by J. D. Robb
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 back 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.
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 while, 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?”
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. Migue
l 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?”