Heat was aware of someone standing over her and broke off her glazed stare following her floating screen saver. It was Ochoa. “Ran a check on the doc who wrote the weird prescription for Father Graf. Dude’s bogus. Address is a mail drop. Nobody heard of him.”
Nikki shook off the heavy residue of her IA meeting. “Is he licensed to practice in New York?”
“Was,” said the detective. “A little bit tough, though. Seeing how he died at a nursing home in Florida ten years ago.”
Her phone rang. Hinesburg was calling from outside Interrogation to tell her the drug dealer had arrived.
* * *
“I have never seen this man before in my life,” said Alejandro Martinez. He slid the mug shot of Sergio Torres across the table to Heat. She noticed how delicate his hands were. Immaculately manicured, too.
“Are you positive?” she asked. “His rap sheet includes drug busts up in Washington Heights and the Bronx. Would have been about the time you got out of O-Town.”
“I assure you, Detective, since I left the penitentiary I have not engaged in any narcotics sales or consorted with any criminals. That would be a violation of my parole.” He chuckled. “Ossining has a lot of fine qualities, but I don’t plan to return.” Nikki took in this dapper man, sounding so refined, positively Continental—and wondered how much blood had gotten under those clear lacquered nails before he was finally busted. Watching him sit there, looking all soap opera patrón at sixty-two, with his distinguished gray temples and his Dries Van Noten suit complete with pocket square, who would ever suspect the scores of lives he had ruined and bodies he had disposed of in empty oil drums and lime pits?
“Life’s been good for you since then, it appears,” she said. “Expensive clothes, jewelry . . . I like the wristband.”
Martinez pulled back the monogrammed cuff on his right wrist and extended his arm across the divide so Nikki could appreciate the pounded silver bracelet studded with gemstones. “Nice,” she said. “What are these, emeralds?”
“Yes. Like it? It’s from Colombia. I saw it on a business trip and couldn’t resist.”
“Did you buy that recently?” Heat wasn’t jewelry shopping. She was laying groundwork.
“No, as I’m sure you know, the terms of my parole do not permit international travel.”
“But you sure could afford a piece or two like that. Mr. Martinez, you seem to have plenty of money.”
“My experience in Sing Sing brought me to reflect humbly on money and its use. In my own individual way, I try to use whatever wealth I have managed to save as a tool for good.”
“Does that include your drug money? I’m thinking specifically about a few hundred thou you scored back in 2003 in Atlantic City.”
The man was unruffled. “I’m sure I am not aware of what you’re talking about.”
Nikki reached over to the chair beside her and moved the open cookie tins of cash onto the table. “Does this refresh your memory?” For the first time since she came in the room, Heat saw the veneer crack. Not much, but his eyes flicked side to side. “No? Let me help you. This cash has been traced back to a deal brokered in your hotel suite at one of the casinos. The buyer was undercover DEA. He went in with a wire and this cash and was supposed to come out with a duffel of cocaine. Instead, he turned up in a Pennsylvania landfill three weeks later.”
The twinkle of rogue charm left his eyes as they hardened. But still he said nothing. “Let’s try some more show-and-tell.” Nikki handed over a picture of Father Graf.
“I don’t know this one, either.” He was lying. Cool as he was, Martinez showed the classic stress tells . . . the blinks, the dry mouth.
“Look again, I think you do.”
He gave the most cursory glance and slid it back. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Do you have any idea how this money ended up in his possession?”