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“There are lots of degrees in that. Certainly there were times Miguel had to sit on a kid. Or a parent, for that matter. Arguments happen during sports. But if you mean something serious, something that could have lead to this, I have to say no. Except . . .”
“Except.”
“There was Barbara Solas—she’s fifteen. She came in one day a few months ago with her face bruised. To condense, her father often hit her mother, and—we learned—had sexually molested Barbara.”
On her lap, Magda’s hands balled into fists. “She resisted, and he beat her. And the day she came to us, she said she’d gone at him. Lost it, and gone at him. He’d beaten her and tossed her out. So she came to us for help, finally came to us, told us what was happening at home. We helped. We notified the authorities, the police, child protection.”
“This Solas blamed Flores?”
“I’m sure he did, and us. Barbara told us, and it was confirmed later, that her father had started on her little sister. Her twelve-year-old sister—and that’s when Barbara went at him. I convinced the mother to go to a shelter, to take Barbara and her other children. But before I went to see her, before the police came and arrested Solas, Marc and Miguel went to see Solas on their own.”
“They confronted him?”
“Yes. It’s not policy, not the way we’re supposed to handle something like this, but Miguel . . . We couldn’t stop him, so Marc went with him. I know things got heated, though neither Marc nor Miguel would give me the details. I know they got heated because Miguel’s knuckles were torn and bloody.”
“How long ago was this?”
“In February.”
“Did they attend church?”
“Mrs. Solas, and some of the children. Not him, not Solas.”
“And now? Are they still in the area?”
“Yes. They stayed at the shelter about a month, then we—Marc, Miguel, and I—were able to help her get a new place, and another job. Lieutenant, she wouldn’t have hurt Miguel. She’s grateful.”
“All the same, I need an address.”
As Peabody noted down the address Magda gave them, Eve tried another tack. “You said you knew this was where you wanted to be. Would you say Flores seemed as at home here, as quickly?”
“I’d have to say yes. Of course, I didn’t know him before, but it struck me he’d found his place.” She smiled then, obviously comforted by the idea. “Yes, very much so. He loved the neighborhood. He often took walks or jogged around here. He and Father Martin—Father Freeman—jogged most mornings. Miguel routinely stopped into shops, restaurants, just to chat.”
“He ever put a move on you?”
“What?” Once again, Magda clutched at her cross.
“You’re a very attractive woman, and you worked together closely.”
“He was a priest.”
“He was a man first.”
“No, he did not make a move on me.”
Eve angled her head. “But?”
“I didn’t say ‘but.’ ”
“You thought it. Magda, he’s dead. Anything you tell me may help us find the who, and the why. I’m not asking to get my rocks off.”
Magda heaved out a breath. “Maybe I felt there was something, that he might have thought about it, or wondered. It feels wrong to say this.”
“You got the vibe,” Eve prompted.
“Yes, all right, I got the vibe. He might have looked at me now and then more like a man does, who’s interested, than a priest should. But that’s all. He never suggested, or touched me inappropriately. Ever.”
“Could there have been someone else?”
