Salvation in Death

by J. D. Robb

  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 everything 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 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.”

  4

  AFTER THE MEAL, EVE DUMPED THE FLORES data on Roarke so they could separate into their connecting offices. In her little kitchen she programmed coffee, then took it back to her desk. She stripped off her jacket, shoved up her sleeves.

  Curled in her sleep chair, Galahad stared across at her with annoyed bicolored eyes.

  “Not my fault you’re too spooked to go outside.” She sipped her coffee, stared back. Time passed in silence. Then she stabbed a finger into the air when the cat blinked.

  “Hah. I won.”

  Galahad simply turned his pudgy body around, shot up his leg and began to wash.

  “Okay, enough of this cozy evening at home stuff. Computer,” she began, and ordered it to open the Flores file, then do a second-level run on the list of people with confirmed access to the tabernacle.

  Chale López, the boxing priest, born in Rio Poco, Mexico, interested her. She didn’t get a suspect vibe from him, but something about him gave her a little buzz. He’d had the easiest access to the wine—and as a priest, wouldn’t he be more likely to recognize a fake than a—what was it—layman?

  But she didn’t get the vibe.

  Nor could she poke her way through to motive.

  A sexual thing? Three guys sharing a house, a job, meals, leisure time. Could get cozy. And that couldn’t be discounted.

  Priests weren’t supposed to get cozy—with each other or anyone else—but they did, and had th
roughout the ages.

  Flores hadn’t been a priest. Five, nearly six years, vow of chastity? Would he, a good-looking, healthy man, have no interest in sexual gratification or have self-serviced for that length of time to keep his cover?

  Unlikely.

  So . . . López catches him banging a parishioner, or hiring an LC, whatever. Anger and righteousness ensue.

  Just didn’t play through for her.

  López was forty-eight, and had gone into the seminary at the age of thirty. Wasn’t that kind of late in the day for a priest?

  Flores—wherever he was—had gone in at twenty-two, and the third guy—Freeman, at twenty-four.

  But López—sad, sincere-eyed Chale López—had boxed for a few years professionally. Welterweight, she noted, with a solid twenty-two wins, six of them knockouts. No marriages (were they allowed that before the collar thing?), no official cohabs on record.

  There was a short gap in his employment records. About three years between dropping out of the boxing game and entering the seminary. Something to fill in.

  She started with Rosa O’Donnell, then picked her way through her portion of the Ortiz family attending the funeral. A few pops, but nothing unexpected, Eve thought, when dealing with an enormous family.

  What did people do with enormous families? All those cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews. How did they keep them straight?

  How did they breathe at any sort of family function?

  A couple of assaults—no time served—for the Family Ortiz, she noted. One Grand Theft Auto, short time. A few slaps for illegals and other minor bumps. A handful of sealed juvies. She’d get those open, if and when.

  Some had been victims along the way. Robbery, assault, two rapes, and a scatter of domestic disturbances. Some divorces, some deaths, lots of births.

  She kicked back for a moment, propped her feet on her desk.

  No connection to Flores except as the parish priest. But, she mused, Flores wasn’t the connection. Lino or whoever took Flores’s identity was.

  Better when the dentals confirmed it, she thought, but she didn’t have a doubt. According to the records, Flores requested assignment at that parish, that specific parish, in November 2053.