“And just you and Flores. Nobody assisting.”
“Not for the six o’clock. We don’t generally use a minister for the morning weekday service, except during Lent.”
“Okay. I’d like you to write down, as best you can remember, the vic’s—Flores’s movements and activities this morning, and the times.”
“I’ll do that right away.”
“I’m going to need to secure this room as part of the crime scene.”
“Oh.” Distress covered his face. “Do you know how long?”
“I don’t.” She knew she was brusque, but something about all the . . . holiness made her twitchy. “If you’d give me your keys it would be simpler. How many sets are there?”
“These, and a set at the rectory. I’ll need my key to the rectory.” He took a single key off the chain, gave Eve the rest.
“Thanks. Who was Ortiz and how did he die?”
“Mr. Ortiz?” A smile, warmer, moved into his eyes. “A fixture of the community, and this parish, as I said. He owned a family restaurant a few blocks from here. Abuelo’s. Ran it, I’m told, with his wife up until about ten years ago, when one of his sons and his granddaughter took over. He was a hundred and sixteen, and died quietly—and I hope painlessly—in his sleep. He was a good man, and well loved. I believe he’s already in God’s hands.”
He touched the cross he wore, a light brush of fingers. “His family is understandably distressed by what happened this morning. If I could contact them, and we could complete the Requiem Mass and hold the Commitment. Not here,” López said before Eve could speak. “I’d make arrangements, but they need to bury their father, grandfather, their friend. They need to complete the ritual. And Mr. Ortiz should be respected.”
She understood duty to the dead. “I need to speak to someone else now. I’ll try to move this along. And I’ll need you to wait for me at the rectory.”
“I’m a suspect.” The idea didn’t appear to shake him or surprise him. “I gave Miguel the weapon that may have killed him.”
“That’s right. And right at the moment, pretty much anyone who walked into the church and gained access to this room is a suspect. Hector Ortiz gets a pass, but that’s about it.”
He smiled again at that, just a little. “You can probably eliminate the infants and toddlers, of which there were scores.”
“I don’t know. Toddlers are pretty suspicious. We’ll need to take a look at Flores’s room at the rectory. As soon as I can, I’ll see about moving Mr. Ortiz from the scene.”
“Thank you. I’ll wait at home.”
Eve led him out, locked the door, then told the closest uniform to bring in the second police witness.
While she waited, she circled Flores again. Good-looking guy, she mused. About six feet—hard to tell body type with the funny robes, but she’d scanned his official ID. That had him weighing in at a trim one-sixty.
He had even features, a lot of dark hair with a few glints of silver running through it. Smoother, she thought, than López. Leaner, younger.
She supposed priests came in all types and sizes, just like regular people.
Priests weren’t supposed to have sex. She’d have to ask somebody the root of that rule, if she found it could apply. Some priests also ignored the rule, and got their jollies, just like regular people. Maybe Flores didn’t care for celibacy.
Who would?
Maybe he’d diddled the wrong person. Angry lover or angry spouse of lover. Worked particularly well with young people, she mused. Maybe he liked to poke into the underage well. Vengeful parent.
Or—
“Lieutenant Dallas?”
Eve turned to see a hot number in sedate black. Petite would be the word, Eve supposed, as the woman hit maybe five-five in her black dress heels. Her hair was jet black as well, sleeked back into a quiet knot. She had huge, almond-shaped eyes in a kind of simmering green.
“Graciela Ortiz. Officer Ortiz,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
“Officer.” Eve came down from the altar. “You’re related to Mr. Ortiz.”
“Poppy. My great-grandfather.”