sometimes priests and religious types go into dicey areas, and sticky situations. He could’ve been stabbed trying to help someone. And the older one could’ve happened when he was a teenager, before the holiness.”
“I’ll give you both of those,” Eve said as she drove to Cop Central. “Face work.”
“That’s tougher. But maybe he was injured. A vehicular accident, say, and his face got messed up. Maybe the church or a member thereof paid for the reconstruction.”
“We’ll check the medicals and see.”
“But you don’t buy it.”
“Peabody, I wouldn’t take it for free.”
In her office at Cop Central, Eve wrote up her initial report, opened the murder book. She set up a board, then fixed a copy of Flores’s ID photo in the center. And spent the next few minutes just staring at it.
No family. No criminal. No valuable earthly possessions.
Public poisoning, she mused, could be seen as a kind of execution. The religious symbolism couldn’t be overlooked. Too obviously deliberate. A religious execution?
She sat again, started a time line from witness statements and López’s memo.
0500—gets up. Morning prayer and meditation. (In room.)
0515—showers, dresses.
0540 (approx.)—leaves rectory with López for church.
0600-0635—assists López in morning service. Accesses Communion wine and crackers—strike—hosts.
0630 (approx.)—Rosa O’Donnell arrives at—unlocked—rectory.
0645 (approx.)—leaves church for rectory with López.
0700 to 0800—has breakfast with López, prepared by Rosa O’Donnell.
0800-0830—retreats to communal office to review readings, etc., for funeral.
0830—Roberto and Madda Ortiz arrive at church with funeral staff and body of Ortiz.
0840—returns to church with López to greet family and assist in floral placements.
0900—retreats to anteroom (where tabernacle is kept) to dress for service.
0930—begins service.
1015—drinks poisoned wine.
Which gave the killer from five-forty to six-thirty to walk into the rectory, take the keys to the box, and from seven to nine hundred to doctor the wine. Anytime from seven to nine hundred to walk back into the rectory and replace the keys.
Pretty big windows, Eve mused, especially if the killer was a member of the church, and others were accustomed to seeing him or her coming and going.
Even without the keys, bypassing the lock on the box would have been ridiculously simple if the killer possessed bare minimum skills. Accessing the keys almost as ridiculously simple, particularly if the killer had knowledge of their location, and the basic routines of the church and rectory.
The how wasn’t the deal, though the how would certainly help lock up the killer. The why was the point. And the why was wrapped around Miguel Flores.
She picked up the photos of the medal, front and back.
This was important to him. Important enough to hide, and to keep close so he could take it out, touch it, look at it. Fresh tape, Eve mused, but with traces of older adhesive on the drawer back. Had it awhile, but took it out very recently.
She read the inscription again.
Who was Lino?
A Spanish given name, she discovered after a quick search, for Linus. It also meant linen or flax, but she doubted that applied.
According to the bio, Flores’s mother had died in 2027, so the mama on the medal couldn’t be Anna Flores. A Spanish name, a Spanish phrase for the image, but the rest in English. It said mixed culture to Eve. Latino roots, American soil? That fit Flores as well.
Had Lino been a friend, another priest, a lover? Flores would have been six when the inscription was made. An orphan, spinning through the system.
She knew all about that.
Maybe she didn’t know about making close and lasting ties while spinning through that system, but others did. Flores might have done so, and kept the medal as a connection to a friend.
Then why hide it?
Never adopted, but educated through the church. Had Lino been the one to take an interest in him, help educate him?
She turned back to her comp and began digging down through the layers of Miguel Flores.
Peabody came in, opened her mouth to speak.
“Pretty good timing,” Eve said without looking up. “I see my coffee cup is empty.”
With a roll of her eyes, Peabody took the cup, walked to the AutoChef to program another. “It’s a challenge getting medicals from Mexico. No record of treatment for a knife wound, or any cosmetic work here. After much and heroic persistence—which is why I’m also getting coffee—I’ve accessed his medicals from his years in Mexico. No record of either treatment there either.”
Eve leaned back, took the coffee. “What is on the record in Mexico?”
“Pretty much standards. Annual physicals, vision corrections, semi-annual dental, treatment for a stomach virus and a cut on his hand. No majors.”
“Uh-huh. And during his five years in New York?”
“Not much different. The annuals, blah blah, a couple of treatments for sprains, one for a dislocated index finger, another for an injured knee.”
“What were likely sports-related injuries.” Drumming her fingers on the desk, Eve contemplated. “Funny, he didn’t have any of those types of injuries or treatments while in Mexico. Get me the dental records from Mexico.”
“Jeez! Do you know how much red tape I’m going to choke on to get those? Plus, he moved around a couple of times, so that means more than one dentist, and it’s Catholic stuff, and they weigh in, let me tell you. Why do you . . .”
It took her a wh
ile, Eve thought, but Peabody usually got there.
“You don’t think the dead guy is Miguel Flores.”
“I think the dead guy’s name was Lino.”
“But . . . that means maybe he wasn’t even a priest, and he was up there doing the Mass thing, and marrying people, burying people.”
“Maybe God struck him down for it. Case closed. We’ll arrest God before end of shift. I want those dental records, and the dental records from New York.”
“I’m pretty sure that arrest God stuff is blasphemy.” Thoughtfully, Peabody took another swig of coffee. “Why would anyone pretend to be a priest? You can’t have stuff or sex. And you have to know all the rules. I think there are a shitload of rules.”
“Maybe he was a quick study. Maybe he thought it was worth it. Maybe he is Miguel Flores. Let’s get the dentals and find out.”
When Peabody hustled out, Eve swiveled around to study the photo on her board. “But you’re not, are you, Lino?”
She engaged her ’link and made her own calls to Mexico.
It took twenty minutes, and brought on the beginning of an annoyance headache, but she finally reached someone who not only spoke excellent English, but who’d known Miguel Flores personally.
The old man was ancient, with two thin roads of white hair riding down the sides of his bald, sun-freckled head. Eyes of bleary brown squinted out at her. His white collar hung loosely on his thin, grooved neck.
“Father Rodriguez,” Eve began.
“What? What?”
“Father Rodriguez,” she repeated, bumping up the volume on the ’link.
“Yes, yes, I hear you. No need to shout!”
“Sorry. I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with the New York City Police and Security Department.”
“How can I help you, Lieutenant Ballast?”
“Dallas.” She spoke each syllable clearly. “You knew a priest named Miguel Flores?”
“Who? Speak up!”
Sweet, sweaty Jesus. “Miguel Flores? Did you know him?”
“Yes, I know Miguel. He served here at San Sabastian Mission while I was pastor. Before they retired me. Let me ask you, Sister Ballast, how can a priest retire? We’re called to serve God. Am I not still capable of serving God?”