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“I have some in my office,” she told him as he stepped toward a machine.
She led him down the hall, into the bullpen where Jenkinson snarled into a ’link, “Look, you fucking shit-weasel asshole, I get the intel, you get paid. Do I look like some fuckhead sitting here jerking off? You don’t fucking want me coming down there, cocksucker.”
“Ah,” Eve said. “Office. Sorry.”
López’s face remained serene. “You neglected to add ‘colorful’ to your ‘loud and full of very bad people.’ ”
“I guess. How do you take the coffee?”
“Just black’s fine. Lieutenant . . . I brought the baptismal records.”
“So you said.”
“And I intend to give them to you before I go.”
Eve nodded. “That would make sense.”
“I’m doing so without authorization. My superiors,” he continued when she turned with the coffee, “while wishing to cooperate with the investigation, of course, are also cautious about the . . . backlash. And the publicity. They informed me they’d take the request under advisement. Advisement often means . . .”
“Just this side of never?”
“Close. I accessed the records myself.”
She handed him the mug. “That makes you a weasel. Coffee payment enough?”
He managed a soft laugh. “Yes, thank you. I liked—Lino. Very much. I respected his work, and his energy. He was my responsibility. I feel I can’t understand this, or know what to do until I know who he was, and why he did what he did. I have to counsel my parishioners. Answer them when they come to me upset and worried. Are we married? Has my baby been baptized? Have my sins been forgiven? All because this man pretended to be a priest.”
He sat, sipped. He lowered the mug, stared. Then sipped again, slowly. A flush rose to his cheeks. “I’ve never tasted coffee like this.”
“Probably because you’ve never had actual coffee. It’s not soy or veg or man-made. It’s the deal. I’ve got a source.”
“Bless you,” he said and drank again.
“Have you seen this before?” She took the print out of the tattoo, offered it.
“Oh yes. It’s a gang tattoo; the gang’s long disbanded. Some of my parishioners were members and still have the tattoo. Some wear it with pride, some with shame.”
“Lino had one. He had it removed before he came here.”
Understanding darkened López’s eyes. “So. This was his place. His home.”
“I could use the names of the people you know who have this tattoo.” When he closed his eyes, Eve said lightly, “There could be more coffee.”
“No, but thank you. Lieutenant, those who lived through those times and aren’t in prison are now older, and have work, and families, have built lives.”
“I’m not looking to change that. Unless one of them killed Lino.”
“I’ll get you the names, the ones I know or can learn. I’d like to have until tomorrow. It’s difficult to go against the authority I believe in.”
“Tomorrow’s fine.”
“You think he was a bad man. Lino. You believe he may have killed Flores to put on his collar—taken his name, his life. And yet you work like this to find the one who took Lino’s life. I understand that. I believe in that. So I’ll do what I can.”
As he started to rise, Eve spoke. “What did you do before you became a priest?”
“I worked in my father’s cantina, and boxed. I boxed for a time, professionally.”
“Yeah, I looked that up. You won your share.”
