In Death 27 - Salvation in Death

neglect. You know how it is.”
    “Yeah, I know how it is.”
    “He handled that. He might get mad, or impatient, but he never lost it. Until Solas.
    “Still, when he got himself under control again, he was good with the woman, the kids. Gentle, kind. It was . . . it was almost like it was someone else who’d beaten down on Solas.”
    “Maybe it was,” Eve said. “Did he ever talk to you about old friends, old enemies?”
    “He talked about running a little wild for a couple of years when he was a kid, the rebellion deal most of us get through. He never mentioned any names, or nothing that stood out for me.”
    “Besides you and Magda, the priests, who did he spend free time with? Hang out with?”
    “I have to say he was friendly, the outgoing type. He knew the kids, most of their parents, older sibs, cousins, whatever. If they were around, he’d hang, or join in a pickup game.”
    “Try this. Did you ever notice him avoiding anyone?”
    “No,” Marc said slowly. “I can’t say I did. Sorry.”
    “We appreciate the time. If you think of anything, please contact me.”
    “I will.” He pushed to his feet. “I feel . . . it’s like when I was in college and did too much zoner. I feel fuzzy-headed and a little sick.”
    After Peabody escorted him out, Eve sat, swiveled in her chair. When Peabody returned, looked hopefully at the bakery box, Eve waved a hand toward it. Peabody pounced.
    “Ohhh, cream-filled. Look out, ass, here it comes!”
    “Lino’s going to have a sister—or another close friend or relative—who was sexually abused as a child.”
    “Mmmffh?” Peabody managed.
    “He sees all the other shit, hears it in confession, but the one time we can confirm he broke out of his collar—the one time he may have shown his true face—is over a kid being sexually abused.”
    Peabody swallowed heroically. “Sexual predators of minors are meat in prison. Even stone killers want and do go after them.”
    “He had more control than that. Five years? He had the control, or an outlet nobody knew about. But he lost it over Barbara Solas. It has to be more personal, more intimate.”
    “We’re going to check the files for sexual molestation of a minor in that sector, for a couple of damn decades, aren’t we?”
    “Yeah, we are. No guarantee the abuse was reported, but that’s what we’re going to do. Pull them, copy me.”
    Eve swiveled again. She’d need to consult Mira, she concluded, but it could wait a day, wait until she had more. For now, she decided to simply send Mira the files, the data, and ask for a profile and/or consult. Once done, she started to contact the lab and find someone to verbally bitch slap.
    And her comp signaled an incoming.
    “About damn time,” she muttered as she noted the sender. She read the text with interest, then studied the reconstruction.
    The tattoo was a block cross, with a heart at its intersection. The heart dripped blood—three drops—from the tip of the knife stabbed through it.
    “No, I don’t guess that’s suitable body decor for a priest. Computer, search for significance of current file image. Its usage, meaning, commonality. Is there a regional or cultural significance? Is it a gang-related symbol, a religious symbol, a counter-religion symbol? Secondary task: Search and display names and addresses for tattoo parlors and/or artists within Spanish Harlem between 2020 and 2052.”
     
    Acknowledged. Working . . .
     
    While the searches progressed, Eve rose to boost her system with more coffee.
    So the guy lost his grip over child rape. Hadn’t she done the same, more or less? Hadn’t she been a little hard on Elena Solas? And didn’t she feel, even now, even calm, that the woman had deserved that, and more?
    He’d beaten Tito Solas, cursed at him in street Spanish. And continued to beat him when the man was down and out. It was personal, goddamn it. A trigger.
    She knew all about them. She had her own.
    But gentle with women, she remembered. Kind, compassionate, protective. Not their fault, that was the line. Mother, sister, young lover. She’d bet the rest of the damn doughnuts it would turn out to be one of those connections.
    One connection, she mused, would lead to the next. And they would lead to a name.
     
    Initial task complete. Data displayed. Continuing secondary task.
     
    “Good for you.” Eve moved over, sat, and began to scroll and read.
    Satisfied, she copied the data as an addendum to Mira, added it to her