“That’s her.” Eve nodded toward the woman setting heaping bowls of pasta on a table. She laughed as she served, a good-looking woman in her early fifties, trim, graceful at her work. Her dark hair, pinned at the nape, framed her face and set off wide, brown eyes.
“Doesn’t much look like a woman who recently learned her son had been poisoned,” Eve observed.
Another woman hurried up, one older than Teresa, rounder, and with a welcoming smile. “Good evening. Would you like a table for two?”
“We would, yes.” Roarke answered the smile. “That section, there”—he gestured to what he’d calculated comprised Teresa’s station—“would be perfect.”
“It may take a few minutes. If you’d care to wait in the bar, just over there?”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll come for you when we have a table available.”
The bar lay through an arch, and was as lively as the restaurant. Eve took a stool, angled it to keep an eye on the restaurant while Roarke ordered a bottle of Chianti.
“Place does a good business,” she commented. “It’s been in this spot for nearly forty years. Brother-in-law’s second generation to run it. She married the owner’s brother about a dozen years ago. Her husband took off—or went missing—when this Lino was about five. He’d be thirty-four now—Lino Martinez. With the records wiped, I can’t find out if he had a record.”
“Or that he was ever Soldados.”
“No. I can confirm he’s gone to a lot of trouble over the last half of his life to stay under the radar. Changing locations, identities. If he’s not my Lino, he’s still wrong.”
“Did you look into her finances?” Roarke asked, and tested the wine the bartender poured into his glass. “Very nice,” he said.
“As much as I could without legal cause. No bumps or spikes, not on the surface. She lives well within her means, and she works as a waitress, has for a long time.”
“For the Ortiz family, you said, when she lived on our side of the bridge.”
“Yeah, and that’s a connection you want to pick up and look over. Got remarried, moved here. She’s got a nine-year-old kid, and went the professional mother route for the first two years of that, then went back to work here. Kid’s in public school—no trouble there—and she has a small savings account. Nothing over the top. Husband’s an MT with no criminal. They’ve got a mortgage, a vehicle payment, the usual. Everything runs normal.”
The hostess came over. “Your table’s ready. If you’ll just follow me, we’ll bring your wine over. A very nice choice,” she added. “I hope you’re enjoying it.”
Once they were seated, a busboy brought their wine and glasses on a tray. “Teresa will be your waitress tonight. She’ll be right with you.”
“How’s the pizza?” Eve asked him, and he beamed. “You won’t get better. My brother’s making it tonight.”
“Funny,” Eve mused when they were alone. “Family restaurants. Another connection. She worked for the Ortiz family in theirs, then comes here to work in another well-established family business.”
“It’s what she knows, and maybe what she needs. Her first husband deserted her, and you said there were domestic disturbance reports prior to that. She had her first child very young, and he, too, left her. Or left in any case. Now she’s part of a family again, a link in that chain. She looks content,” he added as Teresa started toward their table.
“Good evening. Would you like something to start? The roasted artichoke is wonderful tonight.”
“We’ll just head straight for the pizza. Pepperoni.” Roarke ordered quickly, knowing if he hesitated, Eve might head straight into interrogation.
“I’ll get t
he order right in for you.”
She started for the kitchen, stopping when a diner patted her arm. So she paused long enough to have a quick and lively exchange that told Eve the table was filled with regulars.
Popular, she noted. Well-liked. Efficient.
“Keep that up,” Roarke warned, “and half the restaurant will make you for a cop in the next two minutes.”
“I am a cop.” But she shifted her gaze back to him. “If she’s what she looks to be, I bet she keeps up with the Ortiz family. I wonder if she went to the funeral. Her name wasn’t on the list I got from Graciela Ortiz.”
“Have you checked the floral tributes? Mass cards?”
“Hmm. I did, before. But I wasn’t looking for Teresa Franco from Brooklyn. Mira thinks the killer will be compelled to confess—to his priest.”