by J. D. Robb
“Members of the parish?”
“No. But there’s those blurred boundary lines.” She moved back to the holo. “Could be friends, family along that blur, connections who were in the parish, were members of the church. But . . . Catholic question.”
“I don’t know why in hell you’d ask me.”
“Because. Could it be eye for an eye—payment, penance—if the past vic was a known gang member—out there doing pretty much what Lino was doing? If he was killed or harmed during a gang altercation?”
“If it was a loved one I don’t see why it would matter. Love doesn’t qualify.”
“From the Catholic angle,” Eve insisted.
He sighed, sipped brandy, and tried to put his head into it. “It seems, if we follow your way of thinking through this, that to justify murder—as it bloody well was—the act should have been in reciprocation for the death of an innocent. Or at least someone who was minding his own at the time, and hadn’t done murder himself. But—”
“That’s what I’m thinking. I get the but,” she added, waving a hand in the air. “Murder isn’t logical, it doesn’t follow nice clean lines. Those who set out to kill make their own rules. However, butting your but—”
“Christ, no wonder I love you.”
“This was logical, and it does follow lines. Kill priest in church with God’s blood. Well, technically wine because Lino wasn’t ordained and all so he couldn’t actually do the transubstantiation.”
“And you have the nerve to ask me Catholic questions when you can spout off transubstantiation.”
“I studied up. The point is the motive’s going to fit the method. I think—”
She broke off when her computer announced, Task complete.
“I think,” she continued, “that the killer is a core member of the church. One of those who never misses Sunday Mass, and goes to confession . . . How often are you supposed to go to confession?”
Scowling, he jammed his hands into his pockets. “How the bloody, buggering hell should I know?”
She smiled at him, very sweetly. “What is it about asking you Catholic questions that gets you all jumpy?”
“You’d be jumpy, too, if I asked you things that make you feel the hot breath of hell at your back.”
“You’re not going to hell.”
“Oh, and have you got some inside intel on that?”
“You married a cop. You married me. I’m your goddamn salvation. Computer, display primary data, screen one. These are the owners and/or tenants of the properties along Lino’s jogging route.”
“My salvation, are you?” He caught her around the waist, yanked her in. “And what would I be to you then?”
“I guess you’re mine, pal. And if I’m wrong? Hey, we’ll go down in flames together. Now, try for some more redemption and check out this data with me.”
He kissed her first, long and lingering. “I can’t figure out something about hell.”
“What’s that?”
“Would there be plenty of sex, because all the tenants are sinners, or none at all, with celibacy as the eternal punishment?”
“If I get around to it, I’ll ask López. Data.”
He obliged her by turning her around to face the screen, then drawing her back against him, and studying it over the top of her head. “And what do these names tell us?”
“I’ve got more data—runs on the owners, the tenants, including how long at current address, previous address. Ortega . . . Rosa O’Donnell mentioned that name. Computer, display secondary data, screen two.”
“So, following your hunch, we’re looking for longevity in that neighborhood. Someone, or a family, who’s lived there since Lino was Soldado captain.”
“Yeah, that’s one point. Another is the jogging route. What there could be along it that connected to Lino, or interested him. Gain. He was gain and ego. First point is revenge. A lot of people stick,” she observed. “Look at that. Ortega. Third generation in that property. And this one. Sixty years ago it’s a piecework factory—probably gray market and a hive of illegal workers. Now it’s lofts and condos, owned by the same guy. Huh. Who also owns the house next to Ortiz. Computer, complete run on Ortega, José.”
Working . . .
“I know that name,” Roarke said quietly. “Something about that name. Ah . . . Another building, East Side, middle Nineties. Retail space street level, studio space on the second. Living—I believe—living space on third and fourth. I looked into buying it a few years ago.”
“Looked into?”
“I can’t recall all the details, but I know I didn’t buy it. Some legal tangle with Ortega.”
Task complete . . .
