Salvation In Death Part 12

"I t may, Commander, but tact wouldn't have gotten me those dental records in an expedient manner. The Archbishop may be red-faced that some imposter played priest under his nose. Exposing that deception doesn't add to the embarra.s.sment."

Whitney sat back. "That, of course, depends on your point of view."

Eve felt her back go up, but maintained. "I f you feel my actions and methods have been improper-"

"Did I say that? Off the high horse, Dallas, and report."

"The unidentified victim was, as reported previously, killed by pota.s.sium cyanide, which had been added to the wine used during the funeral ma.s.s for Hector Ortiz. This wine was contained in a locked box, but was easily accessed by any number of people. T o refine that number, identifying the subject is key. To that end, my partner and I have interviewed the vic's a.s.sociates and close friends.

"During autopsy, Morris detected the signs of a professionally removed tattoo, as well as old combat wounds and reconstructive facial surgery. The lab has just reconstructed the tattoo."

She put a copy on Whitney's desk. "I t's a gang tat," she began.

"The Soldados. I remember this. I remember them. I sc.r.a.ped up what was left of a few in my time, locked up a few others. They haven't been around in a decade. More. Before your time, Lieutenant."

"Then you know what the tattoo symbolizes.""A full member, with at least one kill. The victim would have been very at home in Spanish Harlem."

"Yes, sir. The medal I found was inscribed to Lino. We're working on getting baptism records from the church. I also believe he may have had a close female friend or relative who was abused s.e.xually as a child."

"Why?"

She told him, quickly, concisely. "These factors indicate this individual would have been in the system at some point. As a gang member, it's hard to believe he wasn't brought in at some time, that his prints and/or DNA aren't on record. But we took both from the body, and we haven't hit a match."

Whitney puffed out a breath. "Any minors who were members, and who were not convicted of any crime that entailed sentencing, had their records expunged. Clemency Order, 2045. An order that was overturned in 2046."

"Even so, sir, the records should still show prints and DNA, even if the record was cleared."

"Not cleared, Lieutenant. Wiped. There is no record for minors who didn't do time. Those who did, those records are sealed, that would be flagged.

I 'd say your vic was a minor w C war mho benefited from the Clemency Order. I f he dodged the system after that, you won't find his prints or DNA through our records, or IRCCA."

Well, that was a p.i.s.ser, Eve thought as she stalked her way back to Homicide. Some bleeding hearts worry about the city's street rats, and their solution is to pat all the good little murdering, illegals-pushing, gang-raping gangsters on the head and say, "Go sin no more?"

Now she had to dig through reams of possibly relevant data to find information that should have been at her fingertips.

Lino had a name, and she was d.a.m.n sure his killer knew it. Until she did, he'd be John Doeing it at the morgue.

Then there was the real Miguel Flores. She had to ID the vic to have any real hope of finding Flores, dead or alive. He was dead, of course, every instinct told her. That didn't mean he didn't matter.

The more she found out about the victim, the more Miguel Flores mattered.

She stopped at a vending machine, scowled at it. "Give me grief, I dare you." She jammed in her code. "Tube of Pepsi, and stuff your d.a.m.n contents and nutrition value."

I t coughed out the tube, then a tinkle of music. She continued to stalk away as the machine sang out the current Pepsi jingle.

"I t's enough to make you go thirsty," she muttered, and turning, nearly ran over Father Lopez. "Sorry."

"My fault. I wasn't sure where I was going, so wasn't watching where I was going. I 've never been here. I t's ... big."

"And loud and full of very bad people. What can I do for you?"

"I have the records you asked for."

"Oh. Thanks. I could've come up to get them." Or you could have e'd them, she thought.

"I ... Actually, I wanted to get out for a bit. Do you have a few moments?"

"Sure. My office is around the corner. Ah, do you want something?" She held up the tube and nearly prayed he'd say no. She didn't want to risk the machine again.

"I wouldn't mind some coffee. I 'll just-"

"I have some in my office," she told him as he stepped toward a machine.

She led him down the hall, into the bullpen where Jenkinson snarled into a 'link, "Look, you f.u.c.king s.h.i.t-weasel a.s.shole, I get the intel, you get paid.

