Salvation in Death Page 9

  6

  EVE TAGGED FEENEY AT HIS DESK. HER FORMER partner, now captain of the Electronic Detectives Division, sat munching on candied almonds and looking comfortably rumpled.

  “Any progress on my ID?”

  “I’ve got two of my boys on it. McNab and Callendar.”

  The fact that Callendar had breasts and no Y chromosome didn’t make her any less one of Feeney’s boys. “And?”

  “They’re working on it. I took a quick pass. It’s damn good, and it’s dug in deep. It’s not going to take five minutes.” His droopy eyes narrowed in his saggy face. “What’s that? What have you got?”

  “What? Where?”

  “Doughnuts?”

  “What is this, some new EDD toy? Smell-a-’link?”

  “I can see the corner of the box. I know a bakery box when I see one.” Feeney shifted right and left as if to get a better angle. “Cookies? Danishes?”

  “You hit it the first time.”

  “So you tag me instead of coming up and sharing?”

  “I got work here. I’m waiting for the lab to reconstruct the vic’s tattoo, and I’ve got to get these baptism records, and run the vic’s prints and DNA, and . . . I don’t have to share my doughnuts. They’re my bribe.”

  “Then you shouldn’t flaunt them in front of my face.”

  “I—” Damn, she thought, and gave the box a shove to take it out of screen range. “Listen, aren’t you Catholic or something?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Okay, so if you’re Catholic, is it like a bigger sin to kill a priest rather than a regular guy?”

  “Jesus, no. Well, maybe. Wait.” Pausing, Feeney scratched his head through the wire brush of silvered ginger hair. “No. He wasn’t a priest anyway, right?”

  “Right. I’m just trying to cover bases here. It goes two ways. Either they were killing the priest, or they were killing the guy. Or three ways, they were killing the guy who just happened to be a priest. I think it’s two.”

  “I forgot what two is.”

  “The guy. I think they knew the guy, but since he’d been there for years, why so long a wait?”

  Feeney exhaled through his nose, then popped more almonds. “Maybe they weren’t around until now.”

  “Maybe. Maybe. Or he slipped. Five years, you could get careless, say something, do something. Shit. I don’t know. Gotta think. Let me know when you’ve got something.”

  “You got any jelly-filled?”

  “Probably.” She smiled, cut him off.

  She organized her notes, added the Solas family photos to her board—though she considered them periphery. She was debating calling the lab and pushing for her tattoo when Peabody poked her head in.

  “We got—Hey, doughnuts.”

  “You’ll get yours. What have we got?”

  “Marc Tuluz. Want him in here or the lounge?”

  “Here’s a puzzler,” Eve began. “If we’re in the lounge interviewing him, how many doughnuts will be in this box upon our return?”

  “I’ll bring him in here.”

  The man had the long, streamlined build Eve associated with runners, and skin the color of coffee with a liberal dose of creamer. His eyes, a hazy blue, looked weary, but met hers levelly. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “Mr. Tuluz, thanks for coming in. Have a seat.”

  “Magda said I missed you this morning. We’re still not working at full power. Miguel . . . Well, I guess Magda told you we considered ourselves a team. And friends.”

  “Sometimes friends of the same gender share more openly than they do with friends of the opposite sex.”

  “Yeah, I guess they do.”

  “So, tell me about your friend and teammate.”

  “Okay.” Marc took a couple breaths. “It’s hard to think about him in the past tense. Miguel was smart and interesting. Competitive. He played to win. He put a lot of himself into the center, into getting the kids involved and excited about being part of something. A team. About contributing to that team. He didn’t preach at them, so, well, they listened instead of tuning out half of what he was talking about. They related to him, and he to them. Hell, half the time they didn’t think of him as the priest. Just as one of us.”

  “That’s interesting,” Eve said, her eyes sharp on Marc’s face, “because he wasn’t. A priest, that is. He wasn’t Miguel Flores.”

  And the face Eve studied went utterly blank. “Sorry, what?”

  Eve glanced at Peabody and motioned to her to take over.

  “We’ve confirmed through dental records that the man you knew as Miguel Flores had assumed that identity approximately six years ago. We haven’t yet identified the man who assumed that name.” Peabody paused, watched Marc try to take it in. “At this time, we’re trying to identify him, and by doing so ascertain why he assumed another identity. By doing that, we may step closer to who killed him. Regardless of who he was, Mr. Tuluz, you were friends for several years. Good friends. Anything you can tell us may help us, and lead us to his killer.”

  “Give me a minute, okay? This is, like . . . This is so way out of orbit. You just told me that Miguel wasn’t a priest?”

  “Not only wasn’t a priest,” Eve put in, “wasn’t Miguel Flores.”

  “Then who—You just said you didn’t know.” Marc pushed the heels of his hands to his temples, squeezed. “I can’t quite get it. I just can’t get it. Not a priest. Not Miguel. Not . . .