“Let’s see. Computer, split screen two, display new data. José Ortega’s listed as thirty-five years of age—the vic’s age. How the hell did he own that property sixty years ago?”
“Ancestor of the same name, I’d say. I remember José Ortega died several years ago. Yes, I remember now, the legal tangle was with his estate. This must be the grandson, and heir.”
She ordered the computer to check, then shook her head at the data hiccup. “Okay, José Ortega, died 2052, age of ninety-eight. One son, Niko, died 2036, along with his wife and his mother in a hotel fire in Mexico City. The old man survived as did his then eleven-year-old grandson.”
“The old man raised him. Yes, I’m remembering bits and pieces now. And the grandson, naturally, inherited when the old man passed. Word was—when I was interested in the property—and a bit of poking confirmed, that the younger Ortega didn’t have his grandfather’s business sense. And some of the property amassed declined somewhat. I liked the building on the East Side, and made an offer.”
“He said no?”
“He couldn’t be located when I was putting out feelers. And I found something I liked better.”
“Couldn’t be located. It lists the place on East 120th as his current address.”
“That may be, but four—or it may have been five—years ago, when I wanted the building, Ortega wasn’t in New York. We had to work through a lawyer, who was—if my memory serves—considerably frustrated by his client’s disappearance.”
“Computer, search for Missing Persons reports on Ortega, José, with this last known address.”
“I didn’t say he was missing so much as incommunicado,” Roarke began, then his eyebrows lifted when he saw the reports come on-screen. “Aren’t you the clever girl?”
“Reported missing by Ken Aldo, his spouse, in September of 2053 in Las Vegas, Nevada. Computer, display data and ID photo, Aldo, Ken.” She waited, then felt it fall into place. “Well, hello, Lino.”
“Your victim.”
“Yeah, that’s Lino. He changed the hair, added the beard, dicked with the eye color, but that’s Lino Martinez.”
“Who entered into marriage with Ortega shortly before the old man’s death, according to this.”
“Which is bullshit. Just another con. I’ve got nothing that points at Lino being gay or bi. Straight hetero. Liked women. He’d have known Ortega. Had to. They grew up in the same area. Computer, full data on Ortega, José, DOB 2025. Same age, same school. I guess the old man supported public education. And look here, got some slaps for illegals use and possession. Stints in rehab.”
She went with the gut. “Computer, list any tattoos on current subject.”
Acknowledged. Working . . . Current subject bears tattoo on left forearm. Describe or display?
“Display.”
“There it is,” Eve said, when the cross with its center heart pierced by the blade came on-screen. “Ortega was Soldado. He was one of Lino’s. Not his spouse, never his fucking spouse. That’s bogus. His captain.”
“The marriage records could have been faked, and post-recorded. Easy enough for someone with the skill to fake the Flores ID as he did.”
“Yeah. Easy enough. Who’s the lawyer?” Eve demanded. “Who’s the lawyer you dealt with on the Ortega thing?”
“
I’ll get that for you.”
“I’ll put money that Ken Aldo sought legal counsel, that he made inquiries about declaring his spouse legally dead. Seven years. It takes seven years. He’d gotten through six of them, and was rounding for home. Long patience,” she said. “Just a few more months to go, and if he’d lined up his ducks correctly, he’d inherit—the promise. Big house, businesses, buildings. Millions. Many, many millions.”
“And with that much riding,” Roarke put in, “you’d want to keep your eye on it—I would. Yes, you’d want to have a look at it, make sure it was being tended to.”
“Flores has been missing about the same amount of time. Add the time from when Flores was last reported seen, and when Lino, as Flores, requested the assignment at St. Cristóbal’s.”
“Time between to have the face work.” Roarke nodded in agreement. “To study, plan, have the tat removed, alter records. A few months for that,” he calculated. “More than enough if you focused.”
“What better way to keep an eye on things without anyone making any connection between you and who you are, or who you intend to be when the time’s right?”
“That residential is listed as Ortega’s last address, but there’s a tenant listed.” Roarke gestured to the screen. “Or tenants. Hugh and Sara Gregg. At that location for nearly five years.”