Do I look like some f.u.c.khead sitting here jerking off? You don't f.u.c.king want me coming down there, c.o.c.ksucker."

"Ah," Eve said. "Office. Sorry."

Lopez's face remained serene. "You neglected to add 'colorful' to your 'loud and full of very bad people.' "

"I guess. How do you take the coffee?"

"Just black's fine. Lieutenant ... I brought the baptismal records."

"So you said."

"And I intend to give them to you before I go."

Eve nodded. "That would make sense.""I 'm doing so without authorization. My superiors," he continued when she turned with the coffee, "while wishing to cooperate with the investigation, of course, are also cautious about the ... backlash. And the publicity. They informed me they'd take the request under advis.e.m.e.nt. Advis.e.m.e.nt often means ..."

"Just this side of never?"

"Close. I accessed the records myself."

She handed him the mug. "That makes you a weasel. Coffee payment enough?"

He managed a soft laugh. "Yes, thank you. I liked-Lino. Very much. I respected his work, and his energy. He was my responsibility. I feel I can't understand this, or know what to do until I know who he was, and why he did what he did. I have to counsel my parishioners. Answer them when they come to me upset and worried. Are we married? Has my baby been baptized? Have my sins been forgiven? All because this man pretended to be a priest."

He sat, sipped. He lowered the mug, stared. Then sipped again, slowly. A flush rose to his cheeks. "I 've never tasted coffee like this."

"Probably because you've never had actual coffee. I t's not soy or veg or man-made. I t's the deal. I 've got a source."

"Bless you," he said and drank again.

"Have you seen this before?" She took the print out of the tattoo, offered it.

"Oh yes. I t's a gang tattoo; the gang's long disbanded. Some of my parishioners were members and still have the tattoo. Some wear it with pride, some with shame."

"Lino had one. He had it removed before he came here."

Understanding darkened Lopez's eyes. "So. This was his place. His home."

"I could use the names of the people you know who have this tattoo." When he closed his eyes, Eve said lightly, "There could be more coffee."

"No, but thank you. Lieutenant, those who lived through those times and aren't in prison are now older, and have work, and families, have built lives."

"I 'm not looking to change that. Unless one of them killed Lino."

"I 'll get you the names, the ones I know or can learn. I 'd like to have until tomorrow. I t's difficult to go against the authority I believe in."

"Tomorrow's fine."

"You think he was a bad man. Lino. You believe he may have killed Flores to put on his collar-taken his name, his life. And yet you work like this to find the one who took Lino's life. I understand that. I believe in that. So I 'll do what I can."

As he started to rise, Eve spoke. "What did you do before you became a priest?"

"I worked in my father's cantina, and boxed. I boxed for a time, professionally."

"Yeah, I looked that up. You won your share."

"I loved the sport, the training, the discipline. The feeling I 'd get when I stepped into the ring. I dreamed of seeing big cities and fame and fortune."

"What changed your mind?"

"There was a woman. A girl. I loved her, and she loved me. She was beautiful, and so unspoiled. We were to be married. I was saving money, nearly every penny I could from the matches I won. So we could marry and have a place of our own. One day, when I was training, she walked from her parents' home toward town, to see me, to bring me lunch. Men-three men-saw her, and they took her. We searched for two days before we found her. They left her by the river. Strangled her. They'd raped her first, and beaten her, and left her naked by the river."

"I 'm very sorry."

"I 'd never known hate like that. Even bigger than the grief, was the hate, the rage, the thirst to avenge her. Or myself. How can we be sure? I lived on that hate for two years-that and drink and drugs, and whatever dulled the grief so the hate could stay ripe.

"I lost myself in it. Then they found them, after they had done the same to another young girl. I planned to kill them. I planned it, plotted it, dreamed of it. I had the knife-though I doubt I could have gotten near enough to them to use it, I believed I could. I would. Then she came to me. My Annamaria.

Do you believe in such things, Lieutenant? In visitations, in miracles, in faith?"

"I don't know. But I believe in the power of believing in them."

