Salvation in death

“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 paced around the murder board, thinking it through, working it out. “How much do you own on Grafton Street?”

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?”

“Are you thinking he killed Hector Ortiz?”

“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.”

Amused, she cocked her head. “You’re going to eat me?”

“Too many obvious and crude rejoinders on that one. But no, I’m going to keep you.”

He leaned down, kissed the woman. “What are you looking for with those properties?”

“I hope I know when I find it.”

19

IT WOULD TAKE A WHILE, EVE KNEW-LIKELY longer than Roarke and his magic hologram-to do the search and run on properties and owners thereof. She opted to start with a basic triangulation between church, youth center, and the Ortiz home.

Probably a waste of time, she told herself. Just some wild hair, wild goose, wild whatever.

But it had always been a con, hadn’t it? At the core, she thought as her computer worked the task, Lino Martinez had run a long con. A long con meant pla

Considering, she went to her ’link, checked with a good friend who knew the grift.

Mavis Freestone, her hair currently a sunburst the color of spring leaves, filled the screen with cheer.

“Hey! Good catch. Baby’s down and Leonardo just split to go get some ice cream. I had a yen for Mondo-Mucho-Mocha, and we didn’t have it on tap.”

“Sounds good. I wanted… Yen?” Eve felt the blood drain out of her head. “You’re not pregnant again.”

“Pregs? That’s a negativo on being knocked up.” Mavis’s eyes twinkled, the same improbable green as her hair. “Just got the yums for the triple M.”

“Okay.” Whew. “Quick question. What’s the longest con you ever ran?”

“Ah, gee, trip in the way-back. I’m getting all nostalgic. Let’s see. There was this time I ran a Carlotta, named it after an old friend. I think she’s on Vegas II now. Anyway, to run a Carlotta you’ve got to-”

“No details. Just the length.”

“Oh.” Mavis pursed her lips. “Maybe four months. Carlottas take a lot of foundation and seeding.”

“Do you know anyone that ran one for years? Not months. Into the years.”

“I know plenty who ran the same game, into years. But different marks, you know. Same game, same mark?”

“Yeah, that’s the idea.”

“There was this guy, frigging genius. Slats. He ran a Crosstown Bob for three years. Then poofed. Just poofed for five more. Came back around, I heard. He’d moved to Paris, France, changed his name and all that shit. Buzz was Slats lived high on the take from the Crosstown Bob. Kept his hand in though, over there, ’cause you can’t help it.”

“Why did he come back?”

“Hey, once a New Yorker, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah. That’s the deal. What about religious cons?”

“Those are the cheesecake. Sweet and creamy, go down smooth. There’s Hail Mary, Praise the Lord, Kosher, Redemption-”

“Okay. Ever hear of a grifter named Lino? Lino Martinez?”

“Doesn’t ring. But I’ve been out of the game awhile now. I’m a mommy.”

“Right.” And, Eve realized, she hadn’t asked about the baby. “So how’s Bella doing?”

“She’s the maggest of the mag, the ultest of the ults. In snoozeland now or I’d put her on. Nobody goos like my Bellarina goos.”

“Yeah. Well. Give her a goo back from me. Thanks for the info.”

“No prob. I’ll see you at the girl bash if not sooner. We’re revved topless over it.”

“Great. Wear a top anyway. Thanks, Mavis.”

She turned, and walked straight through a scale model of St. Cristóbal’s. And said, “Jesus.”

“I’ve heard he visits there often.”

“How did you do that? That wasn’t twenty minutes.”

“I’m often even better than I think I am.”

“Nobody’s better than you think you are.”

He’d scaled the holo down, but constructed it considerably larger than Ariel’s cake. The simple cross atop the church came to Eve’s knee. She stepped out of church and surveyed. “This is pretty much iced.”

“I can take it to the holo-room if you want larger scale.”

“No, this is good. Church, bodega, rectory,” she began, moving into the holo. “Youth center, Hector Ortiz’s house. Site of first bombing.” She moved south and east. “It’s still a school. Site of second. Now west and north. It was a sandwich shop-type hangout, now a 24/7.”

Roarke studied the holo himself. “I could, in about the same amount of time, program one from ’43, or any given year.”

“You just want to play,” she countered. “This is what he saw in the now, every day. Whatever was in the… way-back,” she decided, using Mavis’s term, “is in the now. Changed a little maybe. But something he wanted then he wanted now.”

“I actually understand that,” Roarke commented.

“Peabody and I are going to locate and interview survivors, family members. Five dead in the second bombing.” She frowned down at the bright red and yellow of the 24/7. “It’s not part of St. Cristóbal’s parish. It’s outside, and was clearly in disputed territory, but leaning toward Skulls, when it was hit. Close to the boundaries, of both. Lino liked to run, ran with the other priest, Freeman, when they could hook that up. Their typical route took them from the rectory, east, then turning north before heading west again, taking them through this part of Spanish Harlem-past these middle- and upper-middle-class properties, past Hector Ortiz, on, turning south, then hitting the youth center. He grew up here, but he bypassed the street where his old apartment is. Still is. Not interested in that, doesn’t need to see that. Likes to look at the snappier properties.”

Roarke started to speak, then decided to stand back and watch her work. While she did, he poured himself a brandy to add to his enjoyment.

“Habits get formed for a reason,” she muttered. “You do something, keep doing it, form a routine for a reason. Maybe this was his habitual route because it just worked out that way, and he fell into the habit. But he could’ve gotten the same time and distance in by mixing it up, and most people who run habitually like to mix it up. Stay fresher. He could’ve done that going west out the door, heading south, then doing the loop, but Freeman said he never varied. So what does he see when he does his route? And who sees him? Habitually.”