Salvation in Death

SHE NEEDED THINKING TIME. CLOSED IN WITH the case time where she could put the pieces of everything she knew, didn’t know, everything that had been said, left unsaid together with people, events, evidence, and speculation, and see what kinds of pictures formed.

She needed to take a good hard look at the victims in the two bombings, and their families, their connections. She needed to consider the blackmail angle, which she already knew would be a deep and sticky well. If López wouldn’t tell her the name of a murderer, he sure as hell wasn’t going to share the names of people who’d confessed blackmail-able transgressions to him.

How had Lino collected the money? she wondered as she drove home. Where had he kept the funds, or had he just pissed it away as it came in? Expensive hotel rooms and lavish meals, gaudy jewelry for his bed partner.

Not enough, she thought. A few thousand here and there? What was the point in risking exposure for a fancy suite and a bottle of champagne?

Showing off to the old girlfriend? Stuben said Penny Soto had been his weak spot. So . . . It could be that simple. Wanting to be rich, important, and having his woman see him as both.

Or as simple as needing the rush, of knowing you were pulling a fast one. Reminding yourself who you were while you were pretending to be another. Like a hobby.

She drove through the gates, then slowed down. There were flowers where she was damn sure there hadn’t been flowers that morning. Tulips—she was pretty sure—and daffodils. She liked daffodils because they were so bright and silly. Now there were rivers of both where there hadn’t been so much as a drop ten hours earlier.

She continued on, stopped and parked. And there were three enormous red pots literally engorged with petunias. White petunias—her wedding flower. Sentimental slob, she thought even as she went gooey herself. Simple pleasure warred against the ugly tension she’d been fighting to ignore since her interview with Penny Soto.

She walked in to see Galahad perched like a pudgy gargoyle on the newel post—new spot for him—and Summerset hovering, as usual, in the foyer.

“Yeah, we’re renaming it Utopia.” She gave Galahad a quick rub as she started upstairs. “Next stage is to get rid of all the assholes. You should get a head start and pack your bags.” She paused briefly. “Did Roarke talk to Sinead?”

She went directly to the bedroom. Roarke was probably home, she thought—Summerset would’ve said if he wasn’t. And he was probably in his office, so she should’ve gone there, connected with him.

But she wasn’t ready, just not ready for the connection. That war continued, beefing up now that she’d made it home. Where she knew she was safe, where she knew she could let go, just a little. Home, where she could acknowledge her belly was raw, the back of her neck tight knots of stress.

Stupid, she thought, it was stupid to feel sick, to have to fight against being sick. To feel anything but suspicion and disgust for a woman like Penny Soto.

She didn’t realize Roarke had come into the room until his hand brushed her cheek. He moved so quietly, she thought, barely stirred the air if he didn’t choose. No wonder he’d been such a successful thief.

“Nothing. Nothing really.” But she turned to him, turned into him when he lay beside her. And pressed her face into his shoulder. “I needed to be home. I needed to be home first. I was right about that. But I thought I needed to be alone, just be alone until I got level. I was wrong. Can we just stay here awhile?”

“I had a ’link conference here shortly after you left this morning regarding some R&D at Euroco, one of my arms in Europe that deals primarily with transportation. We have a very interesting sea-road-air personal sports vehicle coming out early next year. I had meetings in midtown, but Sinead called from Ireland before I left. It was nice to hear from her. They’ve acquired a new puppy and named it Mac, who she claims is more trouble than triplet toddlers. She sounds madly in love with him.”

She listened to his voice, more than the words. Something about a meeting with team leaders on a project called Optimum, and a holoconference dealing with his Olympus Resort, a lunch session with key members of one of his interests in Bejing. A merger, an acquisition, conceptual drawings.

“It’s been nearly two years since we were married.” He kissed the top of her head, then turned his to rest his cheek there. “And with Louise and Charles about to have their wedding here, it made me think of the petunias. How the simple—a flower, a few minutes to talk to a relation—makes the complicated worthwhile.”

“They are. It’s good to be reminded that things come around again, fresh and new. And some things remain, steady and solid. The call from Sinead brought both back to me. Are you ready to tell me what’s the matter?”

“Sometimes things come around again that are old and hard.” She sat up, shoved at her hair. “I brought Penny Soto in for questioning today. Actually, I baited her into taking a pop at me so I could charge her with assault and resisting.”

