Rooks of the world?”
“Simple,” Rook said. “First, it’s more money to fund the bribes. And more importantly, it keeps up the facade. 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 frisee 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.”
“You don’t leverage guys like that.”
“My point,” agreed Rook. “I think he found that out the hard way, and meanwhile, his videographer slipped away under the radar-with the video as his insurance policy if he was ever found out.”
“I’m freaking out here,” Heat said. “Either your theories are getting better, or working with you, I’m starting to lose it.”
He cupped his hands and breathed like Darth Vader. “Nikki… Come to the Dark Side…”
She got out her phone and, while scrolling her address book, asked, “How confident are you that you can keep the tail on our friend?”
“Hey, that’s my ten grand. Highly.”
“And do you think you can resist getting yourself into trouble and call me when he starts to move?”
“Why,” he said, “where are you going?”
“A little divide and conquer.” She found the number she was looking for and pressed Send. “Hello, Petar? It’s Nikki, how are you doing?” While she listened to her old boyfriend celebrate hearing from her, she watched the mirror. At one point Heat flashed a glance at Rook and met the eyes of fear and loathing. Ever since Rook crossed paths with her former college live-in on a recent case, he could barely keep a lid on his jealousy. Even though Nikki ultimately shut down Petar’s attempt to rekindle, she could see that the green beast lived on in Rook. “Listen, Pet,” she said, “I have a favor to ask. You were freelancing for the gossip mags back around 2004, 2005, right? If I took you to coffee today and picked your brain about Gene Huddleston, Jr., would you have any dirt to tell me?”
When she hung up, Rook said, “That Croatian reprobate doesn’t know squat about Gene Huddleston, Jr., he just wants to have sex with you.” When she got out of the car, he said, “Hey, you forgot this.” He held out the new cell phone he got her and said, “Call me after?”
Heat leaned in the passenger door and took it from him. “Would it make you feel better if I had a chaperone? I could maybe ask Tam Svejda.”
Nikki was still grinning when she set out for the subway.
Ninety minutes later Rook was still on stakeout in Spanish Harlem when his cell phone buzzed. “Any movement?” she asked.
“Nothing. Even his driver shut off his engine. Say, that was a quick coffee.”
“I got what I needed and Petar had to get back to a production meeting.” Her old boyfriend was a segment producer for Later On, one of the numerous desk-and-couch shows that fought over insomniacs after Dave and Jay and Jimmy.
“That’s good,” he said.
“Rook, you are so transparent. You don’t even know what I learned from him, you’re just relieved he went straight back to work.”
“OK, fine. Tell me what you got from him.”
“Something that connects Huddleston, I think.”
“Tell me.”
