Read Salvation in Death Online
Authors: J. D. Robb
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths
“They won’t.” With that Eve walked the half a block more to Ernest’s.
It was an upscale kind of diner, with service at its stainless counter, or chummy booths. Service was quick, the food simple.
Mira sat at one of the two-top booths, sipping something cold from a clear glass. Her rich brown hair curled at her nape, and in a new flirtatious way, around her serene and pretty face. The look of her, Eve thought, in her spring’s-here yellow suit and textured heels in ball-lightning blue, seemed more suited to one of the trendy cafés than the cop diner.
Then again, she supposed the police psychologist and profiler had no more time for fancy lunches than she did herself.
Mira saw her, smiled.
“Sorry I’m late. There was a fight over a Laroche triple roll bag. In peony.”
“You had a fight over a purse?”
Eve had to grin at Mira’s utter shock. “No, I had to break one up. It’s a purse? I figured it had to at least be a suitcase to get that much insanity. Or maybe it was the ten percent off. Anyway—”
“Wait, there’s a sale on the Laroche triple? Where?”
“Just down the street. Half a block south. Ah, Encounters, I think it’s called.”
“I know that shop.” Mira pulled out her ’link. “Why don’t you decide what you’d like for lunch, and I’ll . . . Yes, Mizzie, this is Charlotte Mira. Yes, it’s good to talk to you again. You have the Laroche triple, in peony, on sale? Would you put that aside for me? I’m just having lunch at Ernest’s, so I’ll stop in to pick it up on my way back to work. Yes, thank you. Oh, I’d love to see that, too—if I have time. I’ll see you shortly.”
With a smug smile, Mira clicked off. “Isn’t that my good luck? I’ve been toying with getting that bag, and talking myself out of it. But, well, a sign’s a sign.”
“I guess.”
“I’m going to have the Greek salad,” Mira said when their waiter stopped at the table, “and another iced tea.”
“Two salads,” Eve said. “Pepsi.”
Mira let out a contented sigh. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it? It’s nice to get out of the office, to score a Laroche, and to see you. You look well, for someone who just broke up a fight.”
“One of them bit me.”
“Oh.” Mira’s smile faded into concern. “Is it bad? Do you want me to look at it?”
“No.” Eve rolled her shoulder. “I don’t get it. Scratch, bite, squeal, slap. Why do women fight like that? They’ve got fists. It’s embarrassing to our entire gender.”
“Yes, I can see a fistfight over the triple roll would have been much less embarrassing for all involved.”
Eve had to laugh. “Okay, guess not. Anyway, I know you don’t have much time. I’ve got a lock on the Jenkins murder. It’s not connected to Flores.”
“Unlike the probability?”
“Copycat, impulse. Probably a long, simmering deal that flashed over when the Flores deal hit the media. So, it’s loosely connected. But a different killer, and different circumstances.”
“A repeat killer or serial was a worry.”
“Did you see it that way?”
“It couldn’t be ignored. The targeting of figures in religious organizations, the ceremony or ‘performance.’ But, it also had to be factored in that each of the victims was remarkably different, in the faith base, their public exposure. You have a confession on Jenkins?”
“Not yet. I’m letting him stew in it. If I don’t have one within the next few hours, I’ll stir it some more. So it’s the Flores case I need to kick around.”
Mira took one of the table crackers, which looked as unappetizing as what Eve thought of as the Catholic cookie. She broke off a microscopic corner, nibbled on it.
“The false priest,” Mira said, “killed at the moment of ritual when he stands most emphatically as a servant of God and as his earthly representative. This is
my
blood—that’s what’s said. If the killer believed him to be Flores, believed him to be a true priest, this would indicate some direct attack on the church and its ritual, on the priesthood. Your investigation hasn’t found any evidence of a personal problem with the victim—as Flores. He could, of course, have heard something in confession that the penitent later regretted passing on.”
“Which means the killer likely belonged to that church, or is, at least, Catholic.”
“I believe whether it was simply a priest—or the individual masquerading as one—who was the target, that the killer has strong ties to the Catholic Church, and to that parish. The method was another kind of ritual, and I don’t believe choosing to execute the murder during a funeral mass was happenstance.”
“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 church—when you use violence instead of hard work and education to get what you want.”