Salvation in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “It’s a theory. How did he handle your take on this discussion?” Eve asked Freeman.

  “He was frustrated. We often frustrated each other, which is only one of the reasons we enjoyed debating. All the people he deceived. Performing marriages, tending the souls of the dying, baptisms, hearing confessions. What’s to be done?”

  “I’ll contact the Archbishop. We’ll protect the flock, Martin. It was Miguel . . . It was this man who acted in bad faith, not those he served.”

  “Baptism,” Eve said, considering. “That’s for babies, right?”

  “Most usually, but—”

  “Let stick with babies, for now. I’m going to want the records of baptisms, here at this church, let’s say from 2020 to 2030.”

  López looked down at his folded hands, nodded. “I’ll request them.”

  Peabody sat thoughtfully as they drove away from the rectory. “It has to be really hard on them. The priests.”

  “Getting snookered’s always a pisser.”

  “Not just that. It’s the friendship and brotherhood, finding out that was all bullshit. It’s like, say you go down in the line.”

  “You go down in the line.”

  “No, this is my scenario. You go down—heroically—”

  “Damn straight.”

  “And I’m devastated by the loss. I’m beating my breasts with grief.”

  Eve glanced over, deliberately, at Peabody’s very nice rack. “That’ll take a while.”

  “I’m not even thinking, ‘Hey, after a decent interval I can jump Roarke,’ because I’m so shattered.”

  “Better stay shattered, pal, or I’ll come back from wherever and kick your ass.”

  “A given. Anyway, then the next day it comes out that you weren’t Eve Dallas. You’d killed the actual Eve Dallas a few years before, dismembered her and fed the pieces into a human-waste recycler.”

  “Go back to beating your tits.”

  “Breasts, otherwise it’s not the same thing. So anyway, now I’m shattered again because the person I thought was my friend, my partner, and blah de blah, was in reality a lying bitch.”

  Peabody turned to stare, narrow-eyed, at Eve’s profile.

  “Keep that up and you’ll be dismembered and fed into a human-waste recycler.”

  “I’m just saying. Anyway, back to Flores, who we’ll now call Lino.”

  “We get the records, check out all the Linos, narrow it down.”

  “Unless he wasn’t baptized there, because his family moved there when he was, like, ten. Or he was never baptized, or he stuck a pin in a map to pick this parish for his hidey-hole.”

  “Which is why EDD will be working on the fake ID, and why we’ll be running his prints and his DNA through IRCCA, Global, and so on. Something’s going to pop out.”

  “I think it’s pretty damn low,” Peabody added, “faking the priesthood thing. If you wanted to fake something, you could fake something else. Like something you did before, something you were. Hey! Hey! Maybe he was a priest. I mean not Flores, but another priest. Or he tried to be one and washed out.”

  “That’s not bad. The washing out. We get the records, you cross-check with guys who washed out of the priesthood. Then do another check on the seminary where Flores trained. Maybe the vic knew him, trained with him.”

  “Got that. I’ll kick it back a little more, do a search on men of the right age span who went to the private schools with Flores, might have connected with him there.”

  It was an angle, Eve thought, and they’d work it through. “The guy had to figure he had the ultimate cover. Nobody’s going to run a priest, at least not like we’re going to. Not when he keeps out of trouble. And the only time we’ve learned he came close to the line was with this Solas. And we’ll be checking that, too.”

  As she spoke, Eve pulled over to the curb in front of the Trinidad, a small business hotel on East 98th. She flipped on her On Duty sign.

  It didn’t run to a doorman—which was a shame only because she enjoyed snarling at them—but the lobby was bright and clean. A sultry-looking brunette manned check-in. Eve headed for the distinguished silver-haired guy standing as concierge.

  “We need a few moments with Elena Solas.”

  “I see.” He skimmed the badges. “Is there a problem?”

  “Not as long as we get a few moments with Elena Solas.”

  “Yes.”

  “Excuse me.” He moved to the far end of his station and began speaking to someone on his headset. When he came back, he kept his neutral smile in place. “We have a small employee lounge on the fifth floor. I’ll escort you, if meeting her there will suit.”

