Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(11)

“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 CONVER-SATION 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 of 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?”