Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(20)

“You’d be right. Did you know Father Flores?”

“Everybody knows Father Miguel. He’s chill. Was.”

“He show you that hook shot?”

“He show me some moves. I show him some. So?”

“You got a name?”

“Everybody does.” He dismissed her by signaling for the ball. Eve pivoted, intercepted. After a couple of testing dribbles, she pivoted again. And her hook shot caught nothing but net.

The boy’s eyebrows rose up under his cap as he gave her a cool-eyed stare. “Kiz.”

“Okay, Kiz, did anybody have a hard-on for Flores?”

Kiz shrugged. “Must be somebody did, ’cause he’s dead.”

“You got me there. Do you know anybody who had a hard-on for him?”

One of the others passed Kiz the ball. He dribbled it back a few feet, bagged a three-pointer. He curled a finger, received the ball again, passed it to Eve. “You do that?”

Why not? She gauged her ground, set shot. Scored. Kiz nodded in approval, then sized her up. “Got any moves, Big Bad Badge?”

She smiled, coolly. “Got an answer to my question?”

“People liked Father Miguel. Like I say, he had the frost. Don’t go preaching every five, you know? Gets what it’s like in the world.”

“What’s it like in the world?”

Kiz retrieved the ball again, twirled it stylishly on the top of his index finger. “Lotta shit.”

“Yeah, lotta shit. Who’d he hang with?”

“Got moves?” Kiz repeated, shot the ball to her on a sharp one-bounce.

“Got plenty, but not in these boots. Which are the boots I wear to find killers.” Eve bounced he” Eve b the ball back to him. “Who’d he hang with?”

“Other priests, I guess. Us ’round here, Marc and Magda.” He jerked his head toward the building. “They run the place, mostly. Some of the old guys who come ’round, pretending they can shoot the hoop.”

“Did he argue with anyone recently?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t see. Gotta make my bell.”

“Okay.”

Kiz shot her the ball one last time. “You get yourself some shoes, Badge, I’ll take you on.”

“We’ll see about that.”

When Eve tucked the ball in the crook of her arm, Peabody shook her head. “I didn’t know you could do that. Shoot baskets and stuff.”

“I have a wide range of hidden skills. Let’s go find Marc and Magda.”

The place smelled like school, or any place groups of kids regularly gathered. Young sweat, candy, and something she could only define as kid that translated to a dusky, foresty scent to her—and was just a little creepy.

A lot of babies and toddlers were being transported in and passed over by men and women who looked either harried, relieved, or unhappy. Drawings showing various degrees of skill along with scores of flyers and posters covered the industrial beige walls like some mad collage. In the midst of it, a pretty blonde stood behind a reception desk greeting both kids and what Eve assumed were their parents as the transfers were made.

The sound of squeals, screams, crying, and high, piping voices zipped through the air like laser fire.

The blonde had deep brown eyes, and a smile that appeared sincere and amused as the assault raged around her. Those brown eyes seemed clear, as did the cheerful voice. But Eve wasn’t ruling out chemical aides.

The blonde spoke in Spanish to some, in English to others, then turned that warm welcome onto Eve and Peabody. “Good morning. How can I help you?”

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.” Eve drew out her badge. “We’re looking for Marc and Magda.”

The warmth dropped instantly into sorrow. “This is about Father Miguel. I’m Magda. Could you give me just a few minutes? We run a day care and a preschool. You’ve hit a high-traffic zone just now. You could wait in the office. Just down that hall, first door on the left. I’ll get someone to cover for me as soon as I can.”

Eve avoided the next wave of toddlers being carried, dragged, chased, or led, and escaped into an office with two desks pushed together so their occupants could face each other. She scanned bulletin boards holding more flyers, memos. A mini AutoChef and small Friggie crowded a shelf while piles of athletic equipment, stacks of discs, actual books, writing materials jammed others.

Eve crossed to the window, noted it afforded a view of the playground, where even now some of those toddlers were being released to run and shriek like hyenas.

“Why do they make that sound?” Eve wondered. “That puncture-the-eardrums sound?”

“It’s a release of energy, I guess.” Because they were there and so was she, Peabody poked at some of the papers on the desks. “Same reason most kids run instead of walk, climb instead of sit. It’s all balled up inside, and they have to get it out.”

Eve turned back, pointed her finger at Peabody. “I get that. I actually get that. They can’t have sex or alcohol, so they scream, run, punch each other as a kind of orgasmic or tranquilizing replacement.”

“Ummm” was all Peabody could think of, and she glanced over with some relief as Magda hurried in.

“Sorry about that. A lot of parents get here at the last minute, then it’s chaos. Please, have a seat. Ah, I can get you coffee, tea, something cold?”