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. . . .”