“The assault was mostly technical. She was Lino’s main lay when they were teenagers. Works in the bodega right next to the church, the bodega he frequented, pretty much daily.”

“She was the one who knew him,” she said, remembering Roarke’s words from the morning. “The one he needed to tell. Yeah, they reconnected, and in the biblical sense—according to her. I buy that. You’d have to buy that. So she knew who he was, and some of what he was up to—maybe all, but I couldn’t get that out of her. Yet.

“Hobby. More,” Roarke continued, “habit. The masquerade didn’t change who and what he was under it, and what was under it would need the hit. The buzz.”

“Yeah, I circled around that. It doesn’t feel like motive. I know, tried and true,” she said before he could disagree, “I’ll get to why I don’t think it’s going to weigh in, or not much.”

First she wanted to get the rest out, get it off her chest. “The thing is . . . Once I get Soto in the box, putting some pressure on, pissing her off, it comes out of her that her father . . .”

“She’s snapping and snarling it at me, how her old man started on her when she was about twelve, how her useless mother was a junkie, how he beat her and molested her for two years before she joined the Soldados. They were her way out, the escape hatch. And there’s a part of me that gets it, that feels for her, that’s trying not to look at her and see me. To see . . .”

She pressed a hand to her belly, used the pressure to finish it. “Because when she was fourteen, after she’d joined the Soldados, her father was stabbed to death—hacked to bloody death. It went down as a bad illegals deal, since that was his business. But I know, I know when I’m looking at her, and seeing myself, that she had the knife in her hand. That she rammed it in him, again and again. Probably her and Lino together—first kill, lovers’ bond. And no matter what I know, part of me’s saying you did the same as she did. How can you blame her? You did the same.”

“No, you didn’t. No, Eve,” he said before she could speak, “you didn’t do the same. I don’t have to hear the rest to know it. To know that while fourteen is still a child, it’s six years and a world beyond what you were. And you were in prison, not able to get out as she was, and as she did. No escape hatch for you, no friends, no family, not of any kind. She did it for revenge, not for survival.”

She rose to go to the bag she’d dropped on the way to the bed, and took out a photo. She laid it on the bed. “I see him when I look at that. I see my father and what I did.”

He picked it up, studied the harsh crime scene still of the man sprawled on a filthy, littered floor, swimming in his own blood. “No child did this,” Roarke said. “Even a terrified, desperate child couldn’t, not in self-defense, not alone.”

She let out a breath. It probably wasn’t the time to mention he’d make a good cop. “No, there were two attackers. They established that as the wounds were from two different knives. Different blade types and sizes, different force, different angles. I expect one of them lured him there, and the other laid in wait. They came at him from the front and from behind. The sexual mutilation was post-mortem. She probably did that. But—”

“It amazes me,” he said quietly. “It astounds me that you can look at this kind of thing, every day. You can look every day and continue to care, every day. Don’t stand there and tell me you did the same. Don’t stand there and tell me you see yourself in her.”

“She’s proud of it, proud she’s killed. Tell me, Eve, can you tell me you have pride in any of the lives you’ve had to take?”

She shook her head. “It made me sick—no, made me want to be sick. And I couldn’t be. Wouldn’t be. I couldn’t think about it, not really think about it, until I got home. I could think about it here, in case I fell apart. I know we’re not the same. I know it. But there’s a parallel.”

“As there is between me and your victim.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “And yet here we are, you and me. Here we are because somewhere along the line, those parallels verged, and took markedly different paths.”

She turned, picked up the photo to put it back in her bag. She’d look again. She would look again. “Two years ago—a little more—I wouldn’t have had anyone to say these things to. Even if I’d remembered what happened when I was eight, and before. Nobody, not even Mavis, and I can tell her anything. But I couldn’t show her a photo like that, I couldn’t ask her to look at that, and see what I see. I don’t know how long I could’ve kept looking, kept caring, if I didn’t have someone to come home to who’d look with me when I needed it.”

She sat on the bed again, sighed. “Jesus, it’s been a day. Penny knows more than she’s saying, and she’s hard. She’s got layers and layers of hard on her, slapped right over mean and possibly psychotic. I have to find the way through.”

“No, but I think she made sure she was alibied tight because she knew it was going down. I think the asshole loved her, and she loves no one. Maybe she used that against him. I need to think. I saw López, and Mira hit the target there. Lino’s killer confessed to his priest, and there’s nothing I can do. I look at this guy, Roarke, at López and I see another victim.”

