Mira sat at one of the two-top booths, sipping something cold from a clear glass. Her rich brown hair curled at her nape, and in a new flirtatious way, around her serene and pretty face. The look of her, Eve thought, in her spring’s-here yellow suit and textured heels in ball-lightning blue, seemed more suited to one of the trendy cafés than the cop diner.
Then again, she supposed the police psychologist and profiler had no more time for fancy lunches than she did herself.
Mira saw her, smiled.
“Sorry I’m late. There was a fight over a Laroche triple roll bag. In peony.”
“You had a fight over a purse?”
Eve had to grin at Mira’s utter shock. “No, I had to break one up. It’s a purse? I figured it had to at least be a suitcase to get that much insanity. Or maybe it was the ten percent off. Anyway—”
“Wait, there’s a sale on the Laroche triple? Where?”
“Just down the street. Half a block south. Ah, Encounters, I think it’s called.”
“I know that shop.” Mira pulled out her ’link. “Why don’t you decide what you’d like for lunch, and I’ll . . . Yes, Mizzie, this is Charlotte Mira. Yes, it’s good to talk to you again. You have the Laroche triple, in peony, on sale? Would you put that aside for me? I’m just having lunch at Ernest’s, so I’ll stop in to pick it up on my way back to work. Yes, thank you. Oh, I’d love to see that, too—if I have time. I’ll see you shortly.”
With a smug smile, Mira clicked off. “Isn’t that my good luck? I’ve been toying with getting that bag, and talking myself out of it. But, well, a sign’s a sign.”
“I guess.”
“I’m going to have the Greek salad,” Mira said when their waiter stopped at the table, “and another iced tea.”
“Two salads,” Eve said. “Pepsi.”
Mira let out a contented sigh. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it? It’s nice to get out of the office, to score a Laroche, and to see you. You look well, for someone who just broke up a fight.”
“One of them bit me.”
“Oh.” Mira’s smile faded into concern. “Is it bad? Do you want me to look at it?”
“No.” Eve rolled her shoulder. “I don’t get it. Scratch, bite, squeal, slap. Why do women fight like that? They’ve got fists. It’s embarrassing to our entire gender.”
“Yes, I can see a fistfight over the triple roll would have been much less embarrassing for all involved.”
Eve had to laugh. “Okay, guess not. Anyway, I know you don’t have much time. I’ve got a lock on the Jenkins murder. It’s not connected to Flores.”
“Unlike the probability?”
“Copycat, impulse. Probably a long, simmering deal that flashed over when the Flores deal hit the media. So, it’s loosely connected. But a different killer, and different circumstances.”
“A repeat killer or serial was a worry.”
“Did you see it that way?”
“It couldn’t be ignored. The targeting of figures in religious organizations, the ceremony or ‘performance.’ But, it also had to be factored in that each of the victims was remarkably different, in the faith base, their public exposure. You have a confession on Jenkins?”
“Not yet. I’m letting him stew in it. If I don’t have one within the next few hours, I’ll stir it some more. So it’s the Flores case I need to kick around.”
Mira took one of the table crackers, which looked as unappetizing as what Eve thought of as the Catholic cookie. She broke off a microscopic corner, nibbled on it.
“The false priest,” Mira said, “killed at the moment of ritual when he stands most emphatically as a servant of God and as his earthly representative. This is my blood—that’s what’s said. If the killer believed him to be Flores, believed him to be a true priest, this would indicate some direct attack on the church and its ritual, on the priesthood. Your investigation hasn’t found any evidence of a personal problem with the victim—as Flores. He could, of course, have heard something in confession that the penitent later regretted passing on.”
“Which means the killer likely belonged to that church, or is, at least, Catholic.”
“I believe whether it was simply a priest—or the individual masquerading as one—who was the target, that the killer has strong ties to the Catholic Church, and to that parish. The method was another kind of ritual, and I don’t believe choosing to execute the murder during a funeral mass was happenstance.”
“Same page, same line,” Eve agreed.