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.