Sacrifice Fly by Tim O'Mara Page A

Johnny and Senora Santos.”
    “Who makes a phone call and gets the super here in world-record time.”
    “I am not without a certain amount of influence, Mr. Donne. I am in the fortunate
     position to help the church financially. The members appreciate and respect that.”
     He reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a business card.
    “EC Medical Supplies,” I said, recognizing the snake and the cross. “The wheelchair
     and oxygen tank?”
    “That is my company, yes.”
    “I didn’t know that Mrs. Santos was ill.”
    “Chronic bronchitis,” he said. “She will be with us for a long time, but she does
     need assistance. Especially in a time like this.”
    “I’ve got to be honest with you, Mr. Cruz,” I said, slipping the card into my back
     pocket. “I’m concerned that she called you and not the police.”
    “But not surprised.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Senora Santos trusts me, Mr. Donne. She does not trust the police. You were a policeman
     for how long?”
    “Long enough,” I said. “Why?”
    “Would it offend you if I suggested that this is the first time you were ever in a
     Puerto Rican woman’s apartment without the authority that comes with the uniform?”
    “I’m not easily offended, Mr. Cruz.”
    “Good.” He smiled. “If you give la abuela the choice between calling the police or her church, she will choose the church every
     time, Mr. Donne.”
    “I understand that, but—”
    “If I felt that Senora Santos was in real danger, I would call the police myself.”
    “You don’t think her apartment being broken into puts her in real danger?”
    “I am considering the very real possibility,” he said, lowering his voice, “that her
     apartment was not broken into.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You looked around,” he said. “Did anything seem out of the ordinary?”
    “No.”
    “And the front door?”
    “Seemed fine,” I said. “But then why are you so quick to replace the lock?”
    “Because it will make her feel safer, Mr. Donne. Do you want to be the one to tell
     her that her imagination and stress of the past few days has gotten the better of
     her?”
    “No.”
    “Then we have the lock changed, and she feels a bit more secure. She told me when
     she returned home, her front door was open. I believe that in her hurry to get to Las Mujeres, she may have neglected to close her door. She has had a lot on her mind the past
     few days, yes?”
    “This women’s group,” I said. “ Las Mujeres . They meet every Wednesday?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then it is also a very real possibility that if someone did break into her apartment,
     they knew she’d be at the church for a few hours.”
    He nodded. “That is true.”
    “It’s also true her former son-in-law was murdered and her grandchildren are missing.
     Whoever is responsible may be behind her apartment being broken into.”
    “That is possible.”
    “But you won’t offer that possibility to Mrs. Santos?”
    “No,” he said. “I will not.”
    “Then I think I should.”
    “She will not accept it coming from—”
    “A white guy?” I said.
    “An outsider,” Cruz said. “During your years as a policeman, how many times were you
     welcomed into the home of a Puerto Rican?”
    “I wouldn’t say I was ever welcomed. I went where I was needed.”
    “Our people do not look at it like that.”
    “Then why do they call the police?”
    “Most have no one else to call,” he said. “Senora Santos does. You have to understand,
     Mr. Donne, the Puerto Rican is not comfortable asking for help from outsiders. It
     is our experience that no one knocks at our door without wanting something. It is
     part of our history. Part of who we are and where we come from. You have to knock
     many times before you are invited inside.”
    “I’ve just been inside.”
    “You were not invited by Mrs. Santos. Nor welcomed, I’m afraid. I will handle this.”
    “You can ensure her safety?”
    Before he could answer, his cell phone