Salvation in Death

  Roarke said nothing for a moment. “I considered, spent some time considering actually, not making direct contact with my family in Ireland. Just . . . checking them out, doing a background on my mother’s sister, the others. Maybe observing, you could say, from a distance. Not making the connection.”

  She’d wondered about that. She knew he’d gotten drunk the night before he’d gone to see his aunt. And he wasn’t a man to drink himself drunk.

  “Why?”

  “A dozen reasons. More, a great deal more against it than the single one for making myself knock on that cottage door. I needed to see them, speak to them, hear their voices. Hers, especially. Sinead. My mother’s twin. And I would have rather faced torture than knock.”

  He could remember the moment still, the sweaty panic of it. “It was hideously hard to do. What would they think of me? Would they look at me and see him? And if they did, would I? Would they look at me, see only my sins—which are plentiful—and none of her, the mother I never knew existed? The prodigal son’s a hard role to carry.”

  “But you knocked on the door. That’s who you are.” She was silent as she considered. “It may not be who he was. Someone who could do what he did, live as someone else, something else for years. Hard to explain that to Mommy, unless Mommy’s the kind who wouldn’t give a shit what her baby boy’s done. And kills the fat cow anyway.”

  “That would be fatted, and calf.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A couple of hundred pounds, I’d say. But, to the point, finding out is why we’re going to Brooklyn in this bleeding traffic.”

  “Partly. But, you know, I could’ve kept Peabody on the clock. I figured since we’re going to check out Teresa at work, and work happens to be her Italian brother-in-law’s pizzeria, we could have a nice meal together.”

  He spared her a glance. “Meaning you can put a check in the column that reads: Went out to dinner with Roarke, and consider that a wifely duty dispensed.”

  She shifted, started to deny. Didn’t bother. “Maybe, but we’re still getting all this time together, and what’s billed as really mag Brooklyn-style pizza.”

  “With this traffic, it better be the best shagging pizza in all five boroughs.”

  “At least I’m not asking you to go to six o’clock Mass with me in the morning.”

  “Darling Eve, to get me to do that the amount and variety of the sexual favors required are so many and myriad even my imagination boggles.”

  “I don’t think you can exchange sexual favors for Mass attendance. But if I decide to go check it out, and I get the chance, I’ll ask the priest.”

  She went back to her PPC while Roarke battled through the traffic.

  By Eve’s calculations, it took about as long to travel from downtown Manhattan to Cobble Hill in Brooklyn as it would to take a shuttle from New York to Rome. The pizzeria stood on the corner of a shopping district on the edge of a neighborhood of old row houses with decorated stoops where residents sat to watch their world go by.

  “She’s on tonight,” Eve told Roarke once they’d parked. “But if for some reason she’s not at work, she lives a few blocks down, two over.”

  “Meaning if she’s not at work, I’ll be whistling for my dinner?”

  “I don’t know about the whistling, but it might be postponed for the time it takes me to track her down and talk to her.”

  She stepped into the restaurant and was immediately surrounded by scents that told her if the best pizza in the five boroughs wasn’t to be had here, it would be damn close.

  Murals of various Italian scenes decorated walls the color of toasted Italian bread. Booths, two-tops, four-tops cheerfully crowded together under iron ceiling fans that whisked those scents everywhere.

  Behind the counter in the open kitchen, a young guy in a stained apron tossed pizza dough high, made the catch, tossed, all to the thrilled giggles of kids wedged into a booth with what she supposed were their parents. The waitstaff wore bright red shirts while they carted trays and weaved and threaded between tables to serve. Music played, and someone sang about “amore” in a rich and liquid baritone.

  At a quick scan, Eve saw babies, kids, teens, and right on up to elderly chowing down, chatting, drinking wine, or studying the old-fashioned paper menus.

  “That’s her.” Eve nodded toward the woman setting heaping bowls of pasta on a table. She laughed as she served, a good-looking woman in her early fifties, trim, graceful at her work. Her dark hair, pinned at the nape, framed her face and set off wide, brown eyes.

