Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(61)

“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.”

“Your father sounds like a smart man.” And the quick math she did in her head told her Julio’s death was too early to apply to Lino.

“He is, and a tough one. I’ll talk to him tonight.”

“Appreciate it. One other thing. I’m told the vic ran regularly in the morning, and the route took him by your grandfather’s house.”

“Yes, that’s true. Poppy mentioned it sometimes. How he joked with the fathers to throw a blessing at the house as they passed. And he might see them when he was out for his morning walk.”

“So no friction there?”

“Between Poppy and the priests, or this one who wasn’t? No. None. Very much the opposite. The victim often ate in Poppy’s restaurant, or even—especially when my grandmother was alive—his home. He came to family parties. He was, we thought, one of us.”

“Okay.”

Alone, Eve moved back to her board. Rearranged photos, evidence shots. Walked around it, arranged again. Connections. Whose life touched whose, when and how.

She stepped back to her desk, tagged McNab. “Give me something,” she demanded.

“Ran down two of the Linos,” he told her. “One’s living in Mexico, living in a kind of commune deal. Changed his name, which is why he slipped through some cracks. Goes by Lupa Vincenta, all legal and shit. It’s a kind of Free-Ager offshoot. Guy’s shaved his head and wears this brown robe deal. Raises goats. And is alive and well, if you count wearing an ugly brown robe well, which if you ask me—”

“I didn’t.”

“Okay. The other’s been skimming under the radar, avoiding a couple of ex-wives, who he was married to at the same time. He’s in Chile—or was when I tracked him—and the last track was less than three months ago. He weighs in at about two-fifty. Probably skipped by now, as both women have suits pending against him. Apparently, he’s got about six legal offspring, and he’s dodging the child support thing.”

“Prince of a guy. Pass on the info to the proper authorities.”

“Already done. You get kids, you take care of them. Working on another one now.”

She’d figured as much, as McNab was bopping on the screen. She’d never known an e-geek who could keep still when he worked.

Except Roarke, she corrected.

“I keep losing him,” McNab added. “He bounced a lot, switched names, then switched back. What I get is he’d get a little twisted up with some deal under an aka, take off, show up under his real, play it straight, then move on, take another alias.”

“What’s his real?”

“Lino Salvadore Martinez.”

Eve brought it up on her machine. “Right age, right location at birth. Keep looking.” Eve clicked off, then refreshed her memory of Martinez’s data. Both parents on record, she noted, but whereabouts of the father unknown—and unknown since Martinez hit five years of age. Mother, Teresa, applied and received professional mother status and payments after the birth. Previous employment . . . Eve extended the search, then sat back. “Hector Ortiz—Abuelo’s. Interesting. Yeah, that’s pretty interesting. Returned to outside work when her son reached the age of fifteen—as a waitress for Ortiz again. Where she worked for six years before remarrying and relocating to Brooklyn. Okay, Teresa.”

She noted down the current address. “I think we need to have a little chat.”

She pulled out her communicator to contact Peabody. “What’s your status,” she said when Peabody popped on-screen.

“I’m just walking into Central. We had the best—”

“Meet me in the garage. We’re going to Brooklyn.”

“Oh. Okay, why—”

But Eve simply cut her off, tucked the communicator away, and started out. She nearly walked straight into Baxter. “No way you finished those searches.”

“No way I’ll finish those searches in the next twenty man-hours. You’ve got a couple of visitors. A Luke Goodwin, a Samuel Wright, and a Billy Crocker.”

“Quicker than I thought.” She stepped back into her office, signaling Baxter to follow. “I need to secure an interview room. Hold on.”

She ordered her computer to scan for availability, and book her Interview C. “Okay, tell them I’m going to be a few minutes, escort them to Interview. Make nice, offer refreshments.”