“I don’t know. I put him under surveillance. I could bring him in, legally, I could bring him in and wind him up for a few days, until the lawyers cut through it. But I need to leave him out, need to hope the killer will go back to him. And I look at him and I see he’s sick in his heart. I know he’s got this fist pounding on his conscience. There’s nothing I can do,” she repeated. “Just like there’s nothing López can do. We’re stuck, both of us, stuck with our duty.”

She flopped back on the bed. “I need to clear my head, come at it again. It winds all over hell and back. Flores—why him, and where did his path cross with Lino? Where the hell is Chávez? Dead? Hiding? What was Lino waiting for? Was he killed for that, or does it go back to the past? The bombings? He did both of them, I’m damn well sure, so—”

She pushed up again. “Sorry. I need to lay it out, reorganize, look at the time lines, change up my board. I need to do runs on a whole shitload of people and look at all that from various angles.”

“What do you take me for?” he asked, looping his arm around her waist. “My aunt just happens to get in touch the same morning I’m a bit off thinking about my connections in Ireland, and what—who—I’ve lost there? It’s nice to be looked after.”

“Ah . . .” Roarke raked his fingers through his hair. “Yes. A moment.” He dismissed Summerset. “I’m sorry, it slipped my mind. I can go down, take care of it. I’ll simply tell them you’re still at work, which you will be.”

“Ariel.” She had a flash of the pretty brunette who’d been held and tortured by a madman for days. And stayed sane, strong and smart.

“No.” Reaching down, she took Roarke’s hand. “It’s like the call from your aunt. It’s good to remember what matters. Ariel matters. So,” she continued as they moved toward the steps, “she and Erik the neighbor are making it work.”

“Jesus, it’s like a virus, this marriage thing. I could’ve met her at Central—or elsewhere,” she added. “Probably should have. You can’t have victims and wits and all manner of God knows dropping in here.”

“Yeah, but . . . did? She quit? Goddamn that sick-ass Lowell. Did he take that away from her? She loved to bake, and your place downtown had to be a great gig.”

“I know a lot about so many things.” He gave her hand a squeeze. As they started down the steps, Eve heard the voices from the parlor. She heard Ariel laugh.

She’d cut her hair. It was the first thing Eve noticed. Robert Lowell had liked his victims with long hair, long brown hair. So Ariel had cut hers into a short, sleek cap and punched red into it. It looked good on her, Eve thought—though it probably helped that the woman wasn’t pale, bleeding, and battling pain.

“Hi!” Then tears popped out as she rushed across the room and clamped her arms around Eve. “Not crying, not really crying. And I’ll stop in a minute.”

“I’ve been giving Ari a hand setting up the new shop.” He grinned at Roarke, all spiky black-and-bronze hair and happiness. “It rocks.”

“My own little bakery boutique. I’m going to make you a lot of money. I wasn’t sure I could do it, or much of anything when I first got out of the hospital. But you were so sure I could,” she said to Roarke.

“He said he’d bring in something that would suit. I hope that’s okay. Um, I don’t know if you remember, but when you saved my life and all that, I promised I’d bake you a cake. So . . .”

An edible New York spread out, with its streets, its buildings, its rivers and parks, the tunnels, the bridges. Rapid cabs, maxibuses, jet-bikes, scooters, delivery vans, and other vehicles crammed those streets. People jammed sidewalks and glides. Shop windows held tiny, glittery displays, and glide-cart vendors served soy dogs and veggie hash.

“That’s a kick-my-ass-and-call-me-Sally holy shit. There’s an illegals deal going down off Jane Street,” Eve murmured, “and this guy’s getting mugged in Central Park.”

Stunned, Eve crouched down to stare at the image of herself Ariel had created. She stood on a slim tower, over the city. She wore her long, black coat, caught in mid-billow and boots even she could see were scuffed at the toe. In one hand she held her badge—right down to her rank and badge number, and in the other her weapon.

“She spent weeks on the design,” Erik told them, pride riding in every word. “Kept changing it. The good part is I got to sample the rejects.”

“It’s by far the frostiest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m going to be the cop who ate Manhattan.” Laughing, Eve straightened. “Listen, I’ve got these friends getting married pretty soon. She’s really going to want to talk to you.”

