Marc rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t argue. It wouldn’t have stopped him, and frankly, I didn’t want to. When we got there, Miguel whaled right in.”
“He attacked Solas,” Eve prompted when Marc fell silent.
“He jumped him, pounded him. Not like sparring in the ring, which we’d done. Street moves. He had Solas on his knees and retching in under ten seconds. They went at each other in Spanish. I’m pretty fluent, in formal and in street Spanish, but I couldn’t completely keep up.”
Marc drank more water, shook his head. “But for damn sure, Miguel wasn’t worried about taking the Lord’s name in vain. Mrs. Solas had the other two girls, and they were cowering in the corner, crying. Miguel kicked Solas in the face, knocked him out, and he didn’t stop—wouldn’t stop. I had to pull him off. For a minute, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to—and if I couldn’
t, I think he might have killed the man. He was that over the edge.
“I’d never seen him like that, before or since. You run a place like we do, you see some bad things. Young girls pregnant or on their third abortion. Boyfriends who slap them around, parents on the junk. Illegals, gang fights, parental neglect. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I know how it is.”
“He handled that. He might get mad, or impatient, but he never lost it. Until Solas.
“Still, when he got himself under control again, he was good with the woman, the kids. Gentle, kind. It was . . . it was almost like it was someone else who’d beaten down on Solas.”
“Maybe it was,” Eve said. “Did he ever talk to you about old friends, old enemies?”
“He talked about running a little wild for a couple of years when he was a kid, the rebellion deal most of us get through. He never mentioned any names, or nothing that stood out for me.”
“Besides you and Magda, the priests, who did he spend free time with? Hang out with?”
“I have to say he was friendly, the outgoing type. He knew the kids, most of their parents, older sibs, cousins, whatever. If they were around, he’d hang, or join in a pickup game.”
“Try this. Did you ever notice him avoiding anyone?”
“No,” Marc said slowly. “I can’t say I did. Sorry.”
“We appreciate the time. If you think of anything, please contact me.”
“I will.” He pushed to his feet. “I feel . . . it’s like when I was in college and did too much zoner. I feel fuzzy-headed and a little sick.”
After Peabody escorted him out, Eve sat, swiveled in her chair. When Peabody returned, looked hopefully at the bakery box, Eve waved a hand toward it. Peabody pounced.
“Ohhh, cream-filled. Look out, ass, here it comes!”
“Lino’s going to have a sister—or another close friend or relative—who was sexually abused as a child.”
“Mmmffh?” Peabody managed.
“He sees all the other shit, hears it in confession, but the one time we can confirm he broke out of his collar—the one time he may have shown his true face—is over a kid being sexually abused.”
Peabody swallowed heroically. “Sexual predators of minors are meat in prison. Even stone killers want and do go after them.”
“He had more control than that. Five years? He had the control, or an outlet nobody knew about. But he lost it over Barbara Solas. It has to be more personal, more intimate.”
“We’re going to check the files for sexual molestation of a minor in that sector, for a couple of damn decades, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, we are. No guarantee the abuse was reported, but that’s what we’re going to do. Pull them, copy me.”
Eve swiveled again. She’d need to consult Mira, she concluded, but it could wait a day, wait until she had more. For now, she decided to simply send Mira the files, the data, and ask for a profile and/or consult. Once done, she started to contact the lab and find someone to verbally bitch slap.
And her comp signaled an incoming.
“About damn time,” she muttered as she noted the sender. She read the text with interest, then studied the reconstruction.
The tattoo was a block cross, with a heart at its intersection. The heart dripped blood—three drops—from the tip of the knife stabbed through it.