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.
* * *