“I can get with that. I think I’m going to have a slice of the Upper East Side since . . .” Eve trailed off, narrowed her eyes. And crouched again.

“It’s different from a map. Different even from being there, being in it. This . . . it’s kind of like a God’s-eye view.”

She rose, circled, squatted down. “Boundaries change, depending on the people. Who comes in, who goes out. Back fifteen, twenty years ago, the Soldado turf ran from East 96th up to 120th. Solid fourteen blocks from the East River over to Fifth. And the Skulls held 122nd up to 128th, with some territory west of Fifth where they disputed borders with the Bloods. But this area right here, this eastern slice between 118th and 124th, that was the hot zone of the battleground, that was where each wanted more territory. That was where the bombings took place.”

“Here’s the church, and the rectory behind it,” Eve continued. “Deep in Soldado territory. The youth center—northwest of the church, but still in boundaries. Now, up here . . . What’s happened here, just a few blocks north of where the youth center was built? In that one-time hot zone.”

“Gentrification. Homes and properties, just hitting the edge of St. Cristóbal’s parish. A few were there before, the ones that held on during and after the Urbans. And in the last ten, twelve years, there’s more. Successful business owners and so on, settling here, cleaning it up, increasing its value. He’d see this every day. Somebody who lived here, crossed up and over to the center, visited parishioners—and bonded with the Ortiz family—would see this neighborhood, the houses, town homes, condos every day. He’d have seen them twenty years ago. He’d have seen that section every day. He wanted to keep it. He wanted more.”

“Sorry. Something just hit me, made me think about a case.” She straightened, but kept her gaze on the Upper East Side. “I think maybe we’ll take that slice out of the Lower West. SoHo looks good enough to eat.”

She ate cake, she drank champagne, and spent the better part of an hour doing her duty—and trying to keep at least part of her mind on the conversation. The minute their guests were out the door, Eve went back to the cake.

“And involve less calories. But before I do . . .” He crooked his finger, then started toward the steps. “What’s the point?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. It was just looking down at it that way, different perspective. You can see, clearly, how the borders between gang turf ran, how they blended, putting certain areas in contention. And how the neighborhood’s changed. Where everything is. Church, rectory, youth center, the Ortiz home, the restaurant. Then there’s Lino’s former apartment building. And I’m thinking about what Lino said to his mother, to Penny. He’d come back with a big car, have a big house. You can get a car anywhere, but the house—”

“Would have to be in the neighborhood. He can’t show it off unless it’s in the neighborhood. But, if he had a big house in the neighborhood, why was he living in the rectory?”

“I don’t know if he actually had it, or if he was just coveting it. But he was waiting for something. Years of waiting, deliberately on his home turf. If he sticks that long, and under those circumstances, doesn’t it follow he may have planned to stick for good?”

“The big house, the wealth, the importance, and the girl.” With a nod, Roarke strode down the hall with her. “And the ground you’ve always considered yours.”

“When he got what he was waiting for—and it has to be money, or something that leads to money—why leave again? He wasn’t here for shits and smiles. He had a purpose. I haven’t looked for it here, because I was going on the assumption he came here to hide. Maybe so, probably so.”

She pushed at her hair as they turned into her office. “Maybe so. But there could have been something here he was waiting for. Something he got to see every day, and feel smug about. That kept him going, kept him playing the part that had to squeeze at him.”

She threw him for a moment, then he nodded slowly. “A bit of this, a bit of that. Yes, I wanted to have what I could only envy as a boy.”

“Rosa knew him, but made it clear he left them be—mostly. He liked old Mr. Ortiz, respected him. Envied, maybe, if we go back to the Deadlies, maybe.” She hooked her thumbs in her pockets, circling it in her mind as she’d circled the board.

“The Ortiz group is a big, tight family. Like a gang? They look out for each other, hold their territory. He gets close to them as Flores, marries them, buries them, visits them in their nice homes. The big house. He wants what they have. How does he get it?”

“No, no, natural causes. I checked that through and through. And he respected Hector Ortiz. He, in his way, admired him. But the Ortizes, they aren’t the only ones with nice houses, with a big house, with ties to the church. I need to run some of the properties, just see, just play this line out and see. I could use that holo.”

“Then I’d better get to work.” He held up the figure of Eve from the cake. “And this is my payment for the time and skill.”