Goleman smiled faintly. “It’s tough for us big guys with healthy appetites. I don’t even make resolutions anymore because I’m weary—and wary—of failing my Savior.” He began crossing a leg, changed his mind, planted his foot back on the linoleum. “I’m in despair over Adriana. She was a wonderful girl, not a mean bone in her body. I say that as more than her pastor. I knew her personally. She dated my nephew.”

“Dwayne.”

Goleman’s lips folded inward. “You know about Dwayne.”

“He came up in the course of trying to learn about Adriana.”

“Terrible, terrible thing,” said Goleman. “Farmwork’s always dangerous but when it actually happens … I have no doubt Dwayne and Adriana would’ve married and raised wonderful, warmhearted children.” His voice caught. “Now it’s Adriana we’re mourning. Do you have any idea who did this?”

“No, Reverend.”

“This is the kind of ordeal that tests one’s faith and I’m not going to tell you I passed with flying colors. Because when I heard about Adriana from her sister—wanting me to conduct the service—I couldn’t dredge up an ounce of faith.”

Milo said, “Bad stuff can do that, Reverend.”

“Oh, it can, Lieutenant. But that’s the point of faith, isn’t it? Believing when everything’s rolling along hunky-dory is no challenge.” Goleman massaged double chins. “And now you’ve implied Qeesha might be in trouble.”

“I didn’t find any record of any Qeesha D’Embo.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Goleman.

“You figured it for an alias?”

“Qeesha was always quite secretive, Lieutenant, and given her circumstances I can’t say I blamed her. She came to us two years ago as part of a group of fire survivors, a conflagration in New Orleans. Poor, desperate people who’d survived Katrina only to see their homes go up in flames. Several churches in our city collaborated to take some of them in and we got Qeesha. She was a lovely girl. Hardworking when it came to church activities. And the fire’s not all I was referring to as her circumstances. Not only had she lost her mother and her house, she was forced to run from someone who’d terrorized her.”

“Terrorized her how?”

“Domestic violence,” said Goleman. “One of those stalking situations. This fellow—she only referred to him by his first name, Clyde—had become obsessed with her, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Mind you, I never heard this from Qeesha. Adriana told me after I voiced my concerns about Qeesha’s reluctance to talk about her ordeal, suggested bottling everything up might not be the best idea, perhaps counseling would help. Adriana explained to me that Qeesha was dealing with more than the fire, was too overwhelmed to handle counseling.”

I said, “Instead, she confided in Adriana.”