Free Salvation in Death by J. D. Robb Page A

I help you?”
    “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.” Eve drew out her badge. “We’re looking for Marc and Magda.”
    The warmth dropped instantly into sorrow. “This is about Father Miguel. I’m Magda. Could you give me just a few minutes? We run a day care and a preschool. You’ve hit a high-traffic zone just now. You could wait in the office. Just down that hall, first door on the left. I’ll get someone to cover for me as soon as I can.”
    Eve avoided the next wave of toddlers being carried, dragged, chased, or led, and escaped into an office with two desks pushed together so their occupants could face each other. She scanned bulletin boards holding more flyers, memos. A mini AutoChef and small Friggie crowded a shelf while piles of athletic equipment, stacks of discs, actual books, writing materials jammed others.
    Eve crossed to the window, noted it afforded a view of the playground, where even now some of those toddlers were being released to run and shriek like hyenas.
    “Why do they make that sound?” Eve wondered. “That puncture-the-eardrums sound?”
    “It’s a release of energy, I guess.” Because they were there and so was she, Peabody poked at some of the papers on the desks. “Same reason most kids run instead of walk, climb instead of sit. It’s all balled up inside, and they have to get it out.”
    Eve turned back, pointed her finger at Peabody. “I get that. I actually get that. They can’t have sex or alcohol, so they scream, run, punch each other as a kind of orgasmic or tranquilizing replacement.”
    “Ummm” was all Peabody could think of, and she glanced over with some relief as Magda hurried in.
    “Sorry about that. A lot of parents get here at the last minute, then it’s chaos. Please, have a seat. Ah, I can get you coffee, tea, something cold?”
    “Just your full name, thanks.”
    “Oh, of course. Magda Laws. I’m the co director.” She fingered a small silver cross at her throat. “This is about Father Miguel.”
    “Yes. How long did you know him?”
    “Since he came to the parish. Five years? A little longer.”
    “And your relationship?”
    “We were friends. Friendly. He was very involved with the center, very energetic about his participation. I honestly don’t know what we’ll do without him. That sounds so selfish.” She drew a chair from behind one of the desks, rolled it toward the visitors’ chairs. “I can’t quite take it in. I guess I keep expecting him to pop his head in here and say hello.”
    “How long have you worked here?”
    “Nearly eight years now. Marc—I’m sorry, he’s not in this morning. He’s taking a course, a psychology course, and doesn’t come in until the afternoon. For another few weeks, anyway. That’s Marc Tuluz.”
    “And he and Flores were also friendly?”
    “Yes, very. In the last few years, I’d say the three of us considered ourselves a team. We have lots of good people here—counselors, instructors, care providers. But, well, the three of us were—are—I don’t know . . .” She lifted her hands as if she didn’t know quite what to do with them. “. . . the core. Miguel was very proactive. Not just with the kids, but with fund-raisers, and raising community awareness, drafting sponsors and guest instructors.”
    Her eyes filled as she spoke; her voice thickened. “It’s hard. This is very hard. We had a short memorial this morning, for the school-aged kids, and we’re having another at the end of the day. It helps, I guess, but . . . We’re going to miss him so much, in so many ways. Marc and I were just talking last night about naming the gym after him.”
    “Last night?”
    “Marc and I live together. We’re getting married in September. Miguel was going to marry us.” She looked away briefly, struggling against those tears. “Can I ask? Do you have any idea what happened, or how, or why?”
    “We’re pursuing some avenues. Since you were friendly, and worked closely, did Flores ever