  “Doesn’t much look like a woman who recently learned her son had been poisoned,” Eve observed.

  Another woman hurried up, one older than Teresa, rounder, and with a welcoming smile. “Good evening. Would you like a table for two?”

  “We would, yes.” Roarke answered the smile. “That section, there”—he gestured to what he’d calculated comprised Teresa’s station—“would be perfect.”

  “It may take a few minutes. If you’d care to wait in the bar, just over there?”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll come for you when we have a table available.”

  The bar lay through an arch, and was as lively as the restaurant. Eve took a stool, angled it to keep an eye on the restaurant while Roarke ordered a bottle of Chianti.

  “Place does a good business,” she commented. “It’s been in this spot for nearly forty years. Brother-in-law’s second generation to run it. She married the owner’s brother about a dozen years ago. Her husband took off—or went missing—when this Lino was about five. He’d be thirty-four now—Lino Martinez. With the records wiped, I can’t find out if he had a record.”

  “Or that he was ever Soldados.”

  “No. I can confirm he’s gone to a lot of trouble over the last half of his life to stay under the radar. Changing locations, identities. If he’s not my Lino, he’s still wrong.”

  “Did you look into her finances?” Roarke asked, and tested the wine the bartender poured into his glass. “Very nice,” he said.

  “As much as I could without legal cause. No bumps or spikes, not on the surface. She lives well within her means, and she works as a waitress, has for a long time.”

  “For the Ortiz family, you said, when she lived on our side of the bridge.”

  “Yeah, and that’s a connection you want to pick up and look over. Got remarried, moved here. She’s got a nine-year-old kid, and went the professional mother route for the first two years of that, then went back to work here. Kid’s in public school—no trouble there—and she has a small savings account. Nothing over the top. Husband’s an MT with no criminal. They’ve got a mortgage, a vehicle payment, the usual. Everything runs normal.”

  The hostess came over. “Your table’s ready. If you’ll just follow me, we’ll bring your wine over. A very nice choice,” she added. “I hope you’re enjoying it.”

  Once they were seated, a busboy brought their wine and glasses on a tray. “Teresa will be your waitress tonight. She’ll be right with you.”

  “How’s the pizza?” Eve asked him, and he beamed. “You won’t get better. My brother’s making it tonight.”

  “Funny,” Eve mused when they were alone. “Family restaurants. Another connection. She worked for the Ortiz family in theirs, then comes here to work in another well-established family business.”

  “It’s what she knows, and maybe what she needs. Her first husband deserted her, and you said there were domestic disturbance reports prior to that. She had her first child very young, and he, too, left her. Or left in any case. Now she’s part of a family again, a link in that chain. She looks content,” he added as Teresa started toward their table.

  “Good evening. Would you like something to start? The roasted artichoke is wonderful tonight.”

  “We’ll just head straight for the pizza. Pepperoni.” Roarke ordered quickly, knowing if he hesitated, Eve might head straight into interrogation.

  “I’ll get t
he order right in for you.”

  She started for the kitchen, stopping when a diner patted her arm. So she paused long enough to have a quick and lively exchange that told Eve the table was filled with regulars.

  Popular, she noted. Well-liked. Efficient.

  “Keep that up,” Roarke warned, “and half the restaurant will make you for a cop in the next two minutes.”

  “I am a cop.” But she shifted her gaze back to him. “If she’s what she looks to be, I bet she keeps up with the Ortiz family. I wonder if she went to the funeral. Her name wasn’t on the list I got from Graciela Ortiz.”

  “Have you checked the floral tributes? Mass cards?”

  “Hmm. I did, before. But I wasn’t looking for Teresa Franco from Brooklyn. Mira thinks the killer will be compelled to confess—to his priest.”

  “Sticky.”

  “Yeah, could be. Billy was easy. He was impulse and lust in addition to faith and righteousness. He knew I knew, and that just tipped it into my lap. If the killer confesses to López or Freeman, it’s going to bog down. They’ll use the sanctity of confession because they believe it.”

  “And you don’t.”