  “That’s good.”

  He walked them down to a staff elevator. “Mrs. Solas has only worked here for a short time, but has proven to be an excellent employee.”

  “That’s good, too.”

  Eve said nothing else, simply followed him as he stepped off the elevator, turned down a hallway, then used his key card to open a pair of double doors.

  It was more of a locker room than a lounge, but as with the lobby, clean and bright. The woman who sat on one of the padded benches had her hands clutched in her lap, fingers threaded as if in prayer. She wore a gray dress under a simple white apron, and thick-soled white shoes. Her dark, glossy hair rolled into a thick, tight bun at her nape. When she lifted her head, her eyes were dull with terror.

  “He got out, he got out, he got out.”

  Even before Eve could move, Peabody hurried over. “No, Mrs. Solas. He’s still in prison.” She sat, laid her hands over the knot of Elena’s. “He can’t hurt you or your children.”

  “Thank God.” A tear slid down her cheek as she crossed herself, and rocked. “Oh, thank God. I thought . . . My babies.” She launched off the bench. “Something happened to one of my kids.”

  “No.” This time Eve spoke, and spoke sharply to cut off the rising hysteria. “It’s about the man you knew as Father Flores.”

  “Father . . .” Her body visibly shook as she lowered again. “Father Flores. God forgive me. I’m so selfish, so stupid, so—”

  “Stop.” Eve whipped the word out, and color flooded Elena’s face. “We’re investigating a homicide, we have a few questions, and you need to pull yourself together.” She turned to the concierge. “You need to go.”

  “Mrs. Solas is obviously upset. I don’t see—”

  “She’s going to be a lot more upset if I have to take her downtown because you won’t leave the room. If you’re not her lawyer or legal representative, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Alonzo. Thank you. I’m all right.”

  “You’ve only to call if you’re not.” He sent Eve a frigid look as he turned to go.

  “I never thought of Father Flores,” Elena murmured. “When they said the police were here, I thought of Tito, and what he said he’d do to me, and our three girls. I have three girls.”

  “And he used to tune you up.”

  “Yes. He used to hit me. He would drink and beat me, or not drink and beat me.”

  “And he molested your daughter.”

  Her face tightened, a flash of pain. “Yes. Yes, my Barbara. I didn’t know. How did I not know? She never told me, until . . . She never told me because I did nothing when he hit me. Why should I protect her when I didn’t protect myself?”

  “There’s a question.” Eve caught herself, ordered herself to stick to the point. “But not the one we’re here for. You’re aware that Flores confronted your husband about the minor child Barbara.”

  “Yes. He and Marc and Magda called the police. But he and Marc came first. And that’s how I found out what he’d done to my baby. And had started to do to my little Donita.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  “About what Tito had done?”

  “About what Flores did about it?”

  Elena straightened her shoulders. “I thank God for him every day. I say a rosary for him
every night. He saved us, when I was too scared and stupid to save us, he did. I know he’s with God now, and still I’ll thank God for him every day, and say a rosary for him every night.”

  “Has your husband contacted you from Rikers?”

  “He doesn’t know where we are. Magda took us to a shelter, one downtown from here. Duchas.”

  Eve shot Peabody a warning glance as her partner started to speak.

  “We stayed there for three weeks. Tito took a plea. Ten years. It’s not enough, but it’s ten years of peace. We’ve moved, and I have a new job. When I have enough, we’ll move again. Out of the city. Far away. He’ll never find us. Father Flores promised.”

  “Did he? Did he tell you how he could be so sure?”

  She sighed. “He said there were ways, if need be, and that there were people who could help if we had to hide. But that I shouldn’t worry. He had faith that Tito would never trouble us again. I don’t have such strong faith.”

  When they were in the car headed downtown, Peabody cleared her throat. “I wasn’t actually going to mention your connection to Duchas back there.”

  “It’s not my deal. It’s Roarke’s.”

  Hence the connection, Peabody thought. “Well, it’s a good thing. It really helps women and kids in trouble. You were a little hard on her. Elena Solas.”

