Hector leaned one elbow on the counter. "Where's the church?"
"Which one?" the Indio said with a touch of pride. "We have lots of churches, senhor. There's Santa Mari-"
He had his fingers out in front of him, his thumb extended upward, ready to count the rest of them off, but Hector cut him short. "The one the bishop was coming to consecrate."
"Ah," he said, his hands falling to his sides. "That would be the new one, Nossa Senhora dos Milagres."
"Who's the priest?"
The clerk looked blank. "Senhor?"
"The priest at Nossa Senhora dos Milagres. What's his name?"
"That would be Father Gaspar."
"New in town, is he?"
"Oh, no, senhor. He used to be at Santa Cecilia's on the Rua Governador Quercia, but it's closed now. They're going to tear it down and put up a school."
"Where do I find this Father Gaspar?"
The clerk reached to one side and pulled a street map of downtown Cascatas from a nearby stack.
"We're here," he said, circling an intersection with a red ballpoint pen. "And the church is… here." He made a cross. "Father Gaspar lives next door. You can't miss it."
The clerk was right. You couldn't miss it. The priest's house was three stories tall and had an enclosed garage. It was built of the same red brick as the church, an obvious annex to the much larger building.
The young man who answered the doorbell had tawny skin and reddish-brown hair that hung low over his forehead. He had a single earring, a nose that showed signs of having been broken more than once, and mismatched lips. The upper one was thin and the lower one fleshy. He was wearing white duck pants, an open-necked white shirt, and a white jacket. His black shoes were highly polished. His manners weren't.
"Got an appointment?" he said, before Hector had a chance to utter a word.
"I'm here to see Father Gaspar."
The young man raised his eyes and sighed. "I didn't think it was to see me, so I ask you again. Have you got an appointment?"
"No, but-"
"Then call and make one."
He started to swing the door shut, but not quickly enough.
"Hey," he said, "get your foot out of the-"
Hector didn't wait for him to finish. "Tell Father Gaspar that it's police business."
The door swung open again, relieving the pressure on Hector's foot.
"You're a cop?"
Hector nodded. "I'm a cop. Federal Police."
"Prove it."
"Jesus Christ," Hector said, but he reached for his wallet.
"We don't take the name of the Lord in vain around here," the young man said, reprovingly. He studied Hector's ID. "You got a business card in there?"
Hector fished one out and handed it over.
"Okay, wait here. And take your foot out of the door."
Hector did, and the surly servant slammed it shut.
A few minutes later the servant was back. This time he swung the door wide, led Hector toward the back of the house, and ushered him into a room where a fat man in a black cassock was waiting for him. Limpid brown eyes stared at Hector from beneath bushy eyebrows.
Hector took the hand he was offered. The priest exerted only the slightest pressure before he let go.
"Father Gaspar Farias," he said.
"Pleased to meet you, Father. Hector Costa, Federal Police."
Completely bald, Father Gaspar had slightly protuberant eyes, a wide mouth, virtually no neck and a double chin. His head seemed to be out of proportion to the rest of his body. He reminded Hector of a huge frog.
The priest's study was a high-ceilinged room lined with bookshelves. A rustic dining table had been pressed into service as a writing desk. Two cane chairs were situated in front of it, and a more comfortable one, in black leather, was behind.
A strong floral perfume hung in the air. Hector sniffed. Lilacs? The priest was using a scent more suited to a woman than to a man, and to an older woman to boot.
"Have a seat," Father Gaspar said, indicating one of the cane chairs and sinking down in the other.
When Hector sat he felt a cold blast of air-conditioning on the back of his neck. He glanced upward and discovered that his chair had been placed directly under the vent. He shifted his seat and tried leaning forward slightly, but it didn't seem to help. The priest showed no sign of noticing his discomfort.
"Am I the first to welcome you to Cascatas, Delegado?"
Father Gaspar was using Hector's title, the one on his business card, a clear improvement on the treatment he'd received from Ferraz.
"Yes, Father, you are. Not the first person I've spoken to, mind you, but certainly the first person to welcome me."
A look of consternation came over the priest's face. "I'm sorry. Euclides can be a bit abrasive at times."
"Euclides?"
"The young man who answered the door, my self-appointed watchdog. Sometimes a bit too zealous, but-" The priest broke off when the door swung open.
Euclides came in carrying a tray with coffee, already poured. He put a cup and saucer in front of each man.
Hector picked up his cup and took a sip. The coffee was nauseatingly pre-sweetened, and cold. He glanced over at the priest and saw a thin wisp of steam arising from the other cup. Determined not to give Euclides any degree of satisfaction, Hector drained the remainder of his coffee, and smacked his lips, as if he'd actually enjoyed it.
The servant's thin smile faded. He leaned his back against the wall, settling in.
"Thank you, Euclides," Father Gaspar said pointedly. Then, when his servant still didn't seem to get it, he added, "That will be all."
Euclides narrowed his eyes and left without a word. Hector had no doubt he'd be listening on the other side of the door.
"What can I do for you, Delegado?"
"I'd like to talk to you about Dom Felipe."
Father Gaspar furrowed his brow. "A terrible thing, that. A terrible thing."
"You knew him well?"
There were four picture frames on Father Gaspar's desk, all with their backs toward them. The priest leaned forward, picked up the largest one and handed it to his visitor.
"That's him, there, on the right."
In the photo, Dom Felipe's hair hadn't yet turned white. There were three men in the shot. The man standing on the left was a younger, and much thinner, Father Gaspar. The third man was the Pope.
"Taken… let me see… seventeen years ago this April in the garden of the Vatican. Autumn here, but it was springtime in Europe. Winter had been mild that year. You can see that the flowers were already in bloom." He took the photograph back from Hector and stared at it.
"The bishop and I were great friends," he said. "Longtime friends. I shall miss him. The church will miss him." He seemed to make a conscious effort to shake off his melancholy. His voice took on a more businesslike tone when he said, "Have you made any progress in discovering who did it?"
"Not yet, Father. Were you there when it happened?"
"Yes, I was. I was standing in the vestibule of the church. I saw it all. The first shot hit him in the chest. The second…"
His words tapered off. He shook his head, rubbed some dust off of the top of the frame, and returned the photo to its original position.
"Sorry, Father. I'm sure this must be painful for you, but-"
"No, Delegado. Don't apologize. I want to be of any help that I possibly can. Please, ask away."
"Thank you, Father. I'll try to be brief. Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill him?"
Father Gaspar hesitated. Hector noticed, and gave him a gentle push. "Did he have any enemies?"
"Everyone has enemies, Delegado. Even priests."
Hector sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. His instincts told him Father Gaspar was holding something back. "Could his death have had something to do with ah… an intimate relationship?"
Father Gaspar looked confused.