by J. D. Robb
“Same page, same line,” Eve agreed.
“Poison is a distant kind of weapon. It removes the killer from the victim, but can also afford the killer the advantage of standing back and witnessing the death. The crowd in the church would afford an excellent cover for that. The distance and the intimacy. I would say both were desired. Public execution.”
“Why make it public if you can’t watch yourself?”
“Yes. But for what crime? The crime had some direct effect on the killer. Exposure wasn’t enough. For a person of faith—and the ritual, the method, the time, and the place indicate that to me—the sin, the crime, had to have been deeply and desperately personal.”
“It’s about the neighborhood, about home, the gang connection. It’s in there somewhere.”
“Yes, the method, the place mattered. The killer’s mature enough to plan, to choose. Involved in this faith enough to know how to use it. Organized, thoughtful, and probably devout. And the intimacy and distance of poison is often a female weapon.”
“Yeah, like no fists,” Eve commented. “Poison isn’t bloody. Takes no force, no physical contact. A hundred-pound woman can take down a two-hundred-pound man without chipping her nail.”
Mira sat back as their salads were served. “You believe Jenkins’s killer will confess.”
“Guilt’s going to eat him inside out.”
“A man or woman of faith, then?”
“Yeah, I guess. Yeah. He believes.”
“Your two cases may not be connected by one killer, but I think they may be connected by the same type. I think he or she is also a person of faith. And if so, he or she will need to confess. Not to you. The Eternal Light doesn’t have confession, penance, and absolution by a representative of Christ.”
“But Catholics do.”
“Yes. The killer will confess to his priest.”
12
EVE HEADED BACK TO HOMICIDE WITH THE IDEA of grabbing Peabody and taking on the priests at St. Cristóbal’s again. Confession, she thought. She believed Billy Crocker would need to unburden himself. Doing the deed—the impulse, even the restrained passion of it—would have carried him through the murder itself. But the aftermath, all the grief surrounding him would scrape and dig at him. Add in her parting shot, letting him know she recognized him, and yeah, he’d fall under the weight. She’d already seen it in his eyes.
But the Flores killer. That was deeper, felt deeper. More personal, and more tied in with the ritual of faith. Mira put her finger on it, in Eve’s opinion. The killer would seek yet another ritual of faith.
Maybe already had.
Hit the priests, and some of the tattoo parlors on her list. But that was long-shot territory. Finding the tat artist who inked her particular Lino after what could be a good twenty years was a crap shoot. But if she couldn’t nail it down any other way, it was worth that shot.
She’d started the swing to her division when she remembered Peabody wouldn’t be there. Party planning, for God’s sake. Why the hell did people have to have parties all the damn time? Food and drinks and gifts and decorations and agendas, all lined up on lists and talked over incessantly to the last stupid detail.
Another ritual, she thought, slowing her pace. All the trappings, the timing, the words or music, the scheme.
The killer had to be part of that ritual. Had to have been in the church at the moment Lino drank the sacramental wine. Had to watch the death—ritual death. A familial connection of the Ortiz’s possibly. But that felt wrong, disrespectful to the old man, unless . . . unless the sin, the crime Lino committed had been in some way connected to Ortiz.
Ran by the Ortiz house every morning, she remembered. Was there a purpose there?
Otherwise, a less intimate connection. Family friend, neighbor, longtime customer, employee.
Turning it over in her mind, she stepped into her bullpen and saw Baxter flirting with Graciela Ortiz. No question about it, she mused, the body language, the eye gleams all said testing sexual interest. Then again, to her way of thinking, Baxter would flirt with a hologram of a woman.
“Officer Ortiz.”
“Lieutenant. I stopped by, but the detective told me both you and your partner were out.”
“Now I’m in. My office is right through there. Go on in.”
“Detective,” Graciela said and gave Baxter one last blast with green, liquid eyes.
