“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 fa?ade. 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.