In Death 27 - Salvation in Death

member—out there doing pretty much what Lino was doing? If he was killed or harmed during a gang altercation?”
    “If it was a loved one I don’t see why it would matter. Love doesn’t qualify.”
    “From the Catholic angle,” Eve insisted.
    He sighed, sipped brandy, and tried to put his head into it. “It seems, if we follow your way of thinking through this, that to justify murder—as it bloody well was—the act should have been in reciprocation for the death of an innocent. Or at least someone who was minding his own at the time, and hadn’t done murder himself. But—”
    “That’s what I’m thinking. I get the but,” she added, waving a hand in the air. “Murder isn’t logical, it doesn’t follow nice clean lines. Those who set out to kill make their own rules. However, butting your but—”
    “Christ, no wonder I love you.”
    “This was logical, and it does follow lines. Kill priest in church with God’s blood. Well, technically wine because Lino wasn’t ordained and all so he couldn’t actually do the transubstantiation.”
    “And you have the nerve to ask me Catholic questions when you can spout off transubstantiation.”
    “I studied up. The point is the motive’s going to fit the method. I think—”
    She broke off when her computer announced, Task complete.
    “I think,” she continued, “that the killer is a core member of the church. One of those who never misses Sunday Mass, and goes to confession . . . How often are you supposed to go to confession?”
    Scowling, he jammed his hands into his pockets. “How the bloody, buggering hell should I know.”
    She smiled at him, very sweetly. “What is it about asking you Catholic questions that gets you all jumpy?”
    “You’d be jumpy, too, if I asked you things that make you feel the hot breath of hell at your back.”
    “You’re not going to hell.”
    “Oh, and have you got some inside intel on that?”
    “You married a cop. You married me. I’m your goddamn salvation. Computer, display primary data, screen one. These are the owners and/or tenants of the properties along Lino’s jogging route.”
    “My salvation, are you?” He caught her around the waist, yanked her in. “And what would I be to you then?”
    “I guess you’re mine, pal. And if I’m wrong? Hey, we’ll go down in flames together. Now, try for some more redemption and check out this data with me.”
    He kissed her first, long and lingering. “I can’t figure out something about hell.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Would there be plenty of sex, because all the tenants are sinners, or none at all, with celibacy as the eternal punishment?”
    “If I get around to it, I’ll ask López. Data.”
    He obliged her by turning her around to face the screen, then drawing her back against him, and studying it over the top of her head. “And what do these names tell us?”
    “I’ve got more data—runs on the owners, the tenants, including how long at current address, previous address. Ortega . . . Rosa O’Donnell mentioned that name. Computer, display secondary data, screen two.”
    “So, following your hunch, we’re looking for longevity in that neighborhood. Someone, or a family, who’s lived there since Lino was Soldado captain.”
    “Yeah, that’s one point. Another is the jogging route. What there could be along it that connected to Lino, or interested him. Gain. He was gain and ego. First point is revenge. A lot of people stick,” she observed. “Look at that. Ortega. Third generation in that property. And this one. Sixty years ago it’s a piecework factory—probably gray market and a hive of illegal workers. Now it’s lofts and condos, owned by the same guy. Huh. Who also owns the house next to Ortiz. Computer, complete run on Ortega, José.”
     
    Working . . .
     
    “I know that name,” Roarke said quietly. “Something about that name. Ah . . . Another building, East Side, middle Nineties. Retail space street level, studio space on the second. Living—I believe—living space on third and fourth. I looked into buying it a few years ago.”
    “Looked into?”
    “I can’t recall all the details, but I know I didn’t buy it. Some legal tangle with Ortega.”
     
    Task complete . . .
     
    “Let’s see. Computer, split screen two, display new data. José Ortega’s listed as thirty-five years of age—the vic’s age. How the hell did he own that property sixty years ago?”
    “Ancestor of the same name, I’d say. I remember