Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(6)

“That explains why he didn’t have a ’link on him,” Peabody commented. “I guess they don’t take them when they do a service.” As she turned, the sassy little flip at the ends of her dark hair bounced. “Well, I guess this won’t take long, considering he didn’t have a whole lot.”

“Take a look in the other rooms. Just a scan from the doorway. See if they’re the same as this.”

As Peabody went out, Eve opened a dresser drawer with her sealed hand. White boxers, white undershirts, white socks, black socks. She pawed through, found nothing else. Another drawer held T-shirts. White, black, gray—some with team logos emblazoned on the front.

“They’ve got more stuff,” Peabody announced. “Photographs, man junk.”

“Define ‘man junk,’ ” Eve said as she drew out the bottom drawer.

“Golf ball on a display tee, pile of discs, a pair of boxing gloves, that kind of thing.”

“Check the closet here.” Eve drew the bottom drawer all the way out, checked the bottom, the back.

“Priest’s suits, two sets with pants, and one of those dresses. A pair of black shoes that look worn, two pairs of high-tops, one pair looks shot. Shelf . . .” Peabody paused as she rummaged. “Cooler-weather gear. Two sweaters, two sweatshirts, one hooded sweat jacket—Knicks.”

After checking all the drawers, backs, bottoms, sides, Eve pulled the small dresser out from the wall, checked the back of the mirror.

With Peabody, she moved to the desk. It held a date book, a few memo cubes, a short stack of brochures on the youth center, the Yankees’ schedule, and another for the Knicks.

Eve checked the last entries in the date book. “Vigil for Ortiz at the funeral home last night. Yankees game Wednesday. Let’s see if anyone went with him. He’s scheduled for FHC—need to find out what that is—for a week from this coming Sunday at two. Got a few games and sessions at the youth center on here. Pre-C counseling. Need to get the meaning of that. Two of those—last Monday and Tuesday. Names of whoever he was counseling in here. We’ll run them down. The funeral’s on here. A teaching gig at St. Cristóbal’s Friday, a baptism a week from Saturday. All priestly, except for the Yankees.”

She bagged the date book. “Take a look at the ’link,” she told Peabody, then began on the little night table.

She flipped through the Bible, found a few small pictures of saints. In Hebrews, she read an underscored line: And thus, having had long patience, he got the promise. And in Proverbs: With me are riches and honor, enduring wealth and prosperity.

Interesting. She bagged the Bible for evidence. Inside the drawer were a couple more community flyers, and a mini-game player. She found a silver medal taped behind the drawer. “Well, well. Why does a priest tape a religious medal behind a drawer?”

Peabody stopped her own search. “What kind of medal?”

“It’s a woman, with the robe thing, hands folded, and it looks like she’s standing on a pillow or something with a little kid holding her up.”

“It’s probably the Virgin Mary, and the Baby Jesus. And, yeah, weird place for a medal.”

Carefully, Eve peeled the tape away, turned the freed medal over. “Lino, May La Virgen de Guadalupe watch over you—Mama. Dated May 12, 2031.”

“Rosa said she thought his parents died when he was a boy—and he’d have been about six at this date,” Peabody commented. “Maybe Lino’s a nickname, a term of affection in Spanish?”

“Maybe. Why tape it to the back of a drawer instead of wearing it, or keeping it in a drawer? Are priests allowed to wear jewelry?” Eve wondered.

“Probably not big honking rings or chains, but I’ve seen them wearing crosses and medals and stuff.” To get a closer look, Peabody squatted down. “Like that sort of thing.”

“Yeah. Yeah. So why is this hidden? You hide something so nobody sees it, and you hide it close when you want to look at it in private now and then. This mattered to him, whether it was his, a friend’s or relative’s, or he picked it up in a secondhand store, it mattered. It looks like silver,” she murmured, “but it’s not tarnished. You have to polish silver to keep it shiny.”

After another study, she bagged it. “Maybe we can trace it. What about the ’link?”

“Logged transmissions, in and out from Roberto Ortiz—that would be the late Mr. Ortiz’s oldest surviving son. A couple to and from the youth center, and the oldest last week to Father Freeman.”

“Okay, we’ll have a look and listen. Let’s call the sweepers in for a pass, then I want this room sealed.”

She thought of the two underlined passages, and wondered what riches and honor Flores waited for.

2

IT WAS A LONG WAY FROM SPANISH HARLEM TO the Lower West Side and Cop Central. Long enough to have Peabody do the initial run on Miguel Flores and recite the salients while Eve maneuvered through traffic for a large chunk of Manhattan’s length and breadth.

“Miguel Ernesto Flores,” Peabody read from her PPC. “Born February six, 2025 in Taos, New Mexico. Parents, Anna Santiago Flores and Constantine Flores, were both killed when their bodega was robbed, summer of 2027. The mother was seven months pregnant.”

“They get them?”

“They got them. Two guys, barely eighteen, and both serving life sentences. No parole. Flores was put in the system.”