Nikki plucked the mug shot of Alejandro Martinez from Murder Board South and said, “Think it over, Margaret, this is the man you’d be meeting. He’s a notorious drug dealer who’s done prison time. He claims he’s reformed, but 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.”