“Poison is a distant kind of weapon. It removes the killer from the victim, but can also afford the killer the advantage of standing back and witnessing the death. The crowd in the church would afford an excellent cover for that. The distance and the intimacy. I would say both were desired. Public execution.”
“Why make it public if you can’t watch yourself?”
“Yes. But for what crime? The crime had some direct effect on the killer. Exposure wasn’t enough. For a person of faith—and the ritual, the method, the time, and the place indicate that to me—the sin, the crime, had to have been deeply and desperately personal.”
“It’s about the neighborhood, about home, the gang connection. It’s in there somewhere.”
“Yes, the method, the place mattered. The killer’s mature enough to plan, to choose. Involved in this faith enough to know how to use it. Organized, thoughtful, and probably devout. And the intimacy and distance of poison is often a female weapon.”
“Yeah, like no fists,” Eve commented. “Poison isn’t bloody. Takes no force, no physical contact. A hundred-pound woman can take down a two-hundred-pound man without chipping her nail.”
Mira sat back as their salads were served. “You believe Jenkins’s killer will confess.”
“Guilt’s going to eat him inside out.”
“A man or woman of faith, then?”
“Yeah, I guess. Yeah. He believes.”
“Your two cases may not be connected by one killer, but I think they may be connected by the same type. I think he or she is also a person of faith. And if so, he or she will need to confess. Not to you. The Eternal Light doesn’t have confession, penance, and absolution by a representative of Christ.”
“But Catholics do.”
“Yes. The killer will confess to his priest.”
12
EVE HEADED BACK TO HOMICIDE WITH THE IDEA of grabbing Peabody and taking on the priests at St. Cristóbal’s again. Confession, she thought. She believed Billy Crocker would need to unburden himself. Doing the deed—the impulse, even the restrained passion of it—would have carried him through the murder itself. But the aftermath, all the grief surrounding him would scrape and dig at him. Add in her parting shot, letting him know she recognized him, and yeah, he’d fall under the weight. She’d already seen it in his eyes.
But the Flores killer. That was deeper, felt deeper. More personal, and more tied in with the ritual of faith. Mira put her finger on it, in Eve’s opinion. The killer would seek yet another ritual of faith.
Maybe already had.
Hit the priests, and some of the tattoo parlors on her list. But that was long-shot territory. Finding the tat artist who inked her particular Lino after what could be a good twenty years was a crap shoot. But if she couldn’t nail it down any other way, it was worth that shot.
She’d started the swing to her division when she remembered Peabody wouldn’t be there. Party planning, for God’s sake. Why the hell did people have to have parties all the damn time? Food and drinks and gifts and decorations and agendas, all lined up on lists and talked over incessantly to the last stupid detail.
Another ritual, she thought, slowing her pace. All the trappings, the timing, the words or music, the scheme.
The killer had to be part of that ritual. Had to have been in the church at the moment Lino drank the sacramental wine. Had to watch the death—ritual death. A familial connection of the Ortiz’s possibly. But that felt wrong, disrespectful to the old man, unless . . . unless the sin
, the crime Lino committed had been in some way connected to Ortiz.
Ran by the Ortiz house every morning, she remembered. Was there a purpose there?
Otherwise, a less intimate connection. Family friend, neighbor, longtime customer, employee.
Turning it over in her mind, she stepped into her bullpen and saw Baxter flirting with Graciela Ortiz. No question about it, she mused, the body language, the eye gleams all said testing sexual interest. Then again, to her way of thinking, Baxter would flirt with a hologram of a woman.
“Officer Ortiz.”
“Lieutenant. I stopped by, but the detective told me both you and your partner were out.”
“Now I’m in. My office is right through there. Go on in.”
“Detective,” Graciela said and gave Baxter one last blast with green, liquid eyes.
“Officer.” His grin widened, unabashed when he turned it on Eve. And pounded a hand like a happy heartbeat on his chest. “You’ve got to love a woman in uniform,” he said to Dallas.