Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(7)

“The inscription was dated ’31—and his mother had been dead four years by then. So who’s Mama?”

“Maybe foster mother?”

“Maybe.”

“Early education, State, but private Catholic high school and college.”

“Private?” Eve interrupted, and snarled when a Rapid Cab cut her off. “Takes dough.”

“Yeah. Maybe a scholarship? I’ll check on that. He entered the seminary straight out of college, spent several years working and living in Mexico. Held dual citizenship. Transferred to St. Cristóbal’s November of 2054. Huh, there’s a lag here, though. His last position was at a mission in Jarez until 2053, June.”

“So where was Flores for over a year, and what was he doing? He had to have a boss—like López. A pastor or whatever. Let’s find out. Any youthful high jinks of the criminal variety?”

“Nothing here, and no flag indicating a sealed record.”

“Private Catholic education’s gotta be pricey. Unless there was a scholarship, and it covered most of the ground, how did he afford it? Where’d the money come from? We’re going to need to peel some layers.”

Eve frowned as she skirted around a maxibus. “The vic had a wrist unit on him—cheap one—and just under forty dollars in his wallet. Who pays these guys? Do they get paid? He had a standard ID, no credit or debit cards, no driver’s license. A silver cross.”

“Maybe the Pope pays them.” Peabody ’s square face turned thoughtful. “Not directly, but he’s the head guy, so maybe it comes from him. I mean they must get paid something. They’ve got to live—buy food, clothes, pay for transportation.”

“Under forty on him, no money in his room. We’ll check bank accounts.” Eve tapped her fingers on the wheel. “Let’s go by the morgue, see if Morris has established COD.”

“If it was poison, it doesn’t feel like self-termination. Plus,” Peabody added, “I know Catholics are way against that, so it doesn’t skew right for a priest to off himself.”

“Pretty harsh to do it in front of a church full of people at a funeral service,” Eve commented. “Or . . . ironic. But no, it doesn’t play. Wit statements are that he was moving right through the service, SOP. If you’re going to knock back some wine laced with poison, even if you’re dead—ha-ha—set on it, you’d show some nerves, some hesitation. A little moment of: Okay, here goes nothing. Whatever.”

“Maybe it wasn’t target specific. Maybe whoever laced the wine just wanted to kill a priest. Like a religious vendetta.”

“It wasn’t in the wine for the morning service, and it was in—if it was—for the funeral. Maybe somebody snuck in, broke into the box-thing, laced the wine without knowing who’d be taking the first drink. But my vote is Flores was the target.”

But she’d hold her report in reserve until she talked to Morris.

Into the chilly, artificial air, death slipped and snuck—the god of all thieves. No amount of filtering, sealing or cleaning could quite banish the insidiously sweet and human smell. Used to it, Eve wound through the white, harshly lit corridors of the morgue—thought fleetingly about hitting Vending for a tube of Pepsi to kick up the caffeine level—and pushed open one of the doors of an autopsy room.

It surprised her to be immediately assaulted with the romantic perfume of roses. They stood, red as fresh blood, on one of the rolling tables used to hold the nasty tools of the trade performed there. Eve studied the small forest of them, and wondered if the naked corpse behind them appreciated their elegance.

Elegant, too, was the man who hummed along with the choral music drifting through the rose- and death-scented air. Chief Medical Examiner Morris wore black today, but there was nothing ghoulish or funereal in the sharply tailored suit. The lightning-bolt blue T-shirt—probably silk—kicked it up a notch, Eve supposed. He’d pinned one of the red rosebuds to his lapel, and wound red and blue cords through his long black ponytail.

The clear, protective cloak didn’t diminish the style, and when he turned his exotic eyes to her and smiled, Eve had to admit that kicked it up another notch.

“Nice flowers,” she commented.

“Aren’t they? A token from a friend. I decided to bring them in. They class up the place, don’t you think?”

“They’re mag.” Peabody walked over, took a sniff. “Man, there are like two dozen easy. Some token.”

It was an obvious ploy for more information, but Morris only continued to smile. “She’s a very good friend. It occurred to me I should have had flowers in here before. It’s traditional, after all, to bring them to the dead.”

“Why is that?” Eve wondered.

“I believe they’re symbolic of a resurrection, a kind of rebirth. Which,” Morris continued, “your current interest should appreciate. Along with, I hope, the music. Mozart’s ‘Requiem.’ ”

“Okay.” Eve looked over at Flores and doubted he appreciated much of anything, being dead, on a slab, and currently opened by one of Morris’s delicate and effective Y cuts. “How’d he get here?”

“The road is long and winding. But his ended with a dose of poison with his wine and wafer.”

“Cyanide.”