  “Hell no. You cop to a crime, the person you cop to has a responsibility to report it to the authorities.”

  “Black-and-white.”

  She scowled into her wine. “What am I supposed to see? Purple? There’s a reason we separate church and state. I’ve never figured how that deal slipped through the cracks in the divide.” She snagged one of the bread sticks spearing out of a tall glass.

  “I don’t like the possibility of depending on a priest to convince a killer to turn himself in. Billy? Weak-spined little sanctimonious hypocrite, he couldn’t stomach what he did after the fact. Simple as that.”

  She bit in, pointed the rest of the bread stick at Roarke. “But Lino’s killer? That one thought it through, worked it out, there’s some deep motive in there. May be revenge, may be profit, may be protection of self or another—but it’s no smoke screen like Billy’s ‘save the souls’ bullshit.”

  Since it was pointed at him, Roarke stole the bread stick from her. “While I agree, I’m fascinated by the hard line you’re drawing over religion.”

  “It gets used too much, as an excuse, a fall guy, a weapon, a con. A lot of people, maybe most, don’t mean it except when it suits them. Not like Luke Goodwin and López. They mean it. They live it. You can see it in them. Maybe that makes the bullshit harder to take. I don’t know.”

  “And the killer? Does he mean it?”

  “I’m thinking yeah. That’s why he’ll be harder to hang than Billy was. He means it, but he’s not a fanatic, not crazy. Otherwise there’d have been more, a follow-up, some sort of message to support the act.”

  She shrugged, realized she should at least give him something more than murder over dinner. “So, anyway, I didn’t tell you about the fight I broke up today.”

  “Successfully, I assume, as I see no visible wounds.”

  “Bitch bit me.” Eve tapped her shoulder. “I got a damn good dental impression. Over a handbag. Not a mugging. A sale on purses. Ah, Laroche?”

  “Ah, yes. Highly desired handbags, luggage, shoes.”

  “I’ll say, as these two were ready to fight to the death over something called a triple roll. In peony. What the hell is peony?”

  “A flower.”

  “I know it’s a damn flower.” Or she probably did. “Is it a shape, smell, a color?”

  “I’m going to assume color. And probably pink.”

  “I told Mira, and she got this gleam in her eye. Called the shop right then and there and bought it.”

  Roarke sat back and laughed just as Teresa brought their pizza. “I don’t have to tell you two to enjoy yourselves, but I hope you enjoy the pizza. Just let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  Eve watched Teresa move—serving, chatting, picking up orders. “She’s got her groove, her routine. Knows her people—staff and customers. Doesn’t come off like a woman with a deep, dark secret.” Since she gauged the pizza had cooled enough that she could avoid scorching the roof of her mouth, she took a sampling bite. “And okay, damn good pie.”

  “It is. She also doesn’t strike me as a woman who’d fight to the death over a pink designer handbag.”

  “Huh?”

  “Good, serviceable shoes, pretty jewelry, but far from flashy. She wears a wedding ring,” he added. “That says traditional. Her nails are short and tended, and unpainted. She has good skin, and wears—at least at work—minimal enhancers. I’ll wager she’s a woman who takes care of herself, and who likes nice things—things that last—and takes care of what she has as well.”

  Eve smiled at him over another bite. “You’re looking with cop’s eyes.”

  “It’s rude to insult me when I’m buying you dinner. I’ll also wager her handbag is as good and serviceable as her shoes, and that she’d be as baffled as you are by anyone biting a cop over a pink purse.”

  “I don’t disagree.” Eve caught a long string of cheese, folded it back over the slice. “But none of that means she wasn’t aware her firstborn was across the bridge, playing a long con.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  Taking a moment, Eve toyed with her wine. “I don’t think so, but I’m going to find out, one way or the other.”

  Meanwhile, there was no reason not to enjoy really good pizza while she tracked Teresa’s movements through the dining room, the open kitchen.

  She waited until Teresa came back to the table. “How was everything?”

  “Great.”

  “Can I interest you in dessert?” she began as she started to clear. “We have homemade tiramisu tonight. It’s amazing.”

