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“Dallas.” She spoke each syllable clearly. “You knew a priest named Miguel Flores?”
“Who? Speak up!”
Sweet, sweaty Jesus. “Miguel Flores? Did you know him?”
“Yes, I know Miguel. He served here at San Sabastian Mission while I was pastor. Before they retired me. Let me ask you, Sister Ballast, how can a priest retire? We’re called to serve God. Am I not still capable of serving God?”
Eve felt a muscle begin to twitch just under her eye. “It’s Lieutenant. I’m a police officer in New York City. Can you tell me when you last saw Miguel Flores?”
“When he took it into his head he needed a year, or more, to travel, to explore his faith, to determine if his calling was a true one. Nonsense!” Rodriguez slapped his bony hand against the arm of what looked like a wheelchair. “The boy was born a priest. But the bishop gave him leave, and he took it.”
“That would have been about seven years ago?”
Rodriguez stared off into the distance. “The years come and go.”
Wasting my time, Eve thought, but persisted. “I’m going to transmit a photograph.”
“Why would I want your photograph.”
“No, not my photo.” She wondered if there was a particular saint she could hit up for enough patience to get through this interview without screaming. “I’m going to transmit a photograph. It’s going to come up on-screen. Can you tell me if this is Miguel Flores?”
She ordered the transmission, watched Rodriguez squint his eyes into crepey slits as he leaned forward until his nose nearly touched his screen. “It may be. It’s not a clear picture.”
Only clear as glass, Eve thought. “Is there anyone else available who knew Flores?”
“Didn’t I tell you I know him?”
“Yes, you did.” Eve cancelled the photo, took a deep breath. “Have you heard from him, from Flores, since he left on his travels?”
“Sabbatical.” Rodriguez sniffed at the word. “They sent Father Albano to replace him. Always late, that one. Punctuality is a sign of respect, isn’t it?”
“Flores. Have you heard from Miguel Flores since he left?”
“Didn’t come back, did he?” Rodriguez said with considerable bitterness. “He wrote me once or twice. Maybe more. From New Mexico—he came from there. From Texas, or Nevada, I think. And somewhere else. There was a letter from the bishop. Miguel requested and was given a transfer to a parish in New York.”
“Can you give me the name of the bishop who granted the transfer?”
“The who?”
Eve repeated, slowly easing up the volume again.
“Bishop Sanchez. Or it might have been Bishop Valdez.”
“Do you have the letters? The letters Flores wrote you?”
“No.” Rodriguez frowned, or Eve thought he did. It was hard to tell. “There was a postcard. Did I keep the postcard? Of the Alamo. Or . . . that might have been from Father Silvia.”
One day, Eve reminded herself, one day she would be as old and irritating as Rodriguez. Then she would just eat her weapon and get it over with.
“If you find it and it is from Flores, I’d appreciate you sending it to me. I’ll return it to you. I’m going to text you my contact information.”
“Why would I send you a postcard?”
“I’m investigating the death of a priest identified as Miguel Flores.”
Some of the blurriness cleared from the black eyes. “Miguel? Miguel is dead?”
“A man identified as Miguel Flores died this morning.”
