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The old man bowed his head, and murmured in Spanish what Eve took to be a prayer.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“He was young, eager. An intelligent man who questioned himself often. Perhaps too often. How did he die?”
“He was murdered.”
Rodriguez crossed himself, then closed his hand over the crucifix around his neck. “Then he is with God now.”
“Father Rodriguez, did Flores have a silver medal, one of the Virgin of Guadalupe?”
“I don’t remember. But I remember he carried, always, a small medallion of Saint Anna to honor his mother who was killed when he was a boy.”
“Did Flores know, have business or dealings with someone named Lino?”
“Lino? It’s not an uncommon name here. He may have.”
“Thank you, Father.” Chasing your own tail now, Eve warned herself. “I appreciate the time.”
“Young Miguel has gone to God,” he murmured. “I must write Monsignor Quilby.”
“Who is that?”
“Miguel’s sponsor. His mentor, you could say. He would want to know that . . . Oh, but he’s dead. Yes, long dead now. So there is no one to tell.”
“Where did Miguel meet Monsignor Quilby?”
“In New Mexico, when he was a boy. Monsignor saw to it that Miguel had a good education, and mentored him into the priesthood. He was Miguel’s spiritual father. Miguel spoke of him often, and hoped to visit him during his travels.”
“Was he alive when Flores took his sabbatical?”
“Yes, but dying. It was part of Miguel’s purpose in leaving, and part of his crisis in faith. I must go pray for their souls.”
Rodriguez ended the transmission so abruptly, Eve only blinked.
Letter from New Mexico, spiritual father dying in New Mexico. It was a sure bet Flores had paid Quilby a visit during his sabbatical.
So, Eve wondered, where do priests go to die?
3
EVE HAD A MORE STRAIGHTFORWARD CONVERSATION with Sister Patricia, Alexander Quilby’s attending physician during his last days at the Good Shepherd Retirement Home.
While she mulled it, added it to her notes, Peabody staggered in, and held up her hands.
“I’m cut to pieces by red tape. The loss of blood is making me weak.”
“Soldier up. Where’s the dental?”
“Tied in the bloody tape. I got the dentist, but the dentist is also a deacon, and a dick. He hits the three Ds. He won’t release the records unless his bishop approves.”
“Get a court order.”
“I’m working on that.” She shot out both hands. “Can’t you see the scars? The dentistry is affiliated with the church, and judges and stuff get all wishy-washy when religion weighs in. Our subject is dead, has been officially ID’d. Nobody wants to push on dental records until this bishop guy gives his blessing or whatever. Pretty much the same deal for the New York records.”
“Well, talk to the bishop and have him sign off.”
“Do you see the blood pooling at my feet?” Peabody demanded, pointing at her red-hot airskids. “I got as far as the bishop’s assistant, which was a vicious battle with many casualties. And the upshot is I had to put in a request, in writing and in triplicate, and send that in. The bishop will consider the request, and give us his decision within ten days.”
