chastity? Would he, a good-looking, healthy man, have no interest in sexual gratification or have self-serviced for that length of time to keep his cover?
Unlikely.
So . . . López catches him banging a parishioner, or hiring an LC, whatever. Anger and righteousness ensue.
Just didn’t play through for her.
López was forty-eight, and had gone into the seminary at the age of thirty. Wasn’t that kind of late in the day for a priest?
Flores —wherever he was—had gone in at twenty-two, and the third guy—Freeman, at twenty-four.
But López—sad, sincere-eyed Chale López—had boxed for a few years professionally. Welterweight, she noted, with a solid twenty-two wins, six of them knockouts. No marriages (were they allowed that before the collar thing?), no official cohabs on record.
There was a short gap in his employment records. About three years between dropping out of the boxing game and entering the seminary. Something to fill in.
She started with Rosa O’Donnell, then picked her way through her portion of the Ortiz family attending the funeral. A few pops, but nothing unexpected, Eve thought, when dealing with an enormous family.
What did people do with enormous families? All those cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews. How did they keep them straight?
How did they breathe at any sort of family function?
A couple of assaults—no time served—for the Family Ortiz, she noted. One Grand Theft Auto, short time. A few slaps for illegals and other minor bumps. A handful of sealed juvies. She’d get those open, if and when.
Some had been victims along the way. Robbery, assault, two rapes, and a scatter of domestic disturbances. Some divorces, some deaths, lots of births.
She kicked back for a moment, propped her feet on her desk.
No connection to Flores except as the parish priest. But, she mused, Flores wasn’t the connection. Lino or whoever took Flores’s identity was.
Better when the dentals confirmed it, she thought, but she didn’t have a doubt. According to the records, Flores requested assignment at that parish, that specific parish, in November 2053.
Coming home, Lino, or running away? That was a question that needed an answer. Did someone recognize you? Someone who lived here, or was visiting here? Someone who felt strongly enough, passionately enough to execute you in church?
What did you do? Who’d you piss off, betray, hurt?
And thus, having had long patience, he got the promise.
What were you waiting for? What was the promise at the end of the wait?
“It’s fake,” Roarke announced from the adjoining doorway.
“Huh?”
“The ID, it’s fake. Which you already knew so I don’t see why you had me spend all this time on it.”
“Confirmation’s nice.”
He gave her a cool look, then came over to sit on the corner of her desk. “Then you have it. It was good work, costly. Not the best, by far, but not a patch job either. A bit more than six years back. Flores reports his ID lost, applies for a new one.”
“When, exactly?”
“October of ’53.”
“The month before he requests a transfer to St. Cristóbal’s.” She punched a fist against Roarke’s leg. “I knew it.”
“As I said. A new photo was provided by the applicant, along with copies of all necessary data. It’s a common way to make the switch.”
“Prints?”
“Well then, that’s where the cost comes in. You’ll need to grease the right palms or have a skill with hacking, and an unregistered. So you’d be switching the fingerprints all the way back, replacing with your own. And that means transferring them from childhood on, if you want to be thorough—and he did. It’s the first change where the hitch is most easily tripped. After that, it’s you, isn’t it? In your new skin.”
She frowned up at him. “How many forged IDs have you provided and/or used in your shady career?”
He smiled. “It’s a good living for a young lad with certain skills and considerable discretion, but was
Unlikely.
So . . . López catches him banging a parishioner, or hiring an LC, whatever. Anger and righteousness ensue.
Just didn’t play through for her.
López was forty-eight, and had gone into the seminary at the age of thirty. Wasn’t that kind of late in the day for a priest?
Flores —wherever he was—had gone in at twenty-two, and the third guy—Freeman, at twenty-four.
But López—sad, sincere-eyed Chale López—had boxed for a few years professionally. Welterweight, she noted, with a solid twenty-two wins, six of them knockouts. No marriages (were they allowed that before the collar thing?), no official cohabs on record.
There was a short gap in his employment records. About three years between dropping out of the boxing game and entering the seminary. Something to fill in.
She started with Rosa O’Donnell, then picked her way through her portion of the Ortiz family attending the funeral. A few pops, but nothing unexpected, Eve thought, when dealing with an enormous family.
What did people do with enormous families? All those cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews. How did they keep them straight?
How did they breathe at any sort of family function?
A couple of assaults—no time served—for the Family Ortiz, she noted. One Grand Theft Auto, short time. A few slaps for illegals and other minor bumps. A handful of sealed juvies. She’d get those open, if and when.
Some had been victims along the way. Robbery, assault, two rapes, and a scatter of domestic disturbances. Some divorces, some deaths, lots of births.
She kicked back for a moment, propped her feet on her desk.
No connection to Flores except as the parish priest. But, she mused, Flores wasn’t the connection. Lino or whoever took Flores’s identity was.
Better when the dentals confirmed it, she thought, but she didn’t have a doubt. According to the records, Flores requested assignment at that parish, that specific parish, in November 2053.
Coming home, Lino, or running away? That was a question that needed an answer. Did someone recognize you? Someone who lived here, or was visiting here? Someone who felt strongly enough, passionately enough to execute you in church?
What did you do? Who’d you piss off, betray, hurt?
And thus, having had long patience, he got the promise.
What were you waiting for? What was the promise at the end of the wait?
“It’s fake,” Roarke announced from the adjoining doorway.
“Huh?”
“The ID, it’s fake. Which you already knew so I don’t see why you had me spend all this time on it.”
“Confirmation’s nice.”
He gave her a cool look, then came over to sit on the corner of her desk. “Then you have it. It was good work, costly. Not the best, by far, but not a patch job either. A bit more than six years back. Flores reports his ID lost, applies for a new one.”
“When, exactly?”
“October of ’53.”
“The month before he requests a transfer to St. Cristóbal’s.” She punched a fist against Roarke’s leg. “I knew it.”
“As I said. A new photo was provided by the applicant, along with copies of all necessary data. It’s a common way to make the switch.”
“Prints?”
“Well then, that’s where the cost comes in. You’ll need to grease the right palms or have a skill with hacking, and an unregistered. So you’d be switching the fingerprints all the way back, replacing with your own. And that means transferring them from childhood on, if you want to be thorough—and he did. It’s the first change where the hitch is most easily tripped. After that, it’s you, isn’t it? In your new skin.”
She frowned up at him. “How many forged IDs have you provided and/or used in your shady career?”
He smiled. “It’s a good living for a young lad with certain skills and considerable discretion, but was
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