“What things?”
“Exactly.” She turned, looked into those deep, sad eyes. “Let me ask you this, which is more to the point. Is killing ever permitted in your religion?”
“In war, in self-defense or to defend the life of another. You’ve killed.”
“I have.”
“But not for your own gain.”
She thought of her blood-slicked hands after she’d stabbed the little knife into her father. Again and again. “That might be a matter of degrees.”
“You protect, and you bring those who prey on others to justice. God knows his children, Lieutenant, and what’s in their hearts and minds.”
She slid her master back into her pocket, left her hand in there with it. “He probably doesn’t like what’s in mine a lot of the time.”
On the sidewalk, people bustled by. On the street, traffic chugged. The air buzzed with the sound of them, of business, of busy, of life, while López stood quietly studying Eve’s face.
“Why do you do what you do? Every day. It must take you places most can’t look. Why do you? Why are you a cop?”
“It’s what I am.” Weird, she realized, that she could stand with a man she barely knew, one she couldn’t yet eliminate as a suspect, and tell him. “It’s not just that someone has to look, even though that’s just the way it is. It’s that I have to look.”
“A calling.” López smiled. “Not so different from mine.”
She let out a short laugh. “Well.”
“We both serve, Lieutenant. And to serve we each have to believe in what some would call the abstract. You in justice and in order. In law. Me, in a higher power and the laws of the church.”
“You probably don’t have to kick as many asses in your line.”
Now he laughed, an easy and appealing sound. “I’ve kicked my share.”
“You box?”
“How-ah, you saw my gloves.” With that, the sadness dropped away. Eve saw through the priest to the man. Just a man standing on the sidewalk on a spring evening.
“My own father taught me. A way to channel youthful aggression and to prevent your own ass from being kicked.”
“You any good?”
“As a matter of fact, we have a ring at the youth center. I work with some of the kids.” Humor danced over his face. “And when I can talk one of the adults into it, I grab a few rounds.”
“Did Flores ever spar?”
“Rarely. Dropped his left. Always. He had an undisciplined style, more a street style, I’d say. But on the basketball court? He was a genius. Smooth, fast, ah… elastic. He coached both our intramural and seniors. They’ll miss him.”
“I was going to go by the youth center before heading home.”
“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 every-thing 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"1eof the 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.”