Heat Rises (34 page)

“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 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
strong>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.”

“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.”

“I need one more piece, and to get that I need to take a little trip out of town.”

“Now?” he said.

“If it weren’t critical, I wouldn’t go. This is why God invented homicide squads, so we could split up duties. You’re my squad now, Rook; can you cover that base until I get back later this afternoon? With train time I should be back by four, four-thirty.”

He paused. “Sure. But where are you going? And don’t say Disney World.”

“Ossining,” said Heat.

“What’s in Ossining, the prison?”

“Not what, Rook. Who.”

There was a small blue plastic litter bag in the glove compartment, and Rook was calculating how much urine it could hold. Images of him kneeling above it in the driver’s seat, trying to deal with the potential overflow made him chuckle, which only made his bladder press all the more. He thought, This must be what it’s like for those middle-aged dudes in that commercial, missing the big play at the ball park having to get up and run to the can. He was seriously thinking about a dash into the
taqueria
when he spotted motion in the rearview.

Martinez stepped out of the door to
Justicia a Garda
. He was followed by a man in a cammy jacket with a Che Guevara beard, who was carrying the Vuitton money bag. Rook remembered the face from Murder Board South as Pascual Guzman’s.

As before, Rook kept his tail loose, erring on the side of not being made, although their driver still didn’t seem concerned about anything but his own ride. After he looped a few turns and headed south on Second Avenue, the blinker came on after crossing East 106th, and Rook eased back to a stop at the corner and waited as the town car stopped mid-block. Guzman got out without the black bag and trotted into a mom-and-pop
farmacia
. While he waited, Rook dialed Heat, got immediate voice mail, and left her an update. By the time he was done with the call, Pascual Guzman was back outside fisting a small white prescription bag. He got into the rear of the Lincoln without looking back and the journey resumed.