Salvation in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

hard to think about him in the past tense. Miguel was smart and interesting. Competitive. He played to win. He put a lot of himself into the center, into getting the kids involved and excited about being part of something. A team. About contributing to that team. He didn’t preach at them, so, well, they listened instead of tuning out half of what he was talking about. They related to him, and he to them. Hell, half the time they didn’t think of him as the priest. Just as one of us.”
    “That’s interesting,” Eve said, her eyes sharp on Marc’s face, “because he wasn’t. A priest, that is. He wasn’t Miguel Flores.”
    And the face Eve studied went utterly blank. “Sorry, what?”
    Eve glanced at Peabody and motioned to her to take over.
    “We’ve confirmed through dental records that the man you knew as Miguel Flores had assumed that identity approximately six years ago. We haven’t yet identified the man who assumed that name.” Peabody paused, watched Marc try to take it in. “At this time, we’re trying to identify him, and by doing so ascertain why he assumed another identity. By doing that, we may step closer to who killed him. Regardless of who he was, Mr. Tuluz, you were friends for several years. Good friends. Anything you can tell us may help us, and lead us to his killer.”
    “Give me a minute, okay? This is, like . . . This is so way out of orbit. You just told me that Miguel wasn’t a priest?”
    “Not only wasn’t a priest,” Eve put in, “wasn’t Miguel Flores.”
    “Then who—You just said you didn’t know.” Marc pushed the heels of his hands to his temples, squeezed. “I can’t quite get it. I just can’t get it. Not a priest. Not Miguel. Not . . .
    “You’re absolutely sure of this? Which is a stupid question because why would you tell me if you weren’t? All that time. It’s surreal. It’s . . . thanks,” he said when Peabody offered him a bottle of water.
    He drank, three long, slow sips. “My mind’s blank. It’s gone off. I can’t remember your name.”
    “Lieutenant Dallas.”
    “Right. Right. Lieutenant Dallas, he counseled those kids as a priest, took confessions. He gave some of them their First Holy Communion. They listened to him, believed in him. That’s a terrible betrayal. And even saying that, I’m more upset knowing he lied to me every day.
    “I loved him,” Marc said with a quiet kind of grief. “Like you would a brother. And I thought . . . if he was in trouble, hiding from something, someone, he could’ve told me. I would’ve kept his confidence. I’d have found a way to help him.”
    Eve sat back, digested that. “What happened the day you confronted Solas?”
    “Hell.” Marc blew out a breath. “We shouldn’t have. We were both so pissed. Miguel . . . I don’t know what else to call him. He had a temper. He kept it on a leash, worked at it, but now and then, you’d see it flash. Flashed big-time with Solas. Barbara was desperate when she came to us. Her face was all bruised up, and she could hardly talk for crying. It wasn’t for herself, that was the kicker, I guess. It came out that the bastard had been abusing her for years. And she took it, too afraid to do anything else. But he moved on her younger sister, and that she wouldn’t take. Miguel kept his cool with her. He was really good with her, calm, kind. And he told Magda to take her to the clinic, to have them call the police. As soon as they left, he said we were going to pay Solas a visit.”
    Marc rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t argue. It wouldn’t have stopped him, and frankly, I didn’t want to. When we got there, Miguel whaled right in.”
    “He attacked Solas,” Eve prompted when Marc fell silent.
    “He jumped him, pounded him. Not like sparring in the ring, which we’d done. Street moves. He had Solas on his knees and retching in under ten seconds. They went at each other in Spanish. I’m pretty fluent, in formal and in street Spanish, but I