“Officer.” His grin widened, unabashed when he turned it on Eve. And pounded a hand like a happy heartbeat on his chest. “You’ve got to love a woman in uniform,” he said to Dallas.
“No, I really don’t. If you’ve got time to hit on subordinates, Baxter, maybe I need to review your caseload.”
“Dallas, sometimes a man’s just got to make time.”
“Not on my clock. But since you’ve made all this time, you can use it to do a search on all John Does, deceased, in Nevada, New Mexico, and Arizona, six to seven years ago.”
“All? Jesus, you’re a hard woman.”
“I am. Be grateful I’m adding age between twenty-five and forty.”
She turned as he muttered, “Oh, in that case,” and walked into her office. “Officer.”
“I wanted to speak to you in person regarding the interviews with family members and friends. There was nothing I didn’t expect—shock, sorrow, even outrage. Father Flores was, as I told you, very popular. Well, when we believed he was Father Flores.”
“And now?”
“More shock, sorrow, outrage. In fact, as he married, buried, baptized many of the family over the past five years, you can add a lot of concern. Some of my family is very traditional, very orthodox. There are questions as to whether the marriages are sanctioned in the eyes of God and the Church. Which Father López assures us would be the case. Though he and Father Freeman have offered to renew all the sacraments, for those who wish it. Frankly, Lieutenant, it’s a big freaking mess.”
She shook her head. “I like to think I’m a progressive sort of person. Practical. But I confessed to that man, and received Communion from him. And I feel . . . violated, and angry. So I understand what many of my family are feeling now.”
“His death stopped the violation.”
“Well, yes. But it also revealed it. If we’d never known . . .” She shrugged. “We do know, so I guess it’s just what we all decide to do about it. My mother thinks we should look on the positive side. Have a mass renewal of vows, of baptisms. And a big party. Maybe she’s right.”
“There were a lot of people at the funeral who weren’t family members.”
“Yes. I’ve spoken to some of them, the ones we’re close to, or Poppy was close to. It runs along the same lines. I don’t know how helpful any of it is to your investigation.”
“You saved me some steps.” She considered a moment. “You have several relatives, I imagine, who are about the same age as the victim. Round about thirty-five.”
“Sure. We’re legion.”
“Plenty of them were living in the area when they were kids, teenagers. And plenty of them members of the church.”
“Yes.”
“Any of them former members of the Soldados?”
Graciela opened her mouth, closed it again. Then blew out a breath. “A few, I suppose.”
“I need names. I’m not looking to cause them trouble, not looking to dig at them for what they did in the past. But it may connect.”
“I’ll talk to my father. He wasn’t part of that, but . . . he’ll know.”
“Would you rather I spoke to him directly?”
“No, he’ll be easier speaking to me. I know his cousin was a member and died badly when they were boys. He doesn’t have any love for gangs.”
“What was the cousin’s name?”
“Julio. He was only fifteen when he was killed. My father was eight, and looked up to him. He never forgot it, and often used him as an example, a warning, especially to my brothers and cousins. This is what happens when you go outside family, the law, the ch
urch—when you use violence instead of hard work and education to get what you want.”
“Your father sounds like a smart man.” And the quick math she did in her head told her Julio’s death was too early to apply to Lino.
“He is, and a tough one. I’ll talk to him tonight.”
“Appreciate it. One other thing. I’m told the vic ran regularly in the morning, and the route took him by your grandfather’s house.”
“Yes, that’s true. Poppy mentioned it sometimes. How he joked with the fathers to throw a blessing at the house as they passed. And he might see them when he was out for his morning walk.”
“So no friction there?”
“Between Poppy and the priests, or this one who wasn’t? No. None. Very much the opposite. The victim often ate in Poppy’s restaurant, or even—especially when my grandmother was alive—his home. He came to family parties. He was, we thought, one of us.”
“Okay.”
Alone, Eve moved back to her board. Rearranged photos, evidence shots. Walked around it, arranged again. Connections. Whose life touched whose, when and how.
