“No.” She had never seen Rook appear so cowed. “You don’t know Mother. If I intrude on her moment, I will pay dearly.”
Margaret, savvy to the arrangement, took care of it herself — and in character. “Oh, but you don’t understand. This is my usual table, where I like to see and be seen. Especially with you, Mr. Martinez.”
“Very well then,” came the smooth voice. “But only if you call me Alejandro.”
“It means Alexander, does it not? I’m fond of that name. I have a son, his middle name is Alexander.” Nikki gave Rook a teasing glance.
“You’re right, Nikki, we should get her out of there.”
“No, no,” said Heat. “I’m learning all sorts of things.”
Margaret and Alejandro’s brunch continued like any first date, which is to say replete with surface banter and feigned interest in the mundane stories of each other. “I’ve always found it creepy to listen in on my mother’s private moments with men,” Rook said. Then he immediately walked it back, saying, “Not that I ever do. Did.” He changed the subject. “I’m thinking this news that Torres was a narc in the Forty-first makes perfect sense.”
“This ought to be good.”
“Hear me out,” he said. “Then you can eviscerate my hypothesis.” When she gestured like a game show model for him to continue, he did. “One: Who else worked Narco in that precinct? Steljess. Two: Who got killed in that precinct? Huddleston. Three: Who was the drug kingpin in that precinct then? My mom’s date. Same gentleman whose DEA stash was in Father Graf’s attic. So yes, Nikki Heat, I am seeing a connection or two.”
Nikki smiled at him. “I’ll hate myself for saying this, but go on. What are these connections pointing to?”
“I’m smelling some kind of highly organized narc bribery ring that’s been operating in the Bronx. The way I see it, the drug dealers outsmarted the system and started funding crooked cops with DEA money so they wouldn’t have to cut into their own profits. Elegant, I’d say. Hang on a sec.” He listened to the table in Cassis. Martinez was laughing about the time Margaret went skinny dipping in the fountain at Lincoln Center. Rook said, “If only she had done it at night....”
“Your theory’s not totally ludicrous, Rook. But how does Graf figure in? And Justicia a Garda?... Or don’t they?”
“Been thinking about both. Remember how my man in Colombia, T-Rex, said Pascual Guzman from Justicia received that secret shipment three weeks ago? What’s the secret? Drugs? To quote Charlie Sheen, ‘Duh.’ And I’m thinking... just like our friend in there with his hand on my mother’s knee... Guzman launders the drug money through Father Graf, who innocently thinks it’s philanthropic donations for la raza justicia. He finds out it’s drug money, and bye-bye padre.”
Nikki stared into the middle distance, pondering. “OK. Then why bother with the Emma Carrolls and Margaret Rooks of the world?”
“Simple,” Rook said. “First, it’s more money to fund the bribes. And more importantly, it keeps up the façade. It’s probably what prevented Father Graf from looking too deeply.”
“Until?”
Rook frowned, willing the answer to come. Suddenly his face brightened. “. . . Until he heard about the video. That’s it, I’ll betcha. I bet that video they want so bad blows the lid off the bribery ring in the Forty-first.”
“Possible,” she allowed.
“You’re not convinced?”
“I’m convinced we have a theory. And not a bad one — for once. But we still need something solid. I can’t go to the department with a yarn. Especially with my disciplinary status.”
“So what do we do?” he asked.
“I believe we are doing it. Waiting for some money to follow.”
After a brunch of moules frites and a frisée au lardon salad, which Margaret proclaimed to be perfect, she paid the bill. Through her binoculars Heat noticed that Martinez made no effort to even pretend to grab it. After the waiter picked up the check folder, conversation dipped into that awkward lull that signals the transition to business. It didn’t last long. Alejandro Martinez was not a shy man. “Emma tells me you are ready to support our cause.”
“Oh, I am. Very interested. You believe in it strongly?”
“Of course. I am not myself Colombian, but as the great Charles Dickens once wrote, ‘Charity begins at home and justice begins next door.’ ”
Rook turned to Heat. “Prison library.”
Martinez continued, “But, as with all things valuable, this comes at a price.” He paused. “It requires money.” And then he said, “You brought the cash, right?”
Once they were on the sidewalk outside Cassis, Nikki said, “Smart. Your mother has the sense to stand so Martinez has to have his back to us to face her.”
“Trust me, thirty years on Broadway, one thing my mother knows how to do is upstage the other person.”
Martinez took the Louis Vuitton bag from Margaret, bent to kiss her hand, and the two parted. She walked south, as planned; Martinez hefted the strap over his shoulder and headed uptown. Nikki gave Mrs. Rook a thumbs-up as she passed, and Margaret gave a mild bow, her version of a curtain call.
They had decided on renting a car, figuring it would be the best way to tail his mother’s date. They could split up on foot if he took a subway, but if a man like Alejandro Martinez felt vulnerable in windows, public transportation would be unlikely. Up at 72nd Street he got into the backseat of the black town car that was waiting for him, and the tail was on.
It was well before lunch hour, with just enough traffic to hide in but not so much to make it a difficult shadow. Approaching 112th Street, Martinez’s driver gave plenty of right blinker for the turn east. Rook lagged before he made his right and kept a few cars between himself and the Lincoln all the way to First Avenue in Spanish Harlem. When the town car made a sharp right at Marin Boulevard and pulled over between a hubcap store and a funeral parlor, Rook drove past so they wouldn’t get spotted. Halfway up the block, he pulled over and checked out the side mirror. Nikki unbuckled and knelt on her seat to watch out the rear window, and saw Martinez whisk across the sidewalk and into the doorway of Justicia a Garda, carrying the bag of cash.
A parking spot opened ahead of them right in front of a taqueria, and Rook eased into the space, which afforded a fine view of the sidewalk from both mirrors. As they waited and watched, Rook’s cell vibrated. “Sure you want to answer that tainted phone instead of your new one?” Nikki teased.
“Shut up.”
“No, you shut up.”
“This is Rook,” he said, answering his call. “Yeah?...” He mimed for a pen. She gave him one and held out her notebook for him. He jotted down a date. May 31, 2004. “Listen, thanks, I — ” And then he held out his phone and stared at it. “Ass. Hung up on me.”
“Your pal from Gotham Outsource?” Rook nodded and Heat said, “Huh. And here I thought you two hit it off.”
They both did a mirror check. No sign of Martinez, although his driver was still idling, double-parked outside the building. Rook said, “May 31st of ’04 was Memorial Day. Mr. Happy told me Alan Barclay quit and left him in the lurch on a legal holiday, when all the TV stations reduce their union crews and he’s most busy.”
Heat said, “Not insignificantly, the same day they discovered Huddleston’s body in that Beemer.”
“Here’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.” Rook made another mirror check and continued. “The TENS burns on Huddleston. When they zapped Horst Meuller and Father Graf, they were trying to get them to give up the video. Why torture Gene Huddleston, Jr.?”
Heat shrugged. “Maybe he was connected to the video?”
“I’m liking that,” said Rook. “This was a Hollywood kid, right? Is it possible he and Alan Barclay made some secret gotcha video to bust the narcs who were on the take?” When she wagged her head side to side signaling doubt, he added, “Not for public service reasons. I mean for extortion. Trying to cut a better deal on product using the video as leverage.”