Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(23)

“You can do that? Drink brew.”

The faintest smile played around Freeman’s mouth. “Yes. It’s a good memory. It’s a good one to remember. How we watched the game and argued about Alf Nader.”

Freeman turned to look back at the altar. “It’s better than trying to imagine what it was like, what it must’ve been like when he died up there. The world’s full of terrible things, but this? To kill a man, and to use faith, his calling as the weapon.” Freeman shook his head.

“It’s hard to lose a friend,” Eve said after a moment.

“Yes, it is. Hard, too, not to question God’s will.”

Eve thought God took a lot of blame, when to her mind it came down to one human being choosing to slaughter another. “You said ‘loop.’ You had a usual jogging route?”

“In the mornings? Yes. Why?”

“You never know. Where did you habitually run?”

“We’d head east to First, then go north to East 122nd. Turn back west, to Third Avenue, south

from there to finish the loop. He often—or sometimes both of us—might stop at the youth center before coming home. Toss a few baskets with the kids.”

“When’s the last time you ran together?”

“About a week ago. The day before I left for Chicago. I had an early shuttle, so I didn’t run that morning.”

“Did he meet anyone along the way, have words with? Or mention anyone he’d had trouble with?”

“Nothing like that. Well, we might see people we know leaving for work, or coming home after a night shift. People who might call out hello, or some comment. People who live or work along the route. Mr. Ortiz, for instance. We passed his house every day, and in good weather, Mr. Ortiz walked in the mornings, so he might be out.”

“Mr. Ortiz. The one who died.”

“Yes. He’ll be missed. I’ll miss seeing him on my run, just as I’ll miss having Miguel running with me.”

“Did Flores talk to you about anyone, or anything, that troubled him?”

“We all wrestle with faith, and our purpose. We would, when we felt the need, discuss in general terms the problems of someone who’d come to us. How we could best help.”

When Eve’s ’link signaled, she nodded to Peabody to take over, and stepped away.

“Father, what about Mr. Solas? We’re told they had an altercation.”

Freeman let out a sigh. “Yes, Miguel was incensed, furious when we learned Barbara had been abused. We’re told to hate the sin, not the sinner, but there are times that’s very hard. He did have an altercation with Mr. Solas, and that altercation was physical. The fact is, Miguel knocked Solas out, and might have done more if Marc Tuluz hadn’t stopped it. But Solas is in prison.”

“And Mrs. Solas?”

“She’s in counseling, as are her children. She’s making progress.”

Eve stepped back. “We may want to take this to the rectory after all. Is Father López in?”

Obviously puzzled, Freeman checked his wrist unit. “Yes, he should be. He has neighborhood calls shortly.”

“Then we’ll meet you there.”

Peabody waited until they stepped out. “What’s up?”

“Dental records are in. We can stop pu**yfooting around.”

Rosa escorted them into López’s office, where he sat at his desk and Freeman stood by the small window.

“You’ve learned something,” López said immediately.

“Confirmed something. The man who died yesterday wasn’t Father Miguel Flores.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.” Placing his hands on the desk, López pushed out of his chair. “I was there. I saw him.”

“The man you knew as Flores assumed that identity. We believe he assumed it sometime between June and October of 2053, and had some facial surgery to enhance the facade. As the actual Miguel Flores hasn’t been seen or heard from in that time, we speculate he’s dead.”

“But . . . He was sent here.”

“At his request, and with the use of that falsified identification.”

“Lieutenant, he performed Mass, the sacraments. There must be a mistake.”

“You said you confirmed it,” Freeman interrupted. “How?”

“Dental records. The body in our possession has had facial surgery. Cosmetic surgery. A tattoo removal. There were scars from knife wounds.”

“I saw those,” Freeman stated. “The wounds. He explained them. He lied.” Now Freeman sat. “He lied. Why?”

“There’s a question. He went to some trouble to be assigned here, specifically. That’s another why. Did he ever speak to you about anyone named Lino?”

“No. Yes. Wait.” Freeman massaged his temples, and his fingers trembled. “We were debating absolution, restitution, penance, forgiveness. How sins may be outweighed by good deeds. We had different philosophies. He used Lino as an example. As in, let’s take this man—call him Lino.”

“Okay. And?”

Freeman pushed up, those dark eyes rested on his fellow priest. “This is like another death. Worse, I think. We were brothers here, and servants, and shepherds. But he was none of that. He died in sin. The man I just prayed for died in sin, performing an act he had no right to perform. I confessed to him, and he to me.”