he’s also funneling drug money through a church. He may even be responsible for a priest’s torture and murder.”
“Look at that noble chin, will you?” said Margaret Rook. “And if you think I’m passing up a chance to have those eyes squeeze me across a mimosa, you’re crazy.”
When Rook had come up with this notion of asking Emma Carroll to set up a fake donor brunch meeting with Martinez, Heat was all for it as a way to bait him with some cash they could track and see where it ended up. By the time she realized the sting would be played out by his mother, the momentum was too strong and Emma had already made her call. “It’s not too late to back out,” Nikki cautioned. “If you have any worries, don’t be proud.”
“My greatest worry is which wealthy socialite from my Broadway career I shall reprise. Perhaps Elsa Schraeder from Sound of Music?”
“Isn’t she the one von Trapp eighty-sixed for Maria?” said Rook.
“Oh…” Margaret made a sour face. “I’ve lost too many men to the nanny to endure that again. I know. I could bring back Vera Simpson from Pal Joey.” She examined the mug shot again. “No, he won’t spark to her, too sulky. Let’s see… Ah! I have it. Muriel Eubanks from Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. She got seduced by a con artist. Perfect.”
“Whatever works for you, Mother, but you are doing the seduction.”
“You bet I am.”
“With this.” Rook placed a Vuitton epi leather Keepall on the dining table. “There’s ten thousand dollars of my movie option for the Chechnya article in here. Nikki and I spent all last night recording serial numbers, so no tipping, no dipping.”
“Jameson, you are determined to spoil Mother’s good time, aren’t you.”
They arrived in their rental car an hour early so they could claim a parking spot close to Cassis on Columbus Avenue. Heat and Rook had chosen it because it was small and the ambiance was quiet, so they could hear better from the car. “How’s this going to work?” asked Margaret from the backseat. “On TV they always wear wires.”
“Tada,” said Rook. “From my new friends at the spy store, I got you this.” He handed her a smart phone.
“That’s it? Darling, I was hoping I could wear a wire.”
“So 21 Jump Street. This baby has state-of-the-art noise canceling and sound pickup. Just set it on the seat beside you and we’ll hear everything. It also has a GPS. I had better not need to track you, but if something happens, I want to be able to.”
“I approve,” Nikki said in a British accent. “Very thorough, Q.”
“You don’t know half of it.” He handed her a cell phone. “Since my e-mail got hacked, I’ve been worried about our phones, too. So while I was there, I got us new ones. I already did a GPS sync and programmed our speed dials.”
Heat pressed a button on her new phone. Rook’s rang. “Hello?”
“Nerd,” she said. And then hung up.
From the front seat of their Camry they watched Mrs. Rook establish herself early at the window table they had told her to take. She also claimed the inside seat, as instructed by Nikki, so that from the curb they could keep an eye on Martinez and have a clear view of his hands. “I’ll tell you now,” came her voice through the speaker phone, “this blocking may work for you but it’s far too drafty for me.”
Rook made sure his phone was muted and said, “Actors.”
While they waited in silence for the drug dealer to arrive, Heat’s cell buzzed and Rook said, “You sure you still want to use your old phone instead of the new one I gave you?”
“It’s the FBI, I think I can take this.”
Her contact at the Violent Crime Unit in Quantico began with an apology for the delay. “It took me a while to get anything for you on Sergio Torres because I hit a firewall and had to get some approvals.” A tingle of adrenaline stirred in Heat. “But it’s for you, so I kept banging on it till I got clearance. Your man’s records were classified because he was deep-cover law enforcement.”
Nikki said, “Sergio Torres was a cop?” Rook stopped finger drumming the steering wheel and whipped his head to her.
“Affirm,” said the FBI analyst. “Now, his whole jacket, the jail time he served, that was all real. Part of the legend that was built to give Torres street cred.”
“What agency was he with?”
“Torres was in Narcotics, NYPD, assigned to the Forty-first Precinct. That’s in-”
“-The Bronx,” said Heat, “I’m familiar.” Just then she saw the dapper figure of Alejandro Martinez walking down the sidewalk toward them. Nikki quickly thanked her NCAVC contact, hung up, and grabbed Rook. “Make out with me.”
She pulled him to her and they kissed deeply, and then, just as abruptly, she pulled away. “I didn’t want Martinez to clock me.”
“No complaints here.” Then while they watched Martinez kiss Margaret’s hand as he sat, Rook said, “Did I hear the human popsicle is actually a copsicle?”
The conversation in the restaurant was introductory small talk, so Heat quickly filled him in on her Torres briefing. Then Nikki said, “Whoa, whoa, I’m not liking this.”
On the cell phone speaker, Martinez was saying he wanted to move to a table toward the back. “I am not so comfortable sitting in windows.”
Heat said, “We should get her out of there.”
“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
