Mongolia.”
“
Minnesota
.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A continent or so.” His thumb rubbed absently over her wedding ring. “I was, and was able to finish earlier than scheduled. And now I can take a walk with my wife on a pretty evening in May.”
She angled her head to watch him while they walked. “Did you buy Mongolia?”
“
Minnesota
.”
“Either.”
“No. Did you want it?”
She laughed. “I can’t think why I would.” Content, she tipped her head to his shoulder for a moment, drew in his scent while they wound through a small grove of trees. “I caught a new case today. Vic was doing this Catholic 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
“
Minnesota
.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A continent or so.” His thumb rubbed absently over her wedding ring. “I was, and was able to finish earlier than scheduled. And now I can take a walk with my wife on a pretty evening in May.”
She angled her head to watch him while they walked. “Did you buy Mongolia?”
“
Minnesota
.”
“Either.”
“No. Did you want it?”
She laughed. “I can’t think why I would.” Content, she tipped her head to his shoulder for a moment, drew in his scent while they wound through a small grove of trees. “I caught a new case today. Vic was doing this Catholic 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
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