Salvation in death

“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 di

“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 di

“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 to 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.”