She stepped back to her desk, tagged McNab. “Give me something,” she demanded.
“Ran down two of the Linos,” he told her. “One’s living in Mexico, living in a kind of commune deal. Changed his name, which is why he slipped through some cracks. Goes by Lupa Vincenta, all legal and shit. It’s a kind of Free-Ager offshoot. Guy’s shaved his head and wears this brown robe deal. Raises goats. And is alive and well, if you count wearing an ugly brown robe well, which if you ask me—”
“I didn’t.”
“Okay. The other’s been skimming under the radar, avoiding a couple of ex-wives, who he was married to at the same time. He’s in Chile—or was when I tracked him—and the last track was less than three months ago. He weighs in at about two-fifty. Probably skipped by now, as both women have suits pending against him. Apparently, he’s got about six legal offspring, and he’s dodging the child support thing.”
“Prince of a guy. Pass on the info to the proper authorities.”
“Already done. You get kids, you take care of them. Working on another one now.”
She’d figured as much, as McNab was bopping on the screen. She’d never known an e-geek who could keep still when he worked.
Except Roarke, she corrected.
“I keep losing him,” McNab added. “He bounced a lot, switched names, then switched back. What I get is he’d get a little twisted up with some deal under an aka, take off, show up under his real, play it straight, then move on, take another alias.”
“What’s his real?”
“Lino Salvadore Martinez.”
Eve brought it up on her machine. “Right age, right location at birth. Keep looking.” Eve clicked off, then refreshed her memory of Martinez’s data. Both parents on record, she noted, but whereabouts of the father unknown—and unknown since Martinez hit five years of age. Mother, Teresa, applied and received professional mother status and payments after the birth. Previous employment . . . Eve extended the search, then sat back. “Hector Ortiz—Abuelo’s. Interesting. Yeah, that’s pretty interesting. Returned to outside work when her son reached the age of fifteen—as a waitress for Ortiz again. Where she worked for six years before remarrying and relocating to Brooklyn. Okay, Teresa.”
She noted down the current address. “I think we need to have a little chat.”
She pulled out her communicator to contact Peabody. “What’s your status,” she said when Peabody popped on-screen.
“I’m just walking into Central. We had the best—”
“Meet me in the garage. We’re going to Brooklyn.”
“Oh. Okay, why—”
But Eve simply cut her off, tucked the communicator away, and started out. She nearly walked straight into Baxter. “No way you finished those searches.”
“No way I’ll finish those searches in the next twenty man-hours. You’ve got a couple of visitors. A Luke Goodwin, a Samuel Wright, and a Billy Crocker.”
“Quicker than I thought.” She stepped back into her office, signaling Baxter to follow. “I need to secure an interview room. Hold on.”
She ordered her computer to scan for availability, and book her Interview C. “Okay, tell them I’m going to be a few minutes, escort them to Interview. Make nice, offer refreshments.”
“That’s going to take time off my current assignment.”
“Half of which you’ve already passed off to your aide. Trueheart can keep it going while you get these guys settled. If I get my confession out of Crocker, have him booked and in a cage within the next ninety minutes.” She checked her wrist unit. “From now, I’ll take half of what’s left of the search off your hands.”
“Deal.”
When he walked out, Eve tagged Peabody again. “Change of plans, come up, meet me outside Interview C. We’ve got Crocker and company.”
“Jeez. If I was a lesser person, it would piss me off, how often you’re right.”
“Since I am a lesser person, you’ll be good cop in today’s performance.”
Eve cut Peabody off, then contacted both Whitney’s and Mira’s offices to relay her prime suspect on the Jenkins homicide was in the house.
“Okay, Billy,” she murmured. “Let’s see what you have to say for yourself.”
She took her time, to give Baxter a chance to settle them in and Peabody a chance to reroute from the garage. She already had her strategy outlined in her mind, and had adjusted that somewhat after her meet with Mira. Due to that, she wasn’t surprised that Billy had come in with Luke.
