“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 report, then printed out the image and its usage in duplicate. She took one out to drop on Peabody’s desk. “Gang tat.”
“The Soldados.”
“Soldiers. A badass gang forming just before the Urbans, and holding together until about a dozen years ago—though they’d lost a lot of steam power before that. That was their tat, and what Lino had removed before he came back here. There were some offshoots of Soldados in New Jersey, and in Boston, but primarily, this was a New York gang, turfed in Spanish Harlem. Their biggest rivals, internally, were the Lobos, though they supposedly had a truce during the Urbans, and absorbed the Lobos thereafter. Externally, they went to war regularly with the Skulls, for territory, product, and general pissiness. If you had the tat and weren’t a member, you’d be dragged before their council, beat to shit, and they’d remove the tat for you. With acid.”
“Big ouch. Odds are our vic was a Soldado.”
“Safe bet. And he died on his home turf. Gang initiation could start as early as the age of eight.”
“Eight?” Peabody puffed out her cheeks. “Jesus.”
“For full membership—which included the tat—ten was the cutoff. And full membership required combat. For the three drops of blood and the knife to be on the tat, blood had to be spilled in that combat. See the black X at the bottom of the cross?”
“Yeah.”
“Symbolizes a kill. Only members with the X could serve on the council. He wasn’t just a member, he was brass. And a killer.”
“So why isn’t he in the system?”
“That’s a damn good question. We need to find out.”
Eve went to her commander. Whitney rode his desk like a general. With power, prestige, and combat experience. He knew the streets because he’d worked them. He knew politics because they were necessary—evil or not. He had a dark, wide, and weathered face, topped by a short-cropped swatch of hair liberally salted with gray.
He didn’t gesture for Eve to sit. He knew she preferred to stand.
“Lieutenant.”
“The St. Cristóbal’s case, sir.”
“So I assumed. I’ve been speaking with the Archbishop. The Church isn’t pleased with the publicity, and are put off by the disrespectful manner the primary investigator on the case had employed to gain information.”
“A man poses as a priest for several years, and is killed while performing Mass, it’s going to alert the media. As for disrespectful manner, I requested dental records. When the red tape starting winding, I cut through it. Those records confirmed that the man in the morgue is not Miguel Flores.”
“So I understand. The Catholic Church is a powerful force. Tact can and does grease wheels almost as often as threats.”
“It may, Commander, but tact wouldn’t have gotten me those dental records in an expedient manner. The Archbishop may be red-faced that some imposter played priest under his nose. Exposing that deception doesn’t add to the embarrassment.”
Whitney sat back. “That, of course, depends on your point of view.”