Salvation in Death Read Free Page B

each other, if you understand.”
    “Yeah.”
    “He was friendlier, well, closer, you know, with Father Freeman—they had more in common, I’d say, outside the church. Sports. He and Father Freeman would argue about sports, as men do. Go to games together. They ran together most mornings, and often played ball at the center.”
    Rosa sighed again. “Father López is contacting Father Freeman now, to tell him. It’s very hard.”
    “And Flores’s family?”
    “He had none. He would say the church was his family. I believe his parents died when he was a boy.” She opened the door. “He never had calls or letters from family, as Fathers López and Freeman often do.”
    “What about other calls, other letters?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Who was he connected to? Friends, teachers, old schoolmates.”
    “I . . . I don’t know.” Her brows drew together. “He had many friends in the parish, of course, but if you mean from outside, or from before, I don’t know.”
    “Did you notice anything off—in his mood, his routine, recently?”
    “No, nothing.” Rosa shook her head. “I came in to fix breakfast for him and Father López this morning, before the funeral. He was very kind.”
    “What time did you get here?”
    “Ah . . . about six-thirty, a few minutes later than that.”
    “Was anyone else here?”
    “No. I let myself in. I have a key, though. As usual, Father López forgot to lock up. The fathers came back from Mass shortly after, and I gave them breakfast. We all talked about the service, then Father Flores went into the office to work on his sermon.”
    She pressed her fingertips to her lips. “How could this have happened?”
    “We’ll find out. Thank you,” Eve said by way of dismissal, then stepped into the room.
    It held a narrow bed, a small dresser and mirror, a night table, a desk. No house ’link, she noted, no computer. The bed looked to be neatly made, and over its head a picture of Christ on the cross hung next to a crucifix. Seemed like overkill to Eve.
    There were no personal photographs in evidence, no loose credits scattered over the dresser. She saw a Bible, a rosary of black and silver and a lamp on the bedside table, a comb and a pocket ’link on the dresser.
    “That explains why he didn’t have a ’link on him,” Peabody commented. “I guess they don’t take them when they do a service.” As she turned, the sassy little flip at the ends of her dark hair bounced. “Well, I guess this won’t take long, considering he didn’t have a whole lot.”
    “Take a look in the other rooms. Just a scan from the doorway. See if they’re the same as this.”
    As Peabody went out, Eve opened a dresser drawer with her sealed hand. White boxers, white undershirts, white socks, black socks. She pawed through, found nothing else. Another drawer held T-shirts. White, black, gray—some with team logos emblazoned on the front.
    “They’ve got more stuff,” Peabody announced. “Photographs, man junk.”
    “Define ‘man junk,’ ” Eve said as she drew out the bottom drawer.
    “Golf ball on a display tee, pile of discs, a pair of boxing gloves, that kind of thing.”
    “Check the closet here.” Eve drew the bottom drawer all the way out, checked the bottom, the back.
    “Priest’s suits, two sets with pants, and one of those dresses. A pair of black shoes that look worn, two pairs of high-tops, one pair looks shot. Shelf . . .” Peabody paused as she rummaged. “Cooler-weather gear. Two sweaters, two sweatshirts, one hooded sweat jacket—Knicks.”
    After checking all the drawers, backs, bottoms, sides, Eve pulled the small dresser out from the wall, checked the back of the mirror.
    With Peabody, she moved to the desk. It held a date book, a few memo cubes, a short stack of brochures on the youth center, the Yankees’ schedule, and another for the Knicks.
    Eve checked the last entries in the date book. “Vigil for Ortiz at the funeral home last night. Yankees game