In Death 27 - Salvation in Death

José Ortega died several years ago. Yes, I remember now, the legal tangle was with his estate. This must be the grandson, and heir.”
    She ordered the computer to check, then shook her head at the data hiccup. “Okay, José Ortega, died 2052, age of ninety-eight. One son, Niko, died 2036, along with his wife and his mother in a hotel fire in Mexico City. The old man survived as did his then eleven-year-old grandson.”
    “The old man raised him. Yes, I’m remembering bits and pieces now. And the grandson, naturally, inherited when the old man passed. Word was—when I was interested in the property—and a bit of poking confirmed, that the younger Ortega didn’t have his grandfather’s business sense. And some of the property amassed declined somewhat. I liked the building on the East Side, and made an offer.”
    “He said no?”
    “He couldn’t be located when I was putting out feelers. And I found something I liked better.”
    “Couldn’t be located. It lists the place on East 120th as his current address.”
    “That may be, but four—or it may have been five—years ago, when I wanted the building, Ortega wasn’t in New York. We had to work through a lawyer, who was—if my memory serves—considerably frustrated by his client’s disappearance.”
    “Computer, search for Missing Persons reports on Ortega, José, with this last known address.”
    “I didn’t say he was missing so much as incommunicado,” Roarke began, then his eyebrows lifted when he saw the reports come on-screen. “Aren’t you the clever girl?”
    “Reported missing by Ken Aldo, his spouse, in September of 2053 in Las Vegas, Nevada. Computer, display data and ID photo, Aldo, Ken.” She waited, then felt it fall into place. “Well, hello, Lino.”
    “Your victim.”
    “Yeah, that’s Lino. He changed the hair, added the beard, dicked with the eye color, but that’s Lino Martinez.”
    “Who entered into marriage with Ortega shortly before the old man’s death, according to this.”
    “Which is bullshit. Just another con. I’ve got nothing that points at Lino being gay or bi. Straight hetero. Liked women. He’d have known Ortega. Had to. They grew up in the same area. Computer, full data on Ortega, José, DOB 2025. Same age, same school. I guess the old man supported public education. And look here, got some slaps for illegals use and possession. Stints in rehab.”
    She went with the gut. “Computer, list any tattoos on current subject.”
     
    Acknowledged. Working . . . Current subject bears tattoo on left forearm. Describe or display?
     
    “Display.”
    “There it is,” Eve said, when the cross with its center heart pierced by the blade came on-screen. “Ortega was Soldado. He was one of Lino’s. Not his spouse, never his fucking spouse. That’s bogus. His captain.”
    “The marriage records could have been faked, and post-recorded. Easy enough for someone with the skill to fake the Flores ID as he did.”
    “Yeah. Easy enough. Who’s the lawyer?” Eve demanded. “Who’s the lawyer you dealt with on the Ortega thing?”
    “I’ll get that for you.”
    “I’ll put money that Ken Aldo sought legal counsel, that he made inquiries about declaring his spouse legally dead. Seven years. It takes seven years. He’d gotten through six of them, and was rounding for home. Long patience,” she said. “Just a few more months to go, and if he’d lined up his ducks correctly, he’d inherit—the promise. Big house, businesses, buildings. Millions. Many, many millions.”
    “And with that much riding,” Roarke put in, “you’d want to keep your eye on it—I would. Yes, you’d want to have a look at it, make sure it was being tended to.”
    “Flores has been missing about the same amount of time. Add the time from when Flores was last reported seen, and when Lino, as Flores, requested the assignment at St. Cristóbal’s.”
    “Time between to have the face work.” Roarke nodded in agreement. “To study, plan, have the tat removed, alter records. A few months for that,” he calculated. “More than enough if you focused.”
    “What better way to keep an eye on things without anyone making any connection between you and who you are, or who you intend to be when the time’s right?”
    “That residential is listed as Ortega’s last address, but there’s a tenant listed.” Roarke gestured to the screen. “Or tenants. Hugh and Sara Gregg. At that location for nearly five years.”
    Eve called