by J. D. Robb
“It’s closed tonight, out of respect. I’ve just come from counseling a number of the kids. Miguel’s death hits hard, his murder harder yet.” He breathed out a sigh. “We wanted the kids to be home, or with each other tonight, with family. I’m holding a service there tomorrow morning, and continuing the counseling where it’s needed.”
“I’ll be by tomorrow then. Before I take off, can you tell me what FHC might stand for? Flores had that in his appointment book.”
“First Holy Communion. We’ll be holding First Holy Communion for our seven-year-olds in a couple of weeks, where they’ll receive the sacrament of the Eucharist for the first time. It’s an important event.”
“Okay. And Pre-C counseling?”
“Pre-Cana. Counseling the engaged couple before the sacrament of marriage. The wedding at Cana was Christ’s first miracle. Changing the water into wine.”
She nearly said, “Nice trick,” before she caught herself. “Okay, thanks. Ah, do you need a lift anywhere?”
“No, thanks.” He angled to scan the street, the sidewalk, the people. “I can’t talk myself into going home, even though I have work. It’s so empty there. Martin—Father Freeman—will be in later tonight. He changed his shuttle flight when I contacted him about Miguel.”
“I heard they were tight.”
“Yes, good friends. They enjoyed each other a great deal, and this is hard, very hard on Martin. We’ll talk when he gets in, and that may help us both. Until then . . . I think I’ll walk awhile. It’s a nice evening. Good night, Lieutenant.”
“Good night.”
She watched him walk away, saw him stop and speak to the toughs in doorways and in clusters. Then walk on, oddly dignified, and very solitary.
It wasn’t the other side of the world, as Peabody had put it, from Spanish Harlem to home. But it was another world. Roarke’s world, with its graceful iron gates, its green lawns, shady trees, with its huge stone house as distant as a castle from the bodegas and street vendors.
All that stood behind those iron gates was another world from everything she’d known until she’d met him. Until he’d changed so much, and accepted all the rest.
She left her car out front, then strode to the door, and into what had become hers.
She expected Summerset—Roarke’s man of everything and resident pain in her ass—to be standing like some black plague in the wide sweeping foyer. She expected the fat cat, Galahad, poised to greet her. But she hadn’t expected Roarke to be with them, the perfectly cut stone gray suit over his tall, rangy body, his miracle-of-the-gods face relaxed, and his briefcase still in his hand.
“Well, hello, Lieutenant.” Those brilliantly blue eyes warmed—instant welcome. “Aren’t we a timely pair?”
He walked toward her and wham! there it was. There it always was, that immediate, staggering lift of her heart. He cupped her chin, skimmed his thumb down its shallow dent, and brushed that gorgeous mouth over hers.
So simple, so married. So miraculous.
“Hi. How about a walk.” Without taking her eyes off his, she tugged his briefcase from his hand, held it out toward Summerset. “It’s nice out.”
“All right.” He took her hand.
When she got to the door, Eve looked down at the cat who’d followed and continued to rub against her legs. “Want to go?” she asked him, opening the door. He scrambled back to Summerset as if she’d asked him to jump off a cliff into a fiery inferno.
“Outside means the possibility of a trip to the vet,” Roarke said in that voice that hinted of the misted hills and green fields of Ireland. “A trip to the vet means the possibility of a pressure syringe.”
Outside, she chose a direction, wandered aimlessly. “I thought you were somewhere else today. Like Mongolia.”
“Minnesota.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A continent or so.” His thumb rubbed absently over her wedding ring. “I was, and was able to finish earlier than scheduled. And now I can take a walk with my wife on a pretty evening in May.”
She angled her head to watch him while they walked. “Did you buy Mongolia?”
“Minnesota.”
“Either.”
“No. Did you want it?”
She laughed. “I can’t think why I would.” Content, she tipped her head to his shoulder for a moment, drew in his scent while they wound through a small grove of trees. “I caught a new case today. Vic was doing this Catholic funeral mass and bought it with poisoned Communion wine.”
