Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(31)

“Even so, sir, the records should still show prints and DNA, even if the record was cleared.”

“Not cleared, Lieutenant. Wiped. There is no record for minors who didn’t do time. Those who did, those records are sealed, that would be flagged. I’d say your vic was a minor w C war mho benefited from the Clemency Order. If he dodged the system after that, you won’t find his prints or DNA through our records, or IRCCA.”

Well, that was a pisser, Eve thought as she stalked her way back to Homicide. Some bleeding hearts worry about the city’s street rats, and their solution is to pat all the good little murdering, illegals-pushing, gang-raping gangsters on the head and say, “Go sin no more?”

Now she had to dig through reams of possibly relevant data to find information that should have been at her fingertips.

Lino had a name, and she was damn sure his killer knew it. Until she did, he’d be John Doeing it at the morgue.

Then there was the real Miguel Flores. She had to ID the vic to have any real hope of finding Flores, dead or alive. He was dead, of course, every instinct told her. That didn’t mean he didn’t matter.

The more she found out about the victim, the more Miguel Flores mattered.

She stopped at a vending machine, scowled at it. “Give me grief, I dare you.” She jammed in her code. “Tube of Pepsi, and stuff your damn contents and nutrition value.”

It coughed out the tube, then a tinkle of music. She continued to stalk away as the machine sang out the current Pepsi jingle.

“It’s enough to make you go thirsty,” she muttered, and turning, nearly ran over Father López. “Sorry.”

“My fault. I wasn’t sure where I was going, so wasn’t watching where I was going. I’ve never been here. It’s . . . big.”

“And loud and full of very bad people. What can I do for you?”

“I have the records you asked for.”

“Oh. Thanks. I could’ve come up to get them.” Or you could have e’d them, she thought.

“I . . . Actually, I wanted to get out for a bit. Do you have a few moments?”

“Sure. My office is around the corner. Ah, do you want something?” She held up the tube and nearly prayed he’d say no. She didn’t want to risk the machine again.

“I wouldn’t mind some coffee. I’ll just—”

“I have some in my office,” she told him as he stepped toward a machine.

She led him down the hall, into the bullpen where Jenkinson snarled into a ’link, “Look, you f**king shit-weasel ass**le, I get the intel, you get paid. Do I look like some f**khead sitting here jerking off? You don’t f**king want me coming down there, cocksucker.”

“Ah,” Eve said. “Office. Sorry.”

López’s face remained serene. “You neglected to add ‘colorful’ to your ‘loud and full of very bad people.’ ”

“I guess. How do you take the coffee?”

“Just black’s fine. Lieutenant . . . I brought the baptismal records.”

“So you said.”

“And I intend to give them to you before I go.”

Eve nodded. “That would make sense.”

“I’m doing so without authorization. My superiors,” he continued when she turned with the coffee, “while wishing to cooperate with the investigation, of course, are also cautious about the . . . backlash. And the publicity. They informed me they’d take the request under advisement. Advisement often means . . .”

“Just this side of never?”

“Close. I accessed the records myself.”

She handed him the mug. “That makes you a weasel. Coffee payment enough?”

He managed a soft laugh. “Yes, thank you. I liked—Lino. Very much. I respected his work, and his energy. He was my responsibility. I feel I can’t understand this, or know what to do until I know who he was, and why he did what he did. I have to counsel my parishioners. Answer them when they come to me upset and worried. Are we married? Has my baby been baptized? Have my sins been forgiven? All because this man pretended to be a priest.”

He sat, sipped. He lowered the mug, stared. Then sipped again, slowly. A flush rose to his cheeks. “I’ve never tasted coffee like this.”

“Probably because you’ve never had actual coffee. It’s not soy or veg or man-made. It’s the deal. I’ve got a source.”

“Bless you,” he said and drank again.

“Have you seen this before?” She took the print out of the tattoo, offered it.

“Oh yes. It’s a gang tattoo; the gang’s long disbanded. Some of my parishioners were members and still have the tattoo. Some wear it with pride, some with shame.”

“Lino had one. He had it removed before he came here.”

Understanding darkened López’s eyes. “So. This was his place. His home.”

“I could use the names of the people you know who have this tattoo.” When he closed his eyes, Eve said lightly, “There could be more coffee.”

“No, but thank you. Lieutenant, those who lived through those times and aren’t in prison are now older, and have work, and families, have built lives.”

“I’m not looking to change that. Unless one of them killed Lino.”