“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 CONVER-SATION 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.”
“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 of 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.”
She’d assumed the funeral and its aftermath would be done. Eve found out differently when she tracked down Roberto Ortiz, and a couple hundred close friends and family, at Abuelo’s, the family restaurant.
He was a tall, striking man who carried his eighty-plus years well on a sturdy frame. At Eve’s request to speak to him and his wife, he escorted them up to the third floor, where the noise level dropped significantly, and into a tidy parlor with colorful sofas and bold poster art.
One of the posters sported Eve’s oldest friend and current music vid queen, Mavis, wearing what seemed to be a rainbow hue of hair extensions artfully twined over nipples and crotch, and a big smile.
In sharp contrast, the mood screen was set on a quiet meadow under a candy blue sky.
“We keep this apartment for family. My cousin’s granddaughter has it now. She’s in college, and helps out in the restaurant. Please sit.” When they had, he lowered himself to a chair with a long, soft sigh.