“That’s yours?”
She watched the evening breeze dance through the black silk of his hair. “You heard about it?”
“I pay attention to New York crime, even in the wilds of Mongolia.”
“Minnesota.”
“You were listening. That was East Harlem. Spanish Harlem. I’d think they’d assign a murder cop from that sector, with some ties to the parish perhaps.”
“Probably didn’t to ensure more objectivity. In any case, it’s mine.” They came out of the trees, strolled across a long roll of green. “And it’s a mess. It’s also prime media bait, or will be if I’m right.”
Roarke cocked a brow. “You know who killed him?”
“No. But I’m pretty damn sure the dead guy in Morris’s house isn’t a priest. Isn’t Miguel Flores. And a whole bunch of people are going to be really pissed off about that.”
“Your victim was posing as a priest? Why?”
“Don’t know. Yet.”
Roarke stopped, turned to face her. “If you don’t know why, how do you know it was a pose?”
“He had a tat removed, and a couple of old knife wounds.”
He shot her a look caught between amusement and disbelief. “Well now, Eve, some of the priests I’ve bumped into over the years could drink both of us under the table and take on a roomful of brawlers, at the same time.”
“There’s more,” she said, and began to walk again as she told him.
When she got to the part with the bishop’s assistant, Roarke stopped dead in his tracks. “You swore at a priest?”
“I guess. It’s hard to be pissed off and lob threats without swearing. And he was being a dick.”
“You went up against the Holy Mother Church?”
Eve narrowed her eyes. “Why is it a mother?” When he cocked his head, smiled, she sneered. “Not that kind of mother. I mean, if the church is she, how come all the priests are men?”
“Excellent question.” He gave her a playful poke. “Don’t look at me.”
“Aren’t you kind of Catholic?”
The faintest hint of unease shifted into his eyes. “I don’t know that I am.”
“But your family is. Your mother was. She probably did the water sprinkling thing. The baptizing.”
“I don’t know that . . .” It seemed to strike him, and not comfortably. He dragged a hand through all that dark hair. “Well, Christ, is that something I have to worry about now? In any case, after today, if you get to hell first, be sure to be saving me a seat.”
“Sure. Anyway, if I browbeat him into getting the records, I’ll know for certain if I’m dealing with Flores or an imposter. And if it’s an imposter . . .”
“Odds are Flores has been dead for around six years.” Roarke skimmed a finger down her cheek. “And you’ll make him yours, by proxy.”
“He’d be connected, so . . . yes,” Eve admitted, “he’d be mine. The ID on Flores looks solid. So, let me ask you this. If you wanted to hide—yourself and maybe something else—why not a priest?”
“There’d be the whole going to hell thing, as well as the duties if you meant to solidify that pose. The rites and the rules and the, well, God knows all.”
“Yeah, but the advantages are pretty sweet. We’re talking about a priest with no family, whose spiritual family, we’ll say, was dead or dying. One who had a year or more leeway from his job to kick around, and no solid connections. Kill him—or he dies conveniently. You take his ID, his posses
sions. You have some good face work to make you look like him, enough like him to pass. No big to get a new ID photo.”
“Did you look up the older ones?”
“Yeah. It’s the dead guy, at least ten years back. Then, maybe.” She eyed Roarke thoughtfully. “You’d need some serious skills or money to hire somebody with serious skills to go in and doctor an old ID that passes scanners.”
“You do, yes.”
“And you need someone with serious skills who might be able to go in and see if whoever doctored those IDs left any trace of the switch.”
“You do.” He tapped her chin with his finger. “And, aren’t you lucky to be so well acquainted with someone with skills?”
She leaned in, kissed him. “I’ll program dinner first. How about Mexican?”
“Olé,” he said.
They ate on the terrace, washing down mole pablano with cold Mexican beer. It was, she thought, somehow indulgent—the easy meal, the evening air, the flicker of candles on the table. And, again, married.