Eve called for their data. “They look straight. Two kids. Both of them doctors. We’ll have to chat at some point. I need coffee.”
She strode to the kitchen to program it, lined up her thoughts.
“Ortega and Lino knew each other as kids, grew up in the same area, went to the same school. Ortega joins the Soldado, which aligns him with Lino. Not high up, as his name hasn’t come up from any of my sources. Foot soldier maybe, or with his grandfather’s money, a kind of treasure chest. They connect again, or may have kept in touch. But after Ortega’s grandfather died and leaves him pretty stinking rich, Lino’s wheels start turning.”
She drank coffee, then pinned Ortega’s ID shot to her board. “Lino gets Ortega out West. Let’s hang. Gamble, screw around. Gets rid of Ortega, pulls out the fake documentation, and reports him missing. Nice and legal. I’ll need the reports on that.”
“Then Martinez would contact the lawyer,” Roarke added. “He has to have the documentation. Surprise, I’m Ken, José’s same-sex spouse, and he’s missing. I’ve told the police. He’d probably cover, ask if the lawyer would contact him if he hears from José, or gets any information. He’s very worried, after all.”
“As legal spouse, you’d have some access to some funds, could petition for more. But he’s not worried about that. He has a plan. He’s got to be patient. Seven years’ patient. But then? Jackpot. Problem is, he can’t keep his hands off Penny, or his mouth from running to her. He actually loves her. He wants to share all this good fortune with her. He’s back—or will be back—and riding high.”
“As Ken Aldo?”
“No, no, that would take the shine off. He’d want the shine. He’d have to come back as himself at the end of it. He’d have that worked. How would you do that?” she asked Roarke.
“Transfer properties—on paper. I imagine as Ken Aldo he’d have a forged will from Ortega, with him as full beneficiary. Once that’s in his hand, some bogus sale of the properties. Aldo to Martinez.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s all paper. It’s all just follow the dots. Lino gets his face back and comes home a rich man, with some bullshit about making a killing out West. Seven years on the down-low, and he’ll have everything he ever wanted.”
She turned to study the holo again. “His father took off when he was a kid. Eventually his mother had him declared legally dead so she could get on with her life. Lino wouldn’t have forgotten that. And seven years. Why would the cops out West sniff around Ken Aldo when there’s no body, no sign of foul play? Instead you’ve got a screwup, with an illegals record, taking off.”
“Still they’d have looked at this Aldo, wouldn’t they?” Roarke took her coffee to have some himself. “Isn’t that what you do? Suspect the spouse first?”
“Rule of thumb. They’d have run him, asked questions. He was smart, it was smart to pick Vegas for it. Gambling, sex, make sure they’re seen together. Maybe talk Ortega into some high stakes. He wins, he loses, it doesn’t matter. Money, loss or gain, it’s always a motive for taking off. He’d have played that right with them,” she considered. “Admit maybe they weren’t getting along perfectly well, having a few marital problems, but they loved each other. He’s just so worried. He just wants to know José is all right. He had to lay some groundwork for it. If the cops weren’t complete idiots, they’d check with people who knew the MP, who knew the person who reported him missing.”
“It just takes knowing the right people, and how much they cost.”
“Yeah, there’s a point. It’s earlier there, right, in Vegas. The stupid time zone crap actually works for me this time. I can get those investigators’ reports tonight.”
“And your killer’s killer?”
“Working on it. I’ve got more pressure to put on Penny now. She knew all of this. He’d have told her the details of it. And if she had a part in his murder—and she damn well did—she had a line to the Ortega money. No way she’d have given up millions just to ditch Lino. She helped kill him so she could have it all. I’m going to need the name of that lawyer.”
“I’ll get it now.” He turned toward his office, glanced back. “That’s quite a bit from one cake, Lieutenant.”
She grinned fiercely as she went to her ’link. “It was one hell of a cake.”
