Blood of the Wicked by Leighton Gage

been pressed into service as a writing desk. Two cane chairs were situated in front of it, and a more comfortable one, in black leather, was behind.
    A strong floral perfume hung in the air. Hector sniffed. Lilacs? The priest was using a scent more suited to a woman than to a man, and to an older woman to boot.
    “Have a seat,” Father Gaspar said, indicating one of the cane chairs and sinking down in the other.
    When Hector sat he felt a cold blast of air-conditioning on the back of his neck. He glanced upward and discovered that his chair had been placed directly under the vent. He shifted his seat and tried leaning forward slightly, but it didn’t seem to help. The priest showed no sign of noticing his discomfort.
    “Am I the first to welcome you to Cascatas, Delegado ? ”
    Father Gaspar was using Hector’s title, the one on his business card, a clear improvement on the treatment he’d received from Ferraz.
    “Yes, Father, you are. Not the first person I’ve spoken to, mind you, but certainly the first person to welcome me.”
    A look of consternation came over the priest’s face. “I’m sorry. Euclides can be a bit abrasive at times.”
    “Euclides?”
    “The young man who answered the door, my self-appointed watchdog. Sometimes a bit too zealous, but—” The priest broke off when the door swung open.
    Euclides came in carrying a tray with coffee, already poured. He put a cup and saucer in front of each man.
    Hector picked up his cup and took a sip. The coffee was nauseatingly pre-sweetened, and cold. He glanced over at the priest and saw a thin wisp of steam arising from the other cup. Determined not to give Euclides any degree of satisfaction, Hector drained the remainder of his coffee, and smacked his lips, as if he’d actually enjoyed it.
    The servant’s thin smile faded. He leaned his back against the wall, settling in.
    “Thank you, Euclides,” Father Gaspar said pointedly. Then, when his servant still didn’t seem to get it, he added, “That will be all.”
    Euclides narrowed his eyes and left without a word. Hector had no doubt he’d be listening on the other side of the door.
    “What can I do for you, Delegado? ”
    “I’d like to talk to you about Dom Felipe.”
    Father Gaspar furrowed his brow. “A terrible thing, that. A terrible thing.”
    “You knew him well?”
    There were four picture frames on Father Gaspar’s desk, all with their backs toward them. The priest leaned forward, picked up the largest one and handed it to his visitor.
    “That’s him, there, on the right.”
    In the photo, Dom Felipe’s hair hadn’t yet turned white. There were three men in the shot. The man standing on the left was a younger, and much thinner, Father Gaspar. The third man was the Pope.
    “Taken . . . let me see . . . seventeen years ago this April in the garden of the Vatican. Autumn here, but it was springtime in Europe. Winter had been mild that year. You can see that the flowers were already in bloom.” He took the photograph back from Hector and stared at it.
    “The bishop and I were great friends,” he said. “Longtime friends. I shall miss him. The church will miss him.” He seemed to make a conscious effort to shake off his melancholy. His voice took on a more businesslike tone when he said, “Have you made any progress in discovering who did it?”
    “Not yet, Father. Were you there when it happened?”
    “Yes, I was. I was standing in the vestibule of the church. I saw it all. The first shot hit him in the chest. The second . . . .”
    His words tapered off. He shook his head, rubbed some dust off of the top of the frame, and returned the photo to its original position.
    “Sorry, Father. I’m sure this must be painful for you, but—”
    “No, Delegado. Don’t apologize. I want to be of any help that I possibly can. Please, ask away.”
    “Thank you, Father. I’ll try to be brief. Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill him?”
    Father Gaspar