“I will show you, se?orita.”
Joy followed the janitor out of the nave and into a side hallway that presumably led to the rectory. Vega knelt at the edge of one of the pews and made the sign of the cross. Old habits died hard, he supposed. He slid himself onto the smooth wooden bench and folded his hands on the pew in front of him. Not in prayer. He’d been an altar boy long enough to know all the words. But they conjured no faith inside of him. He looked up to the ornate peaked rafters and stained-glass windows of saints and wished that all the glory and majesty of this place could quiet the hollow echo in his soul. He felt lost. So terribly, terribly lost.
I’ve killed a man. I’ve killed an unarmed man. For the first time, the full weight of those words fell upon him. He’d been looking for ways to relieve the burden. But Greco was right. If he ever wanted to make something good happen, he first had to come to grips with the unalterable nature of what he’d done.
“I was hoping you’d come.”
The words startled Vega. He turned to see Father Delgado striding up the aisle toward him. For a man pushing seventy, he had a brisk way of moving. Vega could see why he was everybody’s favorite priest. He had soft, deep-set eyes that never wandered when he was listening to you and a sort of Zen-like calmness that made you feel instantly like you were in safe hands. But he wasn’t all prayer and mumbo jumbo, either. He was a die-hard Yankees fan, an excellent poker player, and a lover of all things spicy and fried. He was not above making priest jokes either—one of the reasons Vega supposed his mother loved him so much. They both shared an irreverent sense of humor.
Father Delgado bent down and crossed himself, then scooted into the pew next to Vega.
“I guess you’ve seen the news,” said Vega. “I realize I’m not the most popular person to be seen talking to right now.”
“Nonsense. Your mother would have been glad you reached out.” Delgado pulled down the kneeling bench and clasped his hands in front of him. “Shall we pray together?”
“I’m not here for spiritual guidance, Father,” Vega said sheepishly.
“Sometimes the thing we need most, we can’t bring ourselves to look for.”
“I can’t lie about what I don’t feel.”
Delgado winked at him. “Politicians do it all the time.”
Vega laughed. It was the first laugh he’d had since the shooting. The release felt good.
Joy walked back into the nave, said hello to Father Delgado, and then excused herself to return some texts near the doors.
“Shall we speak in my office?” Delgado asked Vega.
“Thank you. That would be great.”
The church, with its heavy stone walls, wood rafters, and stained glass could have come straight out of the fifteenth century. Delgado’s office however, was a pedestrian 1970s vintage with beige plaster walls decorated in equal parts crucifixes and Yankee memorabilia. Vega took a seat in a well-worn leather chair. Delgado took another chair across from him rather than choosing to sit behind his desk. Vega appreciated the priest’s desire to make this visit as informal as possible.
“Father.” Vega ran a hand through his black wavy hair. He wasn’t sure how to begin. “You knew my mother well. Did you also know the man who was—” Own it, damn you. “The man I killed? Hector Ponce?”
“Yes. I did.”
“Was he a member of the church?”
“His family attends St. Raymond’s. He was also friends with our church custodian. The man you just met.”
That explained the probing look the janitor had given him. Delgado frowned and shifted in his seat. “Are you asking out of personal curiosity? I would assume, given the uh—situation—you aren’t asking as a police officer.”
“No, no,” Vega assured him. “I have no police powers here. I’m asking because I read that Ponce was the super in my mother’s apartment building.”
“Yes. He was,” said Delgado evenly.
“He was also the first person to come across my mother after she was beaten.” Vega held the priest’s gaze. “You were the second.”
“Yes. Hector called me. I gave your mother last rites.”
“You gave her CPR,” said Vega. “And I never thanked you.”
“I expect no thanks for being where God intended me to be.”
“I wish God had put you there a little sooner.”
Delgado took a deep breath. He looked genuinely pained. “I wish the same. Believe me.”
“I went back through the time frame of the crime,” said Vega. “It appears that Hector Ponce waited a full seventeen minutes before he dialed nine-one-one.”
The priest put a hand on his knee and leaned forward. “Jimmy—may I call you that?”
“Sure.”
“Your mother, God rest her soul, has been dead almost two years. Why are you revisiting this now? Do you honestly believe that Hector had something to do with your mother’s death?”