The confessor, she thought.
She slipped into Observation first, studied the setup. Billy sat at the table, flanked by the victim’s sons-in-law. The lawyer looked grim, with his gaze cut away from Billy. Luke looked . . . sorrowful, Eve thought. A more sophisticated lay-version of López, to her eye.
And Billy himself? Jittery, scared, and on the edge of weepy.
She stepped back out as Peabody hoofed down the corridor.
“He brought his priest and his lawyer,” Eve said.
“Priest?”
“In a manner of speaking. Luke Goodwin. He’s already told them everything he intends to tell us and probably more. Yeah, more, because the lawyer may be pissed and shocked, but he’s still a lawyer, and he’d advise him how to play it. You’re sympathetic, you get why he had to do what he did. You want to help.”
Peabody’s face went wistful. “Am I ever going to be able to be bad cop?”
“Sure, as soon as you’re willing to kick a puppy out of the way to take down a suspect.”
“Aww, does it have to be a puppy?”
“Keep that save-the-puppy look on your face. It’s perfect.” Eve opened the door, nodded to Baxter. “Thank you, Detective. Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Wright, Mr. Crocker.”
“My client wishes to make a statement,” Samuel began.
“Great. Hold that thought. Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve,” she began and ran all the particulars as she took a seat. “Mr. Crocker, you’ve been read your rights, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And have stated, for the record, that you understand your rights and obligations in the matter of the investigation into the death of James Jay Jenkins.”
“Yes, I—”
“And have come into this interview of your own volition, and with Samuel Wright as legal counsel?”
Billy cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“You would also like Mr. Goodwin to witness this statement, at this time?”
“Yes.”
“I am here to bear witness,” Luke said, “and to serve as Billy’s spiritual adviser. Lieutenant Dallas, this is very difficult, for all of us. I hope you’ll take into account that Billy has come in, voluntarily, that the statement he intends to make is sincere and heartfelt.”
“I think, of all connected to this matter, all this has been most difficult on Mr. Jenkins, seeing as he’s stone dead. As for heartfel
t and sincere?” She jerked a shoulder. “I don’t much care. I’m interested in the facts. You served up a cyanide shooter for your pal Jimmy Jay, didn’t you, Billy?”
“Don’t answer that. Lieutenant Dallas,” Samuel began in a tight voice, “my client is willing to make a statement, in return for consideration.”
“I’m not feeling real considerate.”
Something flashed in Samuel’s eyes that told Eve he wasn’t either. But he did his job. “The media is running with the two recent homicides, and is especially pushing on the death of my father-in-law. The longer it takes to investigate, the more attention will be paid—and much of it to the detriment of this department, and to you.”
“You want me to cut your client a deal, before he tells me jackshit—and I should do that to spare myself and the NYPSD a little media heat?” She leaned forward. “You know what, Sam? I like the heat, and I haven’t even broken a sweat yet. I’ll have your client tied up and dunked within twenty-four, without his statement. So if that’s all—”
She started to rise, and Peabody stepped up. “Lieutenant, maybe we should take a minute.”
“Maybe you’ve got more time to waste than I do.”
“Lieutenant, come on. I mean, Mr. Crocker did come in, and if two of the victim’s sons-in-law are willing to stand with him, I think we need to hear what he has to say. The circumstances.” She sent Billy a sympathetic look. “None of this could be easy, for anyone. I know you and Mr. Jenkins were friends, good friends, for a long, long time. Whatever happened, it has to be rough. It has to be really hard.”
“We were friends,” Billy managed. “As close as brothers.”
“I get that. We can’t cut deals here. We don’t even know what you’re going to tell us. But that doesn’t mean we can’t, and won’t, listen with an open mind.”
“You can take Murder One off the table,” Samuel argued. “You can contact the prosecutor’s office and arrange for that before this goes any further.”
