In Death 27 - Salvation in Death

front and back.
    This was important to him. Important enough to hide, and to keep close so he could take it out, touch it, look at it. Fresh tape, Eve mused, but with traces of older adhesive on the drawer back. Had it awhile, but took it out very recently.
    She read the inscription again.
    Who was Lino?
    A Spanish given name, she discovered after a quick search, for Linus. It also meant linen or flax, but she doubted that applied.
    According to the bio, Flores’s mother had died in 2027, so the mama on the medal couldn’t be Anna Flores. A Spanish name, a Spanish phrase for the image, but the rest in English. It said mixed culture to Eve. Latino roots, American soil? That fit Flores as well.
    Had Lino been a friend, another priest, a lover? Flores would have been six when the inscription was made. An orphan, spinning through the system.
    She knew all about that.
    Maybe she didn’t know about making close and lasting ties while spinning through that system, but others did. Flores might have done so, and kept the medal as a connection to a friend.
    Then why hide it?
    Never adopted, but educated through the church. Had Lino been the one to take an interest in him, help educate him?
    She turned back to her comp and began digging down through the layers of Miguel Flores.
    Peabody came in, opened her mouth to speak.
    “Pretty good timing,” Eve said without looking up. “I see my coffee cup is empty.”
    With a roll of her eyes, Peabody took the cup, walked to the AutoChef to program another. “It’s a challenge getting medicals from Mexico. No record of treatment for a knife wound, or any cosmetic work here. After much and heroic persistence—which is why I’m also getting coffee—I’ve accessed his medicals from his years in Mexico. No record of either treatment there either.”
    Eve leaned back, took the coffee. “What is on the record in Mexico?”
    “Pretty much standards. Annual physicals, vision corrections, semi-annual dental, treatment for a stomach virus and a cut on his hand. No majors.”
    “Uh-huh. And during his five years in New York?”
    “Not much different. The annuals, blah blah, a couple of treatments for sprains, one for a dislocated index finger, another for an injured knee.”
    “What were likely sports-related injuries.” Drumming her fingers on the desk, Eve contemplated. “Funny, he didn’t have any of those types of injuries or treatments while in Mexico. Get me the dental records from Mexico.”
    “Jeez! Do you know how much red tape I’m going to choke on to get those? Plus, he moved around a couple of times, so that means more than one dentist, and it’s Catholic stuff, and they weigh in, let me tell you. Why do you . . .”
    It took her a while, Eve thought, but Peabody usually got there.
    “You don’t think the dead guy is Miguel Flores.”
    “I think the dead guy’s name was Lino.”
    “But . . . that means maybe he wasn’t even a priest, and he was up there doing the Mass thing, and marrying people, burying people.”
    “Maybe God struck him down for it. Case closed. We’ll arrest God before end of shift. I want those dental records, and the dental records from New York.”
    “I’m pretty sure that arrest God stuff is blasphemy.” Thoughtfully, Peabody took another swig of coffee. “Why would anyone pretend to be a priest? You can’t have stuff or sex. And you have to know all the rules. I think there are a shitload of rules.”
    “Maybe he was a quick study. Maybe he thought it was worth it. Maybe he is Miguel Flores. Let’s get the dentals and find out.”
    When Peabody hustled out, Eve swiveled around to study the photo on her board. “But you’re not, are you, Lino?”
    She engaged her ’link and made her own calls to Mexico.
    It took twenty minutes, and brought on the beginning of an annoyance headache, but she finally reached someone who not only spoke excellent English, but who’d known Miguel Flores personally.
    The old man was ancient, with two thin roads of white hair riding down the sides of his bald, sun-freckled head. Eyes of bleary brown squinted out at her. His white collar hung loosely on his thin, grooved neck.
    “Father Rodriguez,” Eve began.
    “What? What?”
    “Father Rodriguez,” she repeated, bumping up the volume on the ’link.
    “Yes, yes, I hear you. No need to shout!”
    “Sorry. I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with the New York City Police and Security Department.”
    “How can I help you, Lieutenant