Nice.
“We haven’t been to the house in Mexico for a while,” Roarke commented. “We should take the time.”
Eve cocked her head. “Have we been everywhere you’ve got a house?”
Obviously amused, he tipped back his beer. “Not yet.”
She’d figured. “Maybe we should make the complete circuit before we repeat any one place too often.” She dug into the nachos again, piling on salsa that carried the bite of an angry Doberman. “Why don’t you have one in Ireland?”
“I have places there.”
The salsa turned her mouth into a war zone. She scooped up more. “Hotels, businesses, interests. Not a house.”
He considered a moment, then found himself mildly surprised by his own answer. “When I left, I promised myself I’d only go back when I had everything. Power, money, and though I likely didn’t admit it, even to myself, a certain respectability.”
“You’ve hit those notes.”
“And I did go back—do. But a house, well, that’s a statement, isn’t it? A commitment. Even if you’ve a home elsewhere, having a house creates a solid and tangible link. I’m not ready.”
She nodded, understanding.
“Would you want one there?” he asked her.
She didn’t have to consider, and she wasn’t surprised by her answer. Not when she looked at him. “I’ve got what I want.”
4
AFTER THE MEAL, EVE DUMPED THE FLORES data on Roarke so they could separate into their connecting offices. In her little kitchen she programmed coffee, then took it back to her desk. She stripped off her jacket, shoved up her sleeves.
Curled in her sleep chair, Galahad stared across at her with annoyed bicolored eyes.
“Not my fault you’re too spooked to go outside.” She sipped her coffee, stared back. Time passed in silence. Then she stabbed a finger into the air when the cat blinked.
“Hah. I won.”
Galahad simply turned his pudgy body around, shot up his leg and began to wash.
“Okay, enough of this cozy evening at home stuff. Computer,” she began, and ordered it to open the Flores file, then do a second-level run on the list of people with confirmed access to the tabernacle.
Chale López, the boxing priest, born in Rio Poco, Mexico, interested her. She didn’t get a suspect vibe from him, but something about him gave her a little buzz. He’d had the easiest access to the wine—and as a priest, wouldn’t he be more likely to recognize a fake than a—what was it—layman?
But she didn’t get the vibe.
Nor could she poke her way through to motive.
A sexual thing? Three guys sharing a house, a job, meals, leisure time. Could get cozy. And that couldn’t be discounted.
Priests weren’t supposed to get cozy—with each other or anyone else—but they did, and had throughout the ages.
Flores hadn’t been a priest. Five, nearly six years, vow of chastity? Would he, a good-looking, healthy man, have no interest in sexual gratification or have self-serviced for that length of time to keep his cover?
Unlikely.
So . . . López catches him banging a parishioner, or hiring an LC, whatever. Anger and righteousness ensue.
Just didn’t play through for her.
López was forty-eight, and had gone into the seminary at the age of thirty. Wasn’t that kind of late in the day for a priest?
Flores—wherever he was—had gone in at twenty-two, and the third guy—Freeman, at twenty-four.
But López—sad, sincere-eyed Chale López—had boxed for a few years professionally. Welterweight, she noted, with a solid twenty-two wins, six of them knockouts. No marriages (were they allowed that before the collar thing?), no official cohabs on record.
There was a short gap in his employment records. About three years between dropping out of the boxing game and entering the seminary. Something to fill in.
She started with Rosa O’Donnell, then picked her way through her portion of the Ortiz family attending the funeral. A few pops, but nothing unexpected, Eve thought, when dealing with an enormous family.
What did people do with enormous families? All those cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews. How did they keep them straight?
How did they breathe at any sort of family function?
A couple of assaults—no time served—for the Family Ortiz, she noted. One Grand Theft Auto, short time. A few slaps for illegals and other minor bumps. A handful of sealed juvies. She’d get those open, if and when.