"She told me I had to let her go, that it was a sin to lose myself for what was already gone. She asked that I go, alone, on a pilgrimage, to the shrine of Our Lady of San Juan de los Lagos. T o draw-I had some little talent-a picture of the Blessed Mother as an offering. And there I would find the rest of my life."

"Did you?""I did. I loved her, so I did what she asked. I walked, a long, long way. Over many months. Stopping along the way to find work, to eat, to sleep, I think to heal, and to find faith again. I drew the portrait, though it had Annamaria's face. And I understood as I knelt at the shrine, as I wept, that my life was now for G.o.d. I traveled home-many months, and worked to save money to enter the seminary. I found my life. And still there are some nights when I dream she's beside me, and our children are sleeping safe in their beds. I often wonder if that's G.o.d's blessing for accepting His will, or penance for testing it."

"What happened to the men?"

"They were tried, convicted, and were executed. There were still executions in Mexico at that time. Their deaths didn't bring Annamaria back, or the other girl, or the one it was found had come before my Annamaria."

"No. But no more girls were raped, terrorized, beaten, and strangled by their hands. Maybe that's G.o.d's will, too."

"I can't say, but their deaths didn't bring me pleasure." He rose, put the empty mug neatly beside her AutoChef. "You've killed."

"Yes."

"I t didn't bring you pleasure."

"No."

He nodded. "I 'll get you the names. Maybe together we can find justice and G.o.d's will, on the same path."

Maybe, she thought when she was alone. But as long as she wore a badge, justice had to take priority.

CHAPTER 7

SHE FELT p.i.s.sY . EVE COULDN'T QUITE FIGURE out why, but the p.i.s.siness stayed full-blown through the drive home. The floods of tourists cavorting in New York's spring like a bunch of chickens before the plucking couldn't shift the mood into mildly irritated or cynically amused. Even the animated billboards announcing everything from summer fashions-shoes this summer would apparently be clear to show off pedicured feet-to b.u.t.t enhancers didn't make a dent. She tried to imagine the city full of invisible shoes, painted toes, and padded a.s.ses, but it didn't cheer her up.

The ad blimps cruising overhead and tying up air traffic didn't cut through the cloud of irritation as they blasted their litany of Sale! Sale! Sale! (in English this time) at the Sky Mall.

She couldn't find her appreciation for the chaos, the cacophony, the innate craziness of the city she loved, and so when she finally turned into the gates, couldn't find her pleasure in being out of it. In being home.

What the h.e.l.l was she doing here? She should've stayed at work where she could turn a p.i.s.sy mood to her advantage. Should've locked her office door, programmed a pot of black coffee, and dug in. To the evidence, the facts, the tangibles.

Why the h.e.l.l had she asked Lopez what he'd done before wrapping that collar around his neck?

I t wasn't relevant. I t didn't matter. What difference did it make to the case that some b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had beaten, raped, and strangled the love of his life? I t wasn't connected.

Identifying the victim was connected. Finding the killer mattered. The job didn't include imagining some girl in Mexico left naked and dead by a river. She had enough blood and death crowded in her brain without adding more-more that didn't apply to her or the work.

She slammed out of her vehicle, strode into the house. And with that p.i.s.siness tangled with a depression she hadn't acknowledged, barely spared a snarl for Summerset.

"Kiss my unenhanced a.s.s," she said before he could speak, and kept walking. "Or I 'll plant my visibly shod foot up yours." She stormed straight into the elevator, ordered the gym. What she needed, she thought, was a good, sweaty workout.

In the foyer, Summerset merely c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at the pensive Galahad, then stepped to the house 'link to contact Roarke up in his office.

"Something's disturbing the lieutenant-more than usual. She's gone down to the gym."

"I 'll take care of it. Thanks."

He gave her an hour, though he checked on her by house screen once or twice. She'd hit the virtual run first, and it was telling, Roarke supposed, that she'd chosen New York's streets rather than her usual beach canvas. Then she hit the weights, worked up a solid sweat. Roarke found it mildly disappointing when she didn't activate the sparring droid and beat it senseless.

When she'd moved into the pool house and dived in, he shut down his work. By the time he got down, she was out of the pool and drying off. Not a good sign, he decided. Swimming generally relaxed her, and she tended to draw out her laps.