“Don’t Irish gangs go for tats?” she asked.
“Sure. At least back when I was running the streets.”
She cocked her head. “I know your skin intimately. No tats on you.”
“No, indeed. Then again, I wouldn’t consider my old street mates and associates a gang. Too many rules and regs with gangs, to my way of thinking, and that constant cry to defend the home turf as if it’s holy ground. They could’ve taken my square of Dublin back then and burned it to ashes for all I cared. And tattoos—as you’ve so recently proven—are an identifying mark, even when removed. And the last thing a young, enterprising businessman, with brains, wants is an identifying mark.”
“You got that, which is why Lino had it taken off. The marks it leaves are so faint, it’s not going to pop to the naked eye so much—and not at all to the casual glance. Even if it’s noticed, it can be explained away—and was—as a youthful folly.”
“But it gives you another point of reference toward his identity.” He took a thoughtful bite of his burger. “What sort of burke marks himself with an X to announce he’s killed? And what sort of killer values ego above his own freedom?”
She gestured with a fry. “That’s gang mentality. But still, can’t take an X to court. What I need to know is why he left his beloved turf—for how long—and why he needed to assume another identity to come back. It tells me he did something—and something major—after the Clemency Order was revoked, or after he reached legal age.”
“You believe he killed Flores.”
“Had to be before that. As far as we can track, Flores was out West. Why was Lino out West? And since I’m not going to buy Lino decided to spend the rest of his life pretending to be a priest, there’s a reason he came back under that cover, and an endgame. Patience.”
“I’d say there’s a score involved.”
She nodded. “Money, jewels, illegals—which translate back to money. Enough so this gangbanger from Spanish Harlem could afford expensive face work, top-grade ID. Enough that he’s got to go under for a solid stretch of time, either because it’s too hot, or because he’s going to take that stretch of time to get the whole pie.” She narrowed her eyes. “I need to do a search for major heists, robberies, burglaries, illegal deals betwee
n six and eight years ago. Maybe six and nine, but that’s the cap. And run the baptism records. Then I need to find a cop who worked that sector back when Lino would have been an active member of the Soldados. Somebody who’d remember him, give me a picture.”
“Why don’t I take the first search? I so enjoy heists, robberies, and burglaries. And I did deal with dinner, so deserve a reward.”
“I guess you did, and do.” She sat back. “How big a bitch was I when I got home?”
“Oh, darling, you’ve been bigger.”
She laughed, held out a hand. “Thanks.”
Backstage at the recently reopened Madison Square Garden, Jimmy Jay Jenkins, founder of the Church of Eternal Light, prepared to greet his flock. He prepared with a short shot of vodka, followed by two breath strips, while the voices of the Eternal Light Singers poured in faith and four-part harmony through his dressing room speakers.
He was a big man who enjoyed good food; white suits—of which he had twenty-six and wore with various colorful bow ties and matching suspenders—tailored for his girth; his loving wife of thirty-eight years, Jolene; their three children and five grandchildren; those occasional sly swigs of vodka; his current mistress, Ulla; and preaching God’s holy word.
Not necessarily in that order.
He’d founded his church nearly thirty-five years before, laying those bricks with sweat, charisma, a talent for showmanship, and the utter and unshakable faith that he was right. From the tent revivals and country fields of his beginnings, he’d erected a multibillion-dollar-a-year business.
He lived like a king, and he preached like the fiery tongue of God. At the knock on the door, Jimmy Jay adjusted his tie in the mirror, gave his shock of white hair—of which he was not-so-secretly vain—a quick smooth, then called out a cheerful, basso, “Y’all come!”
“Five minutes, Jimmy Jay.”
Jimmy Jay beamed his wide, wide smile. “Just checking the package. What’s the gate, Billy?”
His manager, a thin man with hair as dark as Jimmy Jay’s was white, stepped in. “Sold clean out. We’re going to take in over five million, and that’s before the live-feed fees or donations.”
“That’s a godly amount.” Grinning, Jimmy Jay shot a finger at his manager. “Let’s make it worth it, Billy. Let’s get out there and save us some souls.”
He meant it. He believed he could—and had—saved scores of souls since he’d first taken the road, out of Little Yazoo, Mississippi, as a preacher. And he believed his lifestyle, like the diamond rings on each of his hands, was reward for his good works.
He accepted he was a sinner—the vodka, his sexual peccadillos—but he also believed only God could claim perfection.
He smiled as the Eternal Light Singers finished to thunderous applause, and winked at his wife, who waited in the wings, stage left. She would enter as he did, meet him center stage as the back curtain rose and the towering screen flashed their images to the back rows of the upper balconies.
His Jolene would take some of that spotlight, and just glitter and glow in it like an angel. After they’d greeted the crowd together, after she’d done her signature solo, “Walking by His Light,” he would kiss her hand—the crowd loved that. And she would return to the wings while he went to work, saving those souls.
That would be the time to get down to the serious business of the Lord.