Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(21)

“Just your full name, thanks.”

“Oh, of course. Magda Laws. I’m the co director.” She fingered a small silver cross at her throat. “This is about Father Miguel.”

“Yes. How long did you know him?”

“Since he came to the parish. Five years? A little longer.”

“And your relationship?”

“We were friends. Friendly. He was very involved with the center, very energetic about his participation. I honestly don’t know what we’ll do without him. That sounds so selfish.” She drew a chair from behind one of the desks, rolled it toward the visitors’ chairs. “I can’t quite take it in. I guess I keep expecting him to pop his head in here and say hello.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Nearly eight years now. Marc—I’m sorry, he’s not in this morning. He’s taking a course, a psychology course, and doesn’t come in until the afternoon. For another few weeks, anyway. That’s Marc Tuluz.”

“And he and Flores were also friendly?”

“Yes, very. In the last few years, I’d say the three of us considered ourselves a team. We have lots of good people here—counselors, instructors, care providers. But, well, the three of us were—are—I don’t know . . .” She lifted her hands as if she didn’t know quite what to do with them. “. . . the core. Miguel was very proactive. Not just with the kids, but with fund-raisers, and raising community awareness, drafting sponsors and guest instructors.”

Her eyes filled as she spoke; her voice thickened. “It’s hard. This is very hard. We had a short memorial this morning, for the school-aged kids, and we’re having another at the end of the day. It helps, I guess, but . . . We’re going to miss him so much, in so many ways. Marc and I were just talking last night about naming the gym after him.”

“Last night?”

“Marc and I live together. We’re getting married in September. Miguel was going to marry us.” She looked away briefly, struggling against those tears. “Can I ask? Do you have any idea what happened, or how, or why?”

“We’re pursuing some avenues. Since you were friendly, and worked closely, did Flores ever talk about what he did before he came here?”

“Before?” She pushed at her sunny hair, as if aligning her thoughts. “Ah, he worked in Mexico, and out West. He was born out there, out West. Is that what you mean?”

“Did he talk about his work out West—specifically.”

“God. He must have, now and then, but we were always so involved with now, and tomorrow. I do know he worked with kids out there, too. Sports, getting them involved. Teams. He liked teaching them to value being part of a team. He, ah, he was orphaned at a young age, and didn’t like to talk about it. But he would say his own experiences were a key reason why he wanted to devote so much time to kids. He was great with them.”

“Any kid or kids in particular?” Peabody wondered.

“Oh, over the years, any number. It depends, you know, on what a child needs from us—needed from him.”

“Are you from this area?” Eve asked her.

“I went to college here, and stayed. I knew it was exactly where I wanted to be.”

“How about Marc?”

“He moved here with his family when he was a teenager. Actually, his sister is married to one of the Ortiz cousins. She was at the funeral yesterday when . . . She’s the one who came down to tell us.”

“Do you know anyone who had trouble with Flores? Who disliked him? Argued with him?”

“There are lots of degrees in that. Certainly there were times Miguel had to sit on a kid. Or a parent, for that matter. Arguments happen during sports. But if you mean something serious, something that could have lead to this, I have to say no. Except . . .”

“Except.”

“There was Barbara Solas—she’s fifteen. She came in one day a few months ago with her face bruised. To condense, her father often hit her mother, and—we learned—had sexually molested Barbara.”

On her lap, Magda’s hands balled into fists. “She resisted, and he beat her. And the day she came to us, she said she’d gone at him. Lost it, and gone at him. He’d beaten her and tossed her out. So she came to us for help, finally came to us, told us what was happening at home. We helped. We notified the authorities, the police, child protection.”

“This Solas blamed Flores?”

“I’m sure he did, and us. Barbara told us, and it was confirmed later, that her father had started on her little sister. Her twelve-year-old sister—and that’s when Barbara went at him. I convinced the mother to go to a shelter, to take Barbara and her other children. But before I went to see her, before the police came and arrested Solas, Marc and Miguel went to see Solas on their own.”

“They confronted him?”

“Yes. It’s not policy, not the way we’re supposed to handle something like this, but Miguel . . . We couldn’t stop him, so Marc went with him. I know things got heated, though neither Marc nor Miguel would give me the details. I know they got heated because Miguel’s knuckles were torn and bloody.”

“How long ago was this?”

“In February.”

“Did they attend church?”