  “Really?”

  The ice in the single word froze the air, and had Peabody pulling out her PPC. “Anyway, I’ll check with Rikers, see if Solas contacted anyone interesting in the last couple months.”

  “You do that.”

  Silence hung, a frosty curtain, for ten blocks. “She deserved it,” Eve snapped out. “That and more, for leaving it to her kid to get them out. For taking the slaps and punches and sniffling in the corner while her daughter’s getting raped. She deserved it for doing nothing.”

  “Maybe she did.” Dangerous ground, Peabody thought. “But she didn’t know . . .” She trailed off, slapped back by a single and ferocious look from her partner. “She should have known. I guess that’s what she has to live with now.”

  “The kid lives with worse.” And that was that. “No way that punching bag had a part in poisoning Lino. This one’s going to be a dead end. Contact Marc Tuluz, see if we can get him to come to us.”

  Eve needed to get back to her office. She needed five minutes alone to get rid of this burning rage in her gut, one she had no right feeling. She needed decent coffee so she could clear her head and take another look at the facts. Realign them.

  She needed to check in with EDD and their progress, maybe set up a consult with Mira. No, she decided immediately. The profiler saw too much, too easily. Until that rage was banked, she’d steer clear of Mira. She didn’t need someone telling her she was projecting herself on a kid she’d never met. She already knew it.

  What she needed was her murder book, her murder board. Lab reports, EDD. What she needed was the job.

  They were a good ten feet from the Homicide bullpen when Peabody’s nose went up like a hound on the hunt. “I smell doughnuts.” When Peabody increased her pace, Eve started to roll her eyes, but then she smelled them, too.

  Which meant her men would all be in various stages of sugar highs. And she wasn’t.

  She saw Baxter first, tall and slick in one of his stylish suits. And a mouthful of chocolate-iced, cream-filled. Then Jenkinson kicked back at his desk, scratching his belly while he shoveled in a cruller. And Carnegie, looking busy on her ’link while breaking tiny pieces off a glazed with rainbow sprinkles.

  Peabody pounced on the glossy white bakery box. And her face when she lifted it was a study in grief and disgust. “Gone. Every crumb. You vultures.”

  “Damn good doughnuts.” Baxter smiled around the last mouthful. “Too bad you missed them.”

  Eve gave him a sour look. “This has bribe by Nadine all over it.”

  “She’s in your office.”

  “Does she have more?” Peabody turned to make the rush, and stopped short when Eve slapped a hand on her shoulder.

  “Desk. Work. Here.”

  “Oh. But. Doughnuts.”

  “Oh. But. Murder.” With that, Eve turned and headed into her office to see what her friend, and the city’s top on-air reporter and news personality thought was bribe-worthy today.

  Nadine Furst, her fashionably sassy, sun-tipped hair perfectly groomed, sat in the single, saggy visitor’s chair in Eve’s tiny, unfashionable office. Her excellent legs were crossed, and the skirt of her suit— the color of arctic ice—showed them off. Her eyes, crafty as a feline’s, smiled casually at Eve as she continued to talk animatedly on her mini ’link. She gestured toward Eve’s desk, and the second bakery box.

  Then she went back to admiring her shoes, the same murderously sexy red as the hint of lace slyly kissing her cleavage. “Yes, I’ll be there. And there. Don’t worry. Just make sure I have that research on my desk by two. I have to go, my next appointment’s here.” She clicked off, tucked the ’link into one of the outside pockets on a bag that looked as though it could swallow Cleveland.

  “We had an appointment?”

  “We have doughnuts,” Nadine responded. She gestured to the murder board. “A lot of buzz on that. Priest poisoned with sacramental wine. It’s good copy. Anything new you want to share?”

  “Maybe.” Eve flipped open the bakery box, and was immediately assaulted with the scent of fried fat and sugar. “Maybe.”

  Eve went directly to the AutoChef to program coffee. After the briefest of hesitations, she programmed a second cup for Nadine.

  “Thanks. One minute for personal business before we go back to our natural forms. Charles and Louise. Wedding.”

