“I never got that impression.”
“Okay. Other than you and Marc, who did he spend time with?”
“Fathers López and Freeman, of course. Father Freeman especially. They were both into sports—playing and watching—and Father Freeman often helps us out here, too. And he, Miguel, made time for the kids, for his parishioners, even just people in the neighborhood. He was outgoing.”
5
EVE AND PEABODY WENT BACK TO THE CHURCH.
“Are you thinking the Solas woman changed her mind about being grateful?” Peabody wondered.
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Poison skews female. She went to church here, would’ve known the setup, or could have found out. She’s not on the list for the funeral, but it wouldn’t have been hard to get in and out. Not my favorite theory, but we’ll check it out.”
“Solas himself could have arranged for it. Maybe we should check his communication from prison.”
“We’ll do that.”
“But you don’t like that theory either.”
“Not top of my hit parade. A guy gets his ass kicked, he wants physical, violent payback. A bigger ass-kicking.” Eve crossed the vestibule and walked into the church proper. She watched the tall man with dark skin genuflect, then turn.
“Good morning,” he said in a rich baritone that echoed theatrically.
He wore black sweats and a short-sleeved sweatshirt. Eve wondered, if she hadn’t studied his ID photo already, if she’d have made him for a priest, the way the kids playing ball had made her for a cop.
She wasn’t entirely sure.
“Father Freeman, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. My partner, Detective Peabody.”
He was compelling in his photo, but more so in person, to Eve’s mind. Tall, muscular, strikingly handsome, with large, liquid brown eyes, and an athletic way of moving. He met them in the center of the aisle, held out a big hand. “It’s a lousy way to meet anyone, Lieutenant. Detective. Chale—Father López—said you’d probably come by to talk to me. Would you like to go to the rectory?”
“Here’s fine, unless you’re expecting some business.”
He smiled, went from handsome to hot. “Things are usually quiet in here this time of morning. I thought I’d go for a run after early Mass, but I . . . I didn’t have it in me. I ended up coming here. A little alone time to think about Miguel, to say a few prayers.”
“You used to run with him in the mornings.”
“Yes. Most days we’d take a run together, around the neighborhood. I guess that’s why I came here, instead of taking our loop. It just . . .”
“Yeah. You were close.”
“We were. We hit it off, enjoyed debating, long discussions—about everything under the sun. Church law, politics, why the Yankees traded Alf Nader.”
“Yeah.” Eve jabbed a finger at Freeman. “What were they smoking?”
“Idiot weed, if you ask me, but Miguel thought it was the right move. We argued that one for hours the night before I left for Chicago.”
It struck him, showed on his face, that he remembered it was the last he’d seen or spoken to Flores. “We watched the Yankee game on-screen in the parlor, the three of us. Chale went up during the seventh-inning stretch. But Miguel and I sat and watched, argued the trade and the calls, everything else, and killed six brews.”
“You can do that? Drink brew.”
The faintest smile played around Freeman’s mouth. “Yes. It’s a good memory. It’s a good one to remember. How we watched the game and argued about Alf Nader.”
Freeman turned to look back at the altar. “It’s better than trying to imagine what it was like, what it must’ve been like when he died up there. The world’s full of terrible things, but this? To kill a man, and to use faith, his calling as the weapon.” Freeman shook his head.
“It’s hard to lose a friend,” Eve said after a moment.
“Yes, it is. Hard, too, not to question God’s will.”