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I said. “He wants to . . . do what he does.”
    “Which is what?” Brosia asked.
    “A prayer for the dead, if you please,” Father Bob said.
    I said, “There’s a little girl. Named Kylie. Six years old. Do you have her?”
    “I’m afraid not. We’ve spoken to a couple of the residents and they have no idea where she is, either.”
    “You figure she was taken?”
    “We don’t know. You were representing this woman?”
    “Yes.”
    “You can give us a full identification then? She had no ID.”
    “All I knew was her first name, Reatta.”
    “May I go in?” Father Bob said.
    “I’m sorry, Father,” the detective said. “This is a crime scene.”
    “This is a matter of a soul,” Father Bob said. “I have a right to go in.”
    “I don’t know about that,” Brosia said.
    Frankly, I wasn’t sure what the law was on this. I said to Brosia, “Look, do you really want to draw a line in the sand over this? You want it to get out that the LAPD denied a poor dead woman a prayer?”
    “Is that some kind of threat, sir?”
    “Not at all. I’m looking out for both our interests here.”
    Brosia thought about it. “How long will it take?”
    “Not long,” Father Bob said.
    “All right,” Brosia said. “I’ll allow you in. You will not touch anything. You will pray and then leave.”
    Father Bob and Sister Mary moved past me. Brosia let them in. When I tried to get in he put a hand on my chest.
    “Not you,” he said.
    “She’s my client,” I said.
    “You’re a lawyer, not a priest, and that’s a big difference.” Brosia smiled.
    I rolled my eyes and tried to think of a legal argument to get myself in there, but then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Maybe I’d need help from Brosia later on.
    Brosia went in and I watched through the open door. I could see Reatta’s body lying on the bed, fully clothed. Her head was at a slight angle, eyes open in death. I could see no blood. One of the CS team was clicking digital photos.
    Father Bob knelt at the side of the bed, as did Sister Mary. As if they were taking over the room. Everybody stopped what they were doing.
    Crossing himself, Father Bob said, “May Christ, who called you, take you to himself. May angels lead you to Abraham’s side.”
    Sister Mary said, “Receive her soul and present her to God the Most High.”
    “Give her eternal rest, O Lord,” Father Bob continued. “And may your light shine upon her forever. In your mercy and love, blot out all sins she has committed through human weakness. In this world she has died. Let her live with you forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord.”
    Sister Mary and Father Bob said, “Amen.” So did the photographer.
    They came back out and joined Brosia and me.
    “Now,” Brosia said, “who was she, Father?”
    “I only knew her first name,” Father Bob said.
    “I thought you were her priest.”
    “I am.”
    “But you don’t know anything else?”
    “Maybe that was her full name,” I said. “Reatta. No last name.”
    “Maybe,” Brosia said. “But that doesn’t help me much.”
    “Can you run prints?” I said.
    “That’ll be done,” he said. “But they’ll have to be in our system for a match. Sometimes people like this just fall through the cracks.” He handed me his card.
    I gave him one of mine. “We have to find the girl,” I said.
    “We have somebody on that,” he said.
    I looked at the body. “How was she killed?”
    “I’m not going to get into that,” Brosia said. “I would like you all to come down and make a statement for me. Anything will help.”
    “I want to know what you’re going to do to find the girl,” I said.
    “I told you. We’re doing what we can. Of course.”
    “I know what that means,” I said. “She’s not going to be high priority—”
    Sister Mary touched my arm. “He said he would do whatever he could,” she told me. “I think you should take him at his word.”

31
    HEADING DOWN THE stairs, I said to the nun,