Marc rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t argue. It wouldn’t have stopped him, and frankly, I didn’t want to. When we got there, Miguel whaled right in.”
“He attacked Solas,” Eve prompted when Marc fell silent.
“He jumped him, pounded him. Not like sparring in the ring, which we’d done. Street moves. He had Solas on his knees and retching in under ten seconds. They went at each other in Spanish. I’m pretty fluent, in formal and in street Spanish, but I couldn’t completely keep up.”
Marc drank more water, shook his head. “But for damn sure, Miguel wasn’t worried about taking the Lord’s name in vain. Mrs. Solas had the other two girls, and they were cowering in the corner, crying. Miguel kicked Solas in the face, knocked him out, and he didn’t stop-wouldn’t stop. I had to pull him off. For a minute, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to-and if I couldn’t, I think he might have killed the man. He was that over the edge.
“I’d never seen him like that, before or since. You run a place like we do, you see some bad things. Young girls pregnant or on their third abortion. Boyfriends who slap them around, parents on the junk. Illegals, gang fights, parental 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 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.