  “Have to pass. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

  Eyes suddenly wary, Teresa lowered her order comp. “Is there a problem?”

  “I need a few minutes.” Eve laid her badge on the table, watched Teresa’s gaze shift to it, stall there. “Private’s best.”

  “Um . . . there’s a little office off the bar, but—”

  “That’ll work.” Eve slid out, rose, knowing she was crowding Teresa’s space.

  “I just need to get someone to cover my tables. Ah . . .”

  “Fine.” Eve glanced at Roarke as Teresa hurried over to another waitress. “Why don’t you come with us?” she said to Roarke. “We’ll see how close you hit the mark on your evaluation.”

  They skirted tables, wound through the bar. The office was little, as advertised, and cozily cluttered. Inside, Teresa linked her fingers, twisted them. “Is something wrong? Did I do something? I’m sorry about the flowers, and Spike was very bad. But I—”

  “Spike?”

  “The puppy. I didn’t know he’d dig in the flowers, and I promised to replace them. I told Mrs. Perini, and she said it was all right.”

  “It’s not about the dog, Mrs. Franco. It’s about your son.”

  “David? Is David all right? What—?”

  “Not David,” Eve said, cutting through the instant maternal alarm. “Lino.”

  “Lino.” Teresa’s hand went to her heart, and her heel pressed there. “If it’s the police, of course, it’s Lino.” Weariness settled over her like a thin, worn blanket. “What has he done?”

  “When’s the last time you had contact with him?”

  “Almost seven years now. Not a word in nearly seven years. He told me he had work. Big prospects. Always big prospects with Lino. Where is he?”

  “Where was he the last time you had contact with him?”

  “Out west. Nevada, he said. He’d been in Mexico for a time. He calls, or sends e-mail. Sometimes he sends money. Every few months. Sometimes a year goes by. He tells me he’ll come home, but he doesn’t.” She sat. “I’m relieved that he doesn’t, because he carries trouble with him. Like his father. And I have another son. I have David, and he’s a good boy.”

  “Mrs. Franco, you’re aware Lino belonged t
o the Soldados?”

  “Yes, yes.” She sighed. “His brothers, he called them. He had their mark put on him.” She rubbed a hand on her forearm. “Nothing I did stopped him; nothing I said swayed him. He’d make promises, and break them. Go his own way. There was always police with Lino.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “He left home when he was seventeen. He’s never come back.”

  “You used to work for Hector Ortiz.”

  “Years ago. He was good to me. To us. He gave Lino a job, a little job when he was fifteen. Busing tables, sweeping up. And Lino stole from him.”

  Even now, it seemed the memory of it brought an embarrassed flush to her cheeks. “He stole from that good man, that good family. And shamed us.”

  “Did you attend Mr. Ortiz’s funeral service?”

  “No. I wanted to, but David’s parent-teacher conference was that day. Tony, my husband, and I make sure we both attend every one. It’s important. I sent flowers.” Something flickered in her eyes. “The priest was killed during the Mass. I heard about it. And I heard they’re saying—the police are saying—he wasn’t a priest at all. Oh God. Oh God.”

  “Mrs. Franco.” Eve crouched until they were eye-to-eye, then drew an evidence pouch out of her field bag. “Is this Lino’s?”

  Teresa’s breath went ragged as she reached for the bag, as her thumb rubbed the front of the medal through the seal. She turned it over, and her eyes blurred with tears as she read the inscription on the back. “I gave him this for his First Holy Communion. He was seven, seven years old. He was still my boy then, most of him was still my little boy. Before he got so angry, before he wanted so much more than I could give. Is he dead? Is Lino dead? Did he kill the priest? Oh God, did he take the life of a priest?”

  “I think he may have, Mrs. Franco, in more ways than one. The body of the man who posed as Father Flores had a tattoo removed. From his forearm. The gang symbol of the Soldados. He’d had facial reconstruction. He had this medal hidden in his room.”

  The color simply leached out of her face. “You think this man, this priest, was Lino.”