In short order, she read over the initial report, the statements, the interviews. It didn’t come as much of a surprise to read one of those statements came from one Steven Jorge Chávez, identified as a longtime friend of the MP who’d come to Vegas to meet up at the MP’s request.
“Chávez, Lino’s co-captain in the Soldados, backed him on Ortega,” Eve told Roarke. “As Ken Aldo’s data stated he’d been born in Baja, and had spent his childhood in California and New Mexico, there was no reason to look for a connection between him and Chávez. He told the cops Ortega had confided in him one night that he was feeling closed in, pressured—by his marriage and his responsibilities back East. That he wished he could just ‘disappear.’ ”
“Laying it on a bit thick,” Roarke commented.
“Yeah, but they bought it. Had no reason not to. And the high stakes played through. Ortega rolled in a couple hundred thousand at the blackjack tables two days before he was reported missing.”
“Lucky streak, good or bad, depending on your point of view.”
“Yeah, could have been the springboard for getting rid of him.”
“In any case”—Roarke studied her board, crowded now with all the players—“it’s enough to buy a new face.”
“The rest of the finances wouldn’t zip straight to the spouse as, until they had a body, the MP would be considered alive and well. At least for seven years.”
He looked over at Eve. She was revving now, he noted. Juiced. Between the adrenaline and the coffee, she’d run half the night. “And Chávez goes in the wind shortly after the statement.”
“Both he and Flores. Check this. In the investigators’ notes, they mention that Aldo was so distraught, he asked if there was a priest or a chaplain he could talk to.”
“And Flores was there.”
“I think Flores was in the wrong place at the wrong time on his sabbatical. I think when Lino worked a con, he went into it deep. When he came back to check with the police the next day, he had Flores with him. The report says he identified himself as Miguel Flores, and Aldo referred to him as Father. The cop did the job, checked Flores out, ran him, and got the background, verified. He came in twice more, with Flores, then stated that he intended to return home, to Taos, and left his contact information with the investigators. He checked in weekly for three months, and every month for a full year. Then he dropped it.”
&n
bsp; She sat back. “I think we narrow our search for Flores, for his remains to Nevada. A lot of desert around Vegas. A lot of places to bury a body. Or two. We’ll focus that on the area from Vegas to Taos, figuring if he convinced Flores to travel with him at all, he’d have stuck to the route he gave the cops.”
“You won’t be able to close this, not in your mind, until you find Flores. Or what remains of him.”
She sat back. She didn’t need the board, the photos to see Flores. She had his face in her head. “Peabody said that cases like this make her wish bad guys would just be bad guys. There are plenty of those, that’s what I said. Somebody like Flores, he never did anyone any harm. He got a big cosmic slap when bad guys took his family, but he doesn’t do any harm. Tries, in fact, to live a life that does the opposite.”
“It’s more often than not innocents, isn’t it, who get caught in the cross fire.”
“Yeah, and this one wanted to examine his life. His faith, I guess. That’s what I get from it. They took that life because he tried to help someone he thought was in need.” No, she didn’t need the board, didn’t need the photo. “I’ve got to find who killed Lino Martinez. That’s my job. But Flores deserves somebody to stand for him. He deserves that. Anyway.” She glanced at the memo cube Roarke had put on her desk. “Is that the lawyer?”
“It is, yes.”
She turned to her ’link with the memo.
“Eve, you’re in the same time zone now, and it’s closing on midnight.”
She only smiled. “Yeah, there’s this small, petty satisfaction I’m getting at the idea of waking up a lawyer. It’s wrong, but it’s there.”
20
THE LAWYER DIDN’T APPRECIATE THE MIDNIGHT call, but she snagged his interest.
“Mr. Aldo and I are in contact regularly, and have been since Mr. Ortega’s disappearance.”
“You’ve met Mr. Aldo.”
“Not in a personal sense. We correspond via e-mail most usually. He lives in New Mexico, and has a secondary residence in Cancún. He travels extensively.”
