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“That’s bullshit.”
“I want an alcoholic beverage, and a nap.”
“Get him on the ’link. From here.”
“As long as I get to watch.”
Peabody put through the transmission, then dropped into Eve’s single, rickety visitor’s chair.
The assistant, Father Stiles, came on-screen. Eve decided he looked pious and smarmy at the same time.
“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, I spoke with your assistant.”
“Partner,” Eve said and got a weary double thumbs-up from Peabody.
“Partner, excuse me. And I explained the protocol for your request.”
“And now I’m going to explain something to you. There’s a dead guy in the morgue who may or may not be Miguel Flores. The longer you run around with me on this, the longer he’s going to be lying on a slab. And the longer he’s lying on that slab, the easier it is for information—such as some New Mexican guy in a pointy hat obstructing a murder investigation—to leak.”
Pure shock, and it seemed sincere, widened Stiles’s eyes. “Young woman, your lack of respect won’t—”
“Lieutenant. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, Homicide, New York Police and Security Department. I don’t respect you. I don’t know you. I don’t know your bishop, so, hey, no respect there either. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you respect me, but you will respect the law.”
She gave him half a second to sputter, before she continued the pounding. “And you’d be smart to respect the power o
f the press, pal, unless you want this all over the media. Screw with me, you better believe I’ll screw with you. So you better get your bishop New York talking to your bishop Mexico, and have both of them tell the respective dentists to have those records on my desk by noon tomorrow, New York time, or there will be hell to pay. Savvy?”
“Threats will hardly—”
“You got it wrong. No threats. Facts. Hell. To. Pay.”
“There are reasonable channels within the church, and this is a dual request, and international. Such matters take—”
“Priest poisoned with sacramental wine at funeral service. Catholic hierarchy blocks police investigation. There’s a headline. There’ll be more. Oh, how about this one?” she continued, gleefully now. “Priest’s body rots in morgue while bishops block official identification. It’s dental records. It’s freaking teeth. I have them by noon, or I’m coming to see you personally, and I’ll have a warrant for obstruction with your name on it.”
“I will, of course, speak to the bishop.”
“Good. Do that now.”
She cut transmission, sat back.
“I am your slave,” Peabody stated. “I wipe tears of awe from my cheeks.”
“Okay, that was fun. I just had a more mellow, if less entertaining conversation with a nun—a doctor—a doctor nun,” Eve supposed, “at a priest’s retirement home in—”
“They have those? Retirement homes?”
“Apparently. The priest who sponsored and mentored Flores, saw to his education and so on, was her patient. Flores took a sabbatical seven years ago from his job in Mexico. Supposed to be for a year or so. This old priest, Quilby, was ill. Dying. Flores visited him. Sister M.D. remembered him, as Quilby had spoken of him often, and they’d corresponded.”
“Could she ID him from the photo?”
“Unsure. Close to seven years ago when he paid his call. Looks like him, she says, but she remembers, thinks she remembers, him being a little fuller in the face, having less hair. Both of which can and do fluctuate, so that’s no help either way. Flores left her his ’link and e-contact information, asking her to contact him when Quilby died. She contacted him about five months later, at Quilby’s death. He didn’t respond, nor did he attend the funeral. And it had been Quilby’s wish, to which Flores agreed, that Flores personally perform the funeral mass. He hasn’t contacted the home since he said good-bye to Quilby in July of ’53.”
“Guy who educated you, who you make a point to visit shortly after leaving your job, dies and you don’t acknowledge it? Not very priestly. Not very human, either.” Peabody studied the photo on Eve’s board. “We need to find more people who knew Flores before he came to New York.”
“Working on it. And I’ve got another couple angles to play. Flores’s DNA isn’t on file, but I’ve got Morris sending a sample of the vic’s to the lab. Could get lucky. Meanwhile, whether he’s Flores or Jack Shit, he’s still dead. Let’s go talk to Roberto Ortiz.”
