The In Death Collection Books 26-29 - J.D. Robb [230]
“That’ll work.” Eve slid out, rose, knowing she was crowding Teresa’s space.
“I just need to get someone to cover my tables. Ah . . .”
“Fine.” Eve glanced at Roarke as Teresa hurried over to another waitress. “Why don’t you come with us?” she said to Roarke. “We’ll see how close you hit the mark on your evaluation.”
They skirted tables, wound through the bar. The office was little, as advertised, and cozily cluttered. Inside, Teresa linked her fingers, twisted them. “Is something wrong? Did I do something? I’m sorry about the flowers, and Spike was very bad. But I—”
“Spike?”
“The puppy. I didn’t know he’d dig in the flowers, and I promised to replace them. I told Mrs. Perini, and she said it was all right.”
“It’s not about the dog, Mrs. Franco. It’s about your son.”
“David? Is David all right? What—?”
“Not David,” Eve said, cutting through the instant maternal alarm. “Lino.”
“Lino.” Teresa’s hand went to her heart, and her heel pressed there. “If it’s the police, of course, it’s Lino.” Weariness settled over her like a thin, worn blanket. “What has he done?”
“When’s the last time you had contact with him?”
“Almost seven years now. Not a word in nearly seven years. He told me he had work. Big prospects. Always big prospects with Lino. Where is he?”
“Where was he the last time you had contact with him?”
“Out west. Nevada, he said. He’d been in Mexico for a time. He calls, or sends e-mail. Sometimes he sends money. Every few months. Sometimes a year goes by. He tells me he’ll come home, but he doesn’t.” She sat. “I’m relieved that he doesn’t, because he carries trouble with him. Like his father. And I have another son. I have David, and he’s a good boy.”
“Mrs. Franco, you’re aware Lino belonged to the Soldados?”
“Yes, yes.” She sighed. “His brothers, he called them. He had their mark put on him.” She rubbed a hand on her forearm. “Nothing I did stopped him; nothing I said swayed him. He’d make promises, and break them. Go his own way. There was always police with Lino.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“He left home when he was seventeen. He’s never come back.”
“You used to work for Hector Ortiz.”
“Years ago. He was good to me. To us. He gave Lino a job, a little job when he was fifteen. Busing tables, sweeping up. And Lino stole from him.”
Even now, it seemed the memory of it brought an embarrassed flush to her cheeks. “He stole from that good man, that good family. And shamed us.”
“Did you attend Mr. Ortiz’s funeral service?”
“No. I wanted to, but David’s parent-teacher conference was that day. Tony, my husband, and I make sure we both attend every one. It’s important. I sent flowers.” Something flickered in her eyes. “The priest was killed during the Mass. I heard about it. And I heard they’re saying—the police are saying—he wasn’t a priest at all. Oh God. Oh God.”
“Mrs. Franco.” Eve crouched until they were eye-to-eye, then drew an evidence pouch out of her field bag. “Is this Lino’s?”
Teresa’s breath went ragged as she reached for the bag, as her thumb rubbed the front of the medal through the seal. She turned it over, and her eyes blurred with tears as she read the inscription on the back. “I gave him this for his First Holy Communion. He was seven, seven years old. He was still my boy then, most of him was still my little boy. Before he got so angry, before he wanted so much more than I could give. Is he dead? Is Lino dead? Did he kill the priest? Oh God, did he take the life of a priest?”
“I think he may have, Mrs. Franco, in more ways than one. The body of the man who posed as Father Flores had a tattoo removed. From his forearm. The gang symbol of the Soldados. He’d had facial reconstruction. He had this medal hidden in his room.”
The color simply leached out of her face. “You think this man, this priest, was Lino.”
“Father Flores was traveling out West when he disappeared, nearly seven years ago. We’ve done some back-checking, and Lino Martinez drops off the grid at about the same time. He moved on and off prior to that. Changing identities,