The In Death Collection Books 26-29 - J.D. Robb [161]
“Lieutenant. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, Homicide, New York Police and Security Department. I don’t respect you. I don’t know you. I don’t know your bishop, so, hey, no respect there either. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you respect me, but you will respect the law.”
She gave him half a second to sputter, before she continued the pounding. “And you’d be smart to respect the power of the press, pal, unless you want this all over the media. Screw with me, you better believe I’ll screw with you. So you better get your bishop New York talking to your bishop Mexico, and have both of them tell the respective dentists to have those records on my desk by noon tomorrow, New York time, or there will be hell to pay. Savvy?”
“Threats will hardly—”
“You got it wrong. No threats. Facts. Hell. To. Pay.”
“There are reasonable channels within the church, and this is a dual request, and international. Such matters take—”
“Priest poisoned with sacramental wine at funeral service. Catholic hierarchy blocks police investigation. There’s a headline. There’ll be more. Oh, how about this one?” she continued, gleefully now. “Priest’s body rots in morgue while bishops block official identification. It’s dental records. It’s freaking teeth. I have them by noon, or I’m coming to see you personally, and I’ll have a warrant for obstruction with your name on it.”
“I will, of course, speak to the bishop.”
“Good. Do that now.”
She cut transmission, sat back.
“I am your slave,” Peabody stated. “I wipe tears of awe from my cheeks.”
“Okay, that was fun. I just had a more mellow, if less entertaining conversation with a nun—a doctor—a doctor nun,” Eve supposed, “at a priest’s retirement home in—”
“They have those? Retirement homes?”
“Apparently. The priest who sponsored and mentored Flores, saw to his education and so on, was her patient. Flores took a sabbatical seven years ago from his job in Mexico. Supposed to be for a year or so. This old priest, Quilby, was ill. Dying. Flores visited him. Sister M.D. remembered him, as Quilby had spoken of him often, and they’d corresponded.”
“Could she ID him from the photo?”
“Unsure. Close to seven years ago when he paid his call. Looks like him, she says, but she remembers, thinks she remembers, him being a little fuller in the face, having less hair. Both of which can and do fluctuate, so that’s no help either way. Flores left her his ’link and e-contact information, asking her to contact him when Quilby died. She contacted him about five months later, at Quilby’s death. He didn’t respond, nor did he attend the funeral. And it had been Quilby’s wish, to which Flores agreed, that Flores personally perform the funeral mass. He hasn’t contacted the home since he said good-bye to Quilby in July of ’53.”
“Guy who educated you, who you make a point to visit shortly after leaving your job, dies and you don’t acknowledge it? Not very priestly. Not very human, either.” Peabody studied the photo on Eve’s board. “We need to find more people who knew Flores before he came to New York.”
“Working on it. And I’ve got another couple angles to play. Flores’s DNA isn’t on file, but I’ve got Morris sending a sample of the vic’s to the lab. Could get lucky. Meanwhile, whether he’s Flores or Jack Shit, he’s still dead. Let’s go talk to Roberto Ortiz.”
She’d assumed the funeral and its aftermath would be done. Eve found out differently when she tracked down Roberto Ortiz, and a couple hundred close friends and family, at Abuelo’s, the family restaurant.
He was a tall, striking man who carried his eighty-plus years well on a sturdy frame. At Eve’s request to speak to him and his wife, he escorted them up to the third floor, where the noise level dropped significantly, and into a tidy parlor with colorful sofas and bold poster art.
One of the posters sported Eve’s oldest friend and current music vid queen, Mavis, wearing what seemed to be a rainbow hue of hair extensions artfully twined over nipples and crotch, and a big smile.
In sharp