  “Oh crap.”

  “Oh stop.” With a laugh, Nadine lifted the coffee, sipped. “The doctor and the retired licensed companion. It’s completely adorable and desperately romantic and you know it.”

  Eve only scowled. “I hate adorable and romantic.”

  “Bull. You’re married to Roarke. In any case, I think it’s wonderful you’re hosting the wedding, and standing up for her. I just wanted to tell you I’d be happy to help with the shower.”

  “Louise can take her own shower. She’s a big girl.”

  “Bridal shower.”

  “Oh crap.”

  Nadine fluttered her lashes. “You’re just too sentimental for your own good. So. Do you think a big-girl party at your place? You could rent a ballroom—or hell, a planet—but Peabody and I thought something more fun and informal at your house.”

  “Peabody.” Eve uttered the word like it was a betrayal.

  “We’ve chatted about it a couple times.”

  “Why don’t you chat about it lots more, then I’ll show up when and where.”

  Nadine beamed, flicked a hand in the air as if tapping a magic wand. “Presto and perfect. Just what we hoped. Now, next order of business.” Nadine reached in her city-swallowing bag and came out with a disc. “This is it. The book.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “My book, Dallas. Deadly Perfection: The Icove Agenda. Or it will be the book when I turn it in. I want you to read it first.”

  “Why? I was there, so I already know how it ends.”

  “Exactly why. You were there, and you stopped it. Risked your life to stop it. I want you to tell me if I went off and where. This is important, Dallas, not just to me. Though, oh boy, it really is. It’s important information. It’s an important story, and it wouldn’t be a story, it wouldn’t be my story, without you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but—”

  “Please read it. Please.”

  Eve couldn’t even work up a scowl. “Oh balls.”

  “And be honest, be brutal. I’m a big girl, too. I want it to be right. I want it to matter.”

  “Okay, okay.” Eve took the disc, laid it on her desk. To compensate, she picked up a doughnut. “I’ve got work, Nadine. Bye.”

  “You said ‘maybe.’” Nadine gestured back toward the murder board.


  She had, and not just because of the doughnuts. Nadine might sink her teeth into a story like a terrier, but she never forgot there were people inside it. And she kept her word. “The NYPSD has confirmed through medical records that the man poisoned in St. Cristóbal’s was not Miguel Flores, but an as of yet unidentified individual who posed as same.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah, that sums it.”

  “Where’s Miguel Flores? What medical records?” Nadine dug her recorder out of her bag. “Do you have any lines on the victim’s real identity, and is the motive tied to that?”

  “Down, girl. Police are pursuing all leads.”

  “Don’t hand me the departmental line, Dallas.”

  “The departmental line works. We are pursuing all leads. We don’t know the whereabouts of Miguel Flores, but are actively pursuing. At this time, we’re also pursuing the theory that the victim’s real identity may have gone to motive.”

  “So someone recognized him.”

  “It’s a theory, not a fact in evidence. The victim had some facial surgery, which leads us to believe he had it done to more closely resemble Flores.”

  “He posed as a priest for five years—close to six, right?”

  “Maybe longer. We’ve got to confirm various details.”

  “And nobody suspected? The other priests he worked with, the people who attended his church?”

  “Apparently, he was good at it.”

  “Why do you think—”

  “I’m not going to tell you what or why I think. You’ve got what you’ve got, and with a couple hours’ jump on the rest of the media.”

  “Then I’d better get it on the air.” Nadine rose. “Thanks.” She paused at the door while Eve licked sugar off her thumb. “Off the record. Why do you think he posed as a priest all this time?”

  “Off the record, he needed a mask and Flores was handy. He was waiting for something or someone and wanted to wait at home.”

  “Home?”

  “Off the record, yeah, I think he came home.”

  “If you confirm that and pass it on, there’re more doughnuts in it for you.”

  Eve had to laugh. “Beat it.”

  When Nadine beat it, clicking briskly down the hall on her sky-scraper red heels, Eve turned back to the murder board. “Something or someone,” she murmured. “Must’ve been pretty damn important to you, Lino.”