  “You’re absolutely sure of this? Which is a stupid question because why would you tell me if you weren’t? All that time. It’s surreal. It’s . . . thanks,” he said when Peabody offered him a bottle of water.

  He drank, three long, slow sips. “My mind’s blank. It’s gone off. I can’t remember your name.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “Right. Right. Lieutenant Dallas, he counseled those kids as a priest, took confessions. He gave some of them their First Holy Communion. They listened to him, believed in him. That’s a terrible betrayal. And even saying that, I’m more upset knowing he lied to me every day.

  “I loved him,” Marc said with a quiet kind of grief. “Like you would a brother. And I thought . . . if he was in trouble, hiding from something, someone, he could’ve told me. I would’ve kept his confidence. I’d have found a way to help him.”

  Eve sat back, digested that. “What happened the day you confronted Solas?”

  “Hell.” Marc blew out a breath. “We shouldn’t have. We were both so pissed. Miguel . . . I don’t know what else to call him. He had a temper. He kept it on a leash, worked at it, but now and then, you’d see it flash. Flashed big-time with Solas. Barbara was desperate when she came to us. Her face was all bruised up, and she could hardly talk for crying. It wasn’t for herself, that was the kicker, I guess. It came out that the bastard had been abusing her for years. And she took it, too afraid to do anything else. But he moved on her younger sister, and that she wouldn’t take. Miguel kept his cool with her. He was really good with her, calm, kind. And he told Magda to take her to the clinic, to have them call the police. As soon as they left, he said we were going to pay Solas a visit.”

  Marc rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t argue. It wouldn’t have stopped him, and frankly, I didn’t want to. When we got there, Miguel whaled right in.”

  “He attacked Solas,” Eve prompted when Marc fell silent.

  “He jumped him, pounded him. Not like sparring in the ring, which we’d done. Street moves. He had Solas on his knees and retching in under ten seconds. They went at each other in Spanish. I’m pretty fluent, in formal and in street Spanish, but I couldn’t completely keep up.”

  Marc drank more water, shook his head. “But for damn sure, Miguel wasn’t worried about taking the Lord’s name in vain. Mrs. Solas had the other two girls, and they were cowering in the corner, crying. Miguel kicked Solas in the face, knocked him out, and he didn’t stop—wouldn’t stop. I had to pull him off. For a minute, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to—and if I couldn’
t, I think he might have killed the man. He was that over the edge.

  “I’d never seen him like that, before or since. You run a place like we do, you see some bad things. Young girls pregnant or on their third abortion. Boyfriends who slap them around, parents on the junk. Illegals, gang fights, parental neglect. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah, I know how it is.”

  “He handled that. He might get mad, or impatient, but he never lost it. Until Solas.

  “Still, when he got himself under control again, he was good with the woman, the kids. Gentle, kind. It was . . . it was almost like it was someone else who’d beaten down on Solas.”

  “Maybe it was,” Eve said. “Did he ever talk to you about old friends, old enemies?”

  “He talked about running a little wild for a couple of years when he was a kid, the rebellion deal most of us get through. He never mentioned any names, or nothing that stood out for me.”

  “Besides you and Magda, the priests, who did he spend free time with? Hang out with?”

  “I have to say he was friendly, the outgoing type. He knew the kids, most of their parents, older sibs, cousins, whatever. If they were around, he’d hang, or join in a pickup game.”

  “Try this. Did you ever notice him avoiding anyone?”

  “No,” Marc said slowly. “I can’t say I did. Sorry.”

  “We appreciate the time. If you think of anything, please contact me.”

  “I will.” He pushed to his feet. “I feel . . . it’s like when I was in college and did too much zoner. I feel fuzzy-headed and a little sick.”

  After Peabody escorted him out, Eve sat, swiveled in her chair. When Peabody returned, looked hopefully at the bakery box, Eve waved a hand toward it. Peabody pounced.

  “Ohhh, cream-filled. Look out, ass, here it comes!”

  “Lino’s going to have a sister—or another close friend or relative—who was sexually abused as a child.”

  “Mmmffh?” Peabody managed.

  “He sees all the other shit, hears it in confession, but the one time we can confirm he broke out of his collar—the one time he may have shown his true face—is over a kid being sexually abused.”

  Peabody swallowed heroically. “Sexual predators of minors are meat in prison. Even stone killers want and do go after them.”

  “He had more control than that. Five years? He had the control, or an outlet nobody knew about. But he lost it over Barbara Solas. It has to be more personal, more intimate.”

  “We’re going to check the files for sexual molestation of a minor in that sector, for a couple of damn decades, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah, we are. No guarantee the abuse was reported, but that’s what we’re going to do. Pull them, copy me.”

