God, priest, and the faithful, she thought. To her way of thinking, God got the worst deal of the three.
I can’t decide,” Peabody said as they walked around to the rectory, “if the statues and candles and colored glass are really pretty or really creepy.”
“Statues are too much like dolls, and dolls are creepy. You keep expecting them to blink. And the ones that smile, like this?” Eve kept her lips tight together as she curved them up. “You know they’ve got teeth in there. Big, sharp, shiny teeth.”
“I didn’t. But now I’ve got to worry about it.”
The small, unimposing building that housed the rectory had flowers in a pair of window boxes—and, Eve noted, minimum security. A standard lock, those flower-decked windows open
to the spring air, and no palm plate, no security cameras.
She knocked, then stood on long legs in simple trousers, on feet planted in worn boots. The pale gray blazer she’d shrugged on that morning covered her weapon harness. The frisky May breeze fluttered through her short, brown hair. Like her legs, her eyes were long, a whiskey brown. They didn’t sizzle like Graciela’s—and were all cop.
The woman who answered had an explosion of dark curls tipped with gold around a pretty face. Her red-rimmed eyes scanned Eve, then Peabody. “I’m sorry, Father López is unable to take visitors today.”
“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.” Eve drew out her badge. “And Detective Peabody.”
“Yes, of course. Forgive me. Father said to expect you. Please come in.”
She stepped back. She wore a red carnation on the lapel of her black mourning suit—and both over a beautifully curved body. “It’s a terrible day for the parish, for my family. I’m Rosa O’Donnell. My grandfather . . . It was his funeral mass, you see. Father is in his office. He gave me this for you.” She held out an envelope. “You asked him to write out what Father Flores did today.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I’m to let Father know if you need to see him.”
“No need at this time. You can tell him that we’ve released Mr. Ortiz. My partner and I need to see Father Flores’s room.”
“I’ll show you upstairs.”
“You cook for the rectory,” Eve began as they moved from the tiny foyer to the stairs.
“Yes, and clean. Some of this, some of that. Three men, even priests, need someone to pick up after them.”
The stairs rose straight to a narrow hallway. The walls were white and adorned here and there with crucifixes or pictures of people in robes looking benign or—to Eve’s eye—sorrowful. Occasionally annoyed.
“You knew Father Flores,” Eve prompted.
“Very well, I think. You cook and clean for a man, you come to know who he is.”
“Who was he?”
Rosa paused outside a door, sighed. “A man of faith, and humor. He enjoyed sports, watching them, playing them. He had . . . energy,” she decided. “And put much of that into the youth center.”
“How did he get along with his housemates? The other priests,” Eve explained when Rosa looked blank.
“Very well. There was respect between him and Father López, and I’d say they were friendly. Easy with 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?”