In Death 27 - Salvation in Death

Some divorces, some deaths, lots of births.
    She kicked back for a moment, propped her feet on her desk.
    No connection to Flores except as the parish priest. But, she mused, Flores wasn’t the connection. Lino or whoever took Flores’s identity was.
    Better when the dentals confirmed it, she thought, but she didn’t have a doubt. According to the records, Flores requested assignment at that parish, that specific parish, in November 2053.
    Coming home, Lino, or running away? That was a question that needed an answer. Did someone recognize you? Someone who lived here, or was visiting here? Someone who felt strongly enough, passionately enough to execute you in church?
    What did you do? Who’d you piss off, betray, hurt?
    And thus, having had long patience, he got the promise.
    What were you waiting for? What was the promise at the end of the wait?
    “It’s fake,” Roarke announced from the adjoining doorway.
    “Huh?”
    “The ID, it’s fake. Which you already knew so I don’t see why you had me spend all this time on it.”
    “Confirmation’s nice.”
    He gave her a cool look, then came over to sit on the corner of her desk. “Then you have it. It was good work, costly. Not the best, by far, but not a patch job either. A bit more than six years back. Flores reports his ID lost, applies for a new one.”
    “When, exactly?”
    “October of ’53.”
    “The month before he requests a transfer to St. Cristóbal’s.” She punched a fist against Roarke’s leg. “I knew it.”
    “As I said. A new photo was provided by the applicant, along with copies of all necessary data. It’s a common way to make the switch.”
    “Prints?”
    “Well then, that’s where the cost comes in. You’ll need to grease the right palms or have a skill with hacking, and an unregistered. So you’d be switching the fingerprints all the way back, replacing with your own. And that means transferring them from childhood on, if you want to be thorough—and he did. It’s the first change where the hitch is most easily tripped. After that, it’s you, isn’t it? In your new skin.”
    She frowned up at him. “How many forged IDs have you provided and/or used in your shady career?”
    He smiled. “It’s a good living for a young lad with certain skills and considerable discretion, but was hardly my life’s work.”
    “Hmm. Yeah, I ran the prints. They come up Flores, so he went deeper and hacked, or paid someone to hack, into the database to change them. The rest is pretty standard identity theft.”
    “To do otherwise, to save a few pennies, would be foolish.”
    “Having the face work though, that adds coin, time, trouble. That’s long haul.” She pushed away from her desk, to think on her feet, to move through it. “That’s major commitment.”
    “To go to those lengths, and for that amount of time, means you’d be giving up yourself, wouldn’t it? Your name, your face, the connections. You’d have to strip off your own skin to slip on someone else’s. A commitment, yes. Maybe your victim wanted a fresh start. A new life.”
    “He wanted more than that. I think he came back here, to New York, to that neighborhood specifically. He picked this place, so he knew this place. He was hiding, and needed to change the face—and he was patient.” She thought back, murmured, “ ‘And thus, having had long patience, he got the promise.’ ”
    “Is that so?”
    “I figure the patient get run over in Promiseland more than half the time, but the Bible says no. He had that passage highlighted in his. And this other one . . .” She had to walk back to her desk to look it up. “ ‘With me are riches and honor, enduring wealth and propriety.’ ”
    “A promise of money, respect, stature,” Roarke speculated. “Yeah, all of that fits, and for some all of that’s worth killing for, and waiting for. It’s nice to have familiar surroundings while you wait—and maybe you even get a charge out of seeing people you know, and knowing they don’t recognize you.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “People tell priests stuff, right? Intimate, personal stuff. That would be a kick, wouldn’t it?”
    “I had an acquaintance once who sometimes posed as a priest.”
    “Because?”
    “Cons. As you say, sins are confessed, which is handy for blackmail, and collection plates are passed regularly. I didn’t like the gambit myself.”
    “Because?”
    “Well, it’s rude, isn’t it?”
    She only shook her head. She knew the