  Eve swiveled again. She’d need to consult Mira, she concluded, but it could wait a day, wait until she had more. For now, she decided to simply send Mira the files, the data, and ask for a profile and/or consult. Once done, she started to contact the lab and find someone to verbally bitch slap.

  And her comp signaled an incoming.

  “About damn time,” she muttered as she noted the sender. She read the text with interest, then studied the reconstruction.

  The tattoo was a block cross, with a heart at its intersection. The heart dripped blood—three drops—from the tip of the knife stabbed through it.

  “No, I don’t guess that’s suitable body decor for a priest. Computer, search for significance of current file image. Its usage, meaning, commonality. Is there a regional or cultural significance? Is it a gang-related symbol, a religious symbol, a counter-religion symbol? Secondary task: Search and display names and addresses for tattoo parlors and/or artists within Spanish Harlem between 2020 and 2052.”

  Acknowledged. Working . . .

  While the searches progressed, Eve rose to boost her system with more coffee.

  So the guy lost his grip over child rape. Hadn’t she done the same, more or less? Hadn’t she been a little hard on Elena Solas? And didn’t she feel, even now, even calm, that the woman had deserved that, and more?

  He’d beaten Tito Solas, cursed at him in street Spanish. And continued to beat him when the man was down and out. It was personal, goddamn it. A trigger.

  She knew all about them. She had her own.

  But gentle with women, she remembered. Kind, compassionate, protective. Not their fault, that was the line. Mother, sister, young lover. She’d bet the rest of the damn doughnuts it would turn out to be one of those connections.

  One connection, she mused, would lead to the next. And they would lead to a name.

  Initial task complete. Data displayed. Continuing secondary task.

  “Good for you.” Eve moved over, sat, and began to scroll and read.

  Satisfied, she copied the data as an addendum to Mira, added it to her report, then printed out the image and its usage in duplicate. She took one out to drop on Peabody’s desk. “Gang tat.”

  “The Soldados.”

  “Soldiers. A badass gang forming just before the Urbans, and holding together until about a dozen years ago—though they’d lost a lot of steam power before that. That was their tat, and what Lino had removed before he came back here. There were some offshoots of Soldados in New Jersey, and in Boston, but primarily, this was a New York gang, turfed in Spanish Harlem. Their biggest rivals, internally, were the Lobos, though they supposedly had a truce during the Urbans, and absorbed the Lobos thereafter. Externally, they went to war regularly with the Skulls, for territory, product, and general pissiness. If you had the tat and weren’t a member, you’d be dragged before their council, beat to shit, and they’d remove the tat for you. With acid.”

  “Big ouch. Odds are our vic was a Soldado.”

  “Safe bet. And he died on his home turf. Gang initiation could start as early as the age of eight.”

  “Eight?” Peabody puffed out her cheeks. “Jesus.”

  “For full membership—which included the tat—ten was the cutoff. And full membership required combat. For the three drops of blood and the knife to be on the tat, blood had to be spilled in that combat. See the black X at the bottom of the cross?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Symbolizes a kill. Only members with the X could serve on the council. He wasn’t just a member, he was brass. And a killer.”

  “So why isn’t he in the system?”

  “That’s a damn good question. We need to find out.”

  Eve went to her commander. Whitney rode his desk like a general. With power, prestige, and combat experience. He knew the streets because he’d worked them. He knew politics because they were necessary—evil or not. He had a dark, wide, and weathered face, topped by a short-cropped swatch of hair liberally salted with gray.

  He didn’t gesture for Eve to sit. He knew she preferred to stand.

  “Lieutenant.”

  “The St. Cristóbal’s case, sir.”

  “So I assumed. I’ve been speaking with the Archbishop. The Church isn’t pleased with the publicity, and are put off by the disrespectful manner the primary investigator on the case had employed to gain information.”

  “A man poses as a priest for several years, and is killed while performing Mass, it’s going to alert the media. As for disrespectful manner, I requested dental records. When the red tape starting winding, I cut through it. Those records confirmed that the man in the morgue is not Miguel Flores.”

  “So I understand. The Catholic Church is a powerful force. Tact can and does grease wheels almost as often as threats.”

  “It 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 embarrassment.”

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

  Eve felt her back go up, but maintained. “If you feel my actions and methods have been improper—”

  “Did I say that? Off t
he high horse, Dallas, and report.”

  “The unidentified victim was, as reported previously, killed by potassium cyanide, which had been added to the wine used during the funeral mass for Hector Ortiz. This wine was contained in a locked box, but was easily accessed by any number of people. To refine that number, identifying the subject is key. To that end, my partner and I have interviewed the vic’s associates 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. “It’s a gang tat,” she began.

  “The Soldados. I remember this. I remember them. I scraped 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 sexually 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 who benefited from the Clemency Order. If he dodged the system after that, you won’t find his prints or DNA through our records, or IRCCA.”