Free Salvation in Death by J. D. Robb

and in them she saw both nerves and sneers. Typical reaction, she thought, toward a cop.
    She homed in on the tallest of the bunch, a skinny, mixed-race kid of about thirteen wearing black baggies, ancient high-tops, and a red watch cap.
    “School holiday?”
    He snagged the ball, dribbled it in place. “Got twenty before bell. What? You a   truant badge?”
    “Do I look like a truant badge?”
    “Nope.” He turned, executed a decent hook shot that kissed the rim. “Look like badge. Big, bad badge.” His singsong opinion elicited snorts and guffaws from his audience.
    “You’d be right. Did you know Father Flores?”
    “Everybody knows Father Miguel. He’s chill. Was.”
    “He show you that hook shot?”
    “He show me some moves. I show him some. So?”
    “You got a name?”
    “Everybody does.” He dismissed her by signaling for the ball. Eve pivoted, intercepted. After a couple of testing dribbles, she pivoted again. And her hook shot caught nothing but net.
    The boy’s eyebrows rose up under his cap as he gave her a cool-eyed stare. “Kiz.”
    “Okay, Kiz, did anybody have a hard-on for Flores?”
    Kiz shrugged. “Must be somebody did, ’cause he’s dead.”
    “You got me there. Do you know anybody who had a hard-on for him?”
    One of the others passed Kiz the ball. He dribbled it back a few feet, bagged a three-pointer. He curled a finger, received the ball again, passed it to Eve. “You do that?”
    Why not? She gauged her ground, set shot. Scored. Kiz nodded in approval, then sized her up. “Got any moves, Big Bad Badge?”
    She smiled, coolly. “Got an answer to my question?”
    “People liked Father Miguel. Like I say, he had the frost. Don’t go preaching every five, you know? Gets what it’s like in the world.”
    “What’s it like in the world?”
    Kiz retrieved the ball again, twirled it stylishly on the top of his index finger. “Lotta shit.”
    “Yeah, lotta shit. Who’d he hang with?”
    “Got moves?” Kiz repeated, shot the ball to her on a sharp one-bounce.
    “Got plenty, but not in these boots. Which are the boots I wear to find killers.” Eve bounced he” Eve b the ball back to him. “Who’d he hang with?”
    “Other priests, I guess. Us ’round here, Marc and Magda.” He jerked his head toward the building. “They run the place, mostly. Some of the old guys who come ’round, pretending they can shoot the hoop.”
    “Did he argue with anyone recently?”
    “Don’t know. Didn’t see. Gotta make my bell.”
    “Okay.”
    Kiz shot her the ball one last time. “You get yourself some shoes, Badge, I’ll take you on.”
    “We’ll see about that.”
    When Eve tucked the ball in the crook of her arm, Peabody shook her head. “I didn’t know you could do that. Shoot baskets and stuff.”
    “I have a wide range of hidden skills. Let’s go find Marc and Magda.”
      
     
    The place smelled like school, or any place groups of kids regularly gathered. Young sweat, candy, and something she could only define as kid that translated to a dusky, foresty scent to her—and was just a little creepy.
    A lot of babies and toddlers were being transported in and passed over by men and women who looked either harried, relieved, or unhappy. Drawings showing various degrees of skill along with scores of flyers and posters covered the industrial beige walls like some mad collage. In the midst of it, a pretty blonde stood behind a reception desk greeting both kids and what Eve assumed were their parents as the transfers were made.
    The sound of squeals, screams, crying, and high, piping voices zipped through the air like laser fire.
    The blonde had deep brown eyes, and a smile that appeared sincere and amused as the assault raged around her. Those brown eyes seemed clear, as did the cheerful voice. But Eve wasn’t ruling out chemical aides.
    The blonde spoke in Spanish to some, in English to others, then turned that warm welcome onto Eve and Peabody. “Good morning. How can