Some had been victims along the way. Robbery, assault, two rapes, and a scatter of domestic disturbances. Some divorces, some deaths, lots of births.
She kicked back for a moment, propped her feet on her desk.
No connection to Flores except as the parish priest. But, she mused, Flores wasn’t the connection. Lino or whoever took Flores’s identity was.
Better when the dentals confirmed it, she thought, but she didn’t have a doubt. According to the records, Flores requested assignment at that parish, that specific parish, in November 2053.
Coming home, Lino, or running away? That was a question that needed an answer. Did someone recognize you? Someone who lived here, or was visiting here? Someone who felt strongly enough, passionately enough to execute you in church?
What did you do? Who’d you piss off, betray, hurt?
And thus, having had long patience, he got the promise.
What were you waiting for? What was the promise at the end of the wait?
“It’s fake,” Roarke announced from the adjoining doorway.
“Huh?”
“The ID, it’s fake. Which you already knew so I don’t see why you had me spend all this time on it.”
“Confirmation’s nice.”
He gave her a cool look, then came over to sit on the corner of her desk. “Then you have it. It was good work, costly. Not the best, by far, but not a patch job either. A bit more than six years back. Flores reports his ID lost, applies for a new one.”
“When, exactly?”
“October of ’53.”
“The month before he requests a transfer to St. Cristóbal’s.” She punched a fist against Roarke’s leg. “I knew it.”
“As I said. A new photo was provided by the applicant, along with copies of all necessary data. It’s a common way to make the switch.”
“Prints?”
“Well then, that’s where the cost comes in. You’ll need to grease the right palms or have a skill with hacking, and an unregistered. So you’d be switching the fingerprints all the way back, replacing with your own. And that means transferring them from childhood on, if you want to be thorough—and he did. It’s the first change where the hitch is most easily tripped. After that, it’s you, isn’t it? In your new skin.”
She frowned up at him. “How many forged IDs have you provided and/or used in your shady career?”
He smiled. “It’s a good living for a young lad with certain skills and considerable
discretion, but was hardly my life’s work.”
“Hmm. Yeah, I ran the prints. They come up Flores, so he went deeper and hacked, or paid someone to hack, into the database to change them. The rest is pretty standard identity theft.”
“To do otherwise, to save a few pennies, would be foolish.”
“Having the face work though, that adds coin, time, trouble. That’s long haul.” She pushed away from her desk, to think on her feet, to move through it. “That’s major commitment.”
“To go to those lengths, and for that amount of time, means you’d be giving up yourself, wouldn’t it? Your name, your face, the connections. You’d have to strip off your own skin to slip on someone else’s. A commitment, yes. Maybe your victim wanted a fresh start. A new life.”
“He wanted more than that. I think he came back here, to New York, to that neighborhood specifically. He picked this place, so he knew this place. He was hiding, and needed to change the face—and he was patient.” She thought back, murmured, “ ‘And thus, having had long patience, he got the promise.’ ”
“Is that so?”
“I figure the patient get run over in Promiseland more than half the time, but the Bible says no. He had that passage highlighted in his. And this other one . . .” She had to walk back to her desk to look it up. “ ‘With me are riches and honor, enduring wealth and propriety.’ ”
“A promise of money, respect, stature,” Roarke speculated. “Yeah, all of that fits, and for some all of that’s worth killing for, and waiting for. It’s nice to have familiar surroundings while you wait—and maybe you even get a charge out of seeing people you know, and knowing they don’t recognize you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “People tell priests stuff, right? Intimate, personal stuff. That would be a kick, wouldn’t it?”
“I had an acquaintance once who sometimes posed as a priest.”
“Because?”
“Cons. As you say, sins are confessed, which is handy for blackmail, and collection plates are passed regularly. I didn’t like the gambit myself.”
“Because?”
“Well, it’s rude, isn’t it?”
She only shook her head. She knew the things he’d done, and yet understood he was the kind of man who’d find bilking sinners rude.
