“How come? Because admitting she knew Lino was posing as a priest, had contact, was friendly with him, should bump her down the list of murder suspects.”
Peabody swallowed. “Are we liking her for it?”
“Not particularly. Not yet. As we’ve just witnessed, she’s hotheaded. It’s hard to see her sneaking into church—where she’d stick out like, well, a whore in church, and poisoning the wine. That’s cunning, and it’s symbolic. She’d just cut his throat and leave him in the alley.” Eve thought about it for a minute. “I almost like that about her.”
Teresa Franco and her husband were already waiting at the morgue when Eve arrived. Tony Franco kept his arm around his wife’s shoulders, his right hand rubbing, rubbing gently up and down her biceps as they stood, listening to Eve.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I checked on the way in, and they’re ready whenever you are.”
Shadows haunted Teresa’s eyes. “Will you tell me what to do, please?”
“We’re going to look at a monitor, a small screen. If you’re able to identify the body, you just tell me.”
“He never sent pictures. And if he called, always blocked video. In my head—my heart—he’s still a boy.” She looked up at her husband. “But a mother should know her son. She should know him, no matter what.”
“It’s not your fault, Terri. You did everything you could. You still are.”
“If you’d just come with us.” Peabody touched her arm, led the way.
In the small room with its single chair, little table, boxy wall screen, Eve moved to a com unit. “This is Dallas,” she said into it. “We’re in Viewing Room One.” She paused. “Are you ready, Mrs. Franco?”
“Yes.” The hand gripped with her husband’s went white at the knuckles. “Yes, I’m ready.”
“We’re go,” Eve said, and turned to the screen.
A white sheet covered the body from armpits to toes. Someone, Morris she imagined, had removed the tag for the viewing. Death didn’t look like sleep—not to Eve—but she imagined it might to some. To some who’d never seen death.
Teresa sucked in a breath, leaned into her husband. “He . . . he doesn’t look like Lino. His face is sharper, his nose longer. I have a picture. See, I have a picture.” She drew one out of her bag, pushed it toward Eve.
The boy was early in his teens, handsome, smirky, with dark, sleepy eyes.
“We’ve established he had facial reconstruction,” Eve began. But the shape of the eyes, she noted, was the same. The color nearly so. The dark hair, the line of the throat, the set of the head on the shoulders. The same. “There’s a resemblance.”
“Yes. I know, but . . .” Teresa pressed her lips together. “I don’t want it to be Lino. Can I—is it possible for me to see? To go in, where he is, and see?”
She’d hoped the screen viewing would be enough. Eve realized she’d set it up that way for the same reason Morris had removed the toe tag. To spare the mother. “Is that what you want?”
“No, no, it’s not. But it’s what I need.”
Eve moved back to the com. “I’m bringing Mrs. Franco in.”
Eve led the way out, down the corridor, and through double doors. Morris came in from the back. He wore a suit, the color of polished bronze, without any protective cape.
“Mrs. Franco, I’m Dr. Morris. Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“I don’t know.” Clinging to her husband’s hand, Teresa stepped closer to the body. “So tall,” she murmured. “His father was tall. Lino, he had big feet as a boy. I used to tell him he’d grow into them, like a puppy does. And he did. He was nearly six feet when he left. And very thin. No matter what he ate, so thin. He was like a whip, and when he played ball, fast as one.”
Eve glanced at Peabody. “Basketball.”
“Yes. His favorite.” She reached out a hand, drew it back. “Can I, or can you . . . the sheet. If I could see.”
“Let me do that.” Morris stepped forward. “There’s an incision,” he began.
“I know. Yes, I know about that. It’s all right.”
Gently, Morris lowered the sheet to the victim’s waist.
Teresa took another step. This time when she reached out, she touched fingertips to the body’s left side, high on the ribs. And the sound she made was caught between sob and sigh.