In Death 27 - Salvation in Death

funeral mass and bought it with poisoned Communion wine.”
    “That’s yours?”
    She watched the evening breeze dance through the black silk of his hair. “You heard about it?”
    “I pay attention to New York crime, even in the wilds of Mongolia.”
    “Minnesota.”
    “You were listening. That was East Harlem. Spanish Harlem. I’d think they’d assign a murder cop from that sector, with some ties to the parish perhaps.”
    “Probably didn’t to ensure more objectivity. In any case, it’s mine.” They came out of the trees, strolled across a long roll of green. “And it’s a mess. It’s also prime media bait, or will be if I’m right.”
    Roarke cocked a brow. “You know who killed him?”
    “No. But I’m pretty damn sure the dead guy in Morris’s house isn’t a priest. Isn’t Miguel Flores. And a whole bunch of people are going to be really pissed off about that.”
    “Your victim was posing as a priest? Why?”
    “Don’t know. Yet.”
    Roarke stopped, turned to face her. “If you don’t know why, how do you know it was a pose?”
    “He had a tat removed, and a couple of old knife wounds.”
    He shot her a look caught between amusement and disbelief. “Well now, Eve, some of the priests I’ve bumped into over the years could drink both of us under the table and take on a roomful of brawlers, at the same time.”
    “There’s more,” she said, and began to walk again as she told him.
    When she got to the part with the bishop’s assistant, Roarke stopped dead in his tracks. “You swore at a priest?”
    “I guess. It’s hard to be pissed off and lob threats without swearing. And he was being a dick.”
    “You went up against the Holy Mother Church?”
    Eve narrowed her eyes. “Why is it a mother?” When he cocked his head, smiled, she sneered. “Not that kind of mother. I mean, if the church is she, how come all the priests are men?”
    “Excellent question.” He gave her a playful poke. “Don’t look at me.”
    “Aren’t you kind of Catholic?”
    The faintest hint of unease shifted into his eyes. “I don’t know that I am.”
    “But your family is. Your mother was. She probably did the water sprinkling thing. The baptizing.”
    “I don’t know that . . .” It seemed to strike him, and not comfortably. He dragged a hand through all that dark hair. “Well, Christ, is that something I have to worry about now? In any case, after today, if you get to hell first, be sure to be saving me a seat.”
    “Sure. Anyway, if I browbeat him into getting the records, I’ll know for certain if I’m dealing with Flores or an imposter. And if it’s an imposter . . .”
    “Odds are Flores has been dead for around six years.” Roarke skimmed a finger down her cheek. “And you’ll make him yours, by proxy.”
    “He’d be connected, so . . . yes,” Eve admitted, “he’d be mine. The ID on Flores looks solid. So, let me ask you this. If you wanted to hide—yourself and maybe something else—why not a priest?”
    “There’d be the whole going to hell thing, as well as the duties if you meant to solidify that pose. The rites and the rules and the, well, God knows all.”
    “Yeah, but the advantages are pretty sweet. We’re talking about a priest with no family, whose spiritual family, we’ll say, was dead or dying. One who had a year or more leeway from his job to kick around, and no solid connections. Kill him—or he dies conveniently. You take his ID, his possessions. You have some good face work to make you look like him, enough like him to pass. No big to get a new ID photo.”
    “Did you look up the older ones?”
    “Yeah. It’s the dead guy, at least ten years back. Then, maybe.” She eyed Roarke thoughtfully. “You’d need some serious skills or money to hire somebody with serious skills to go in and doctor an old ID that passes scanners.”
    “You do, yes.”
    “And you need someone with serious skills who might be able to go in and see if whoever doctored those IDs left any trace of the switch.”
    “You do.” He tapped her chin with his finger. “And, aren’t you lucky to be so well acquainted with someone with skills?”
    She leaned in, kissed him. “I’ll program dinner first. How about Mexican?”
    “Olé,” he said.
     
    They ate on the terrace, washing down mole pablano with cold Mexican beer. It was, she thought, somehow indulgent—the easy meal, the evening air, the flicker of candles on the table. And, again, married.
    Nice.
    “We