Heat didn’t get the reaction she’d expected. Rook was elsewhere. Deep in some rumination, his eyes roamed the vending machine across the lobby, and not like he was deciding on which Snapple.
“I tried to call you,” she said.
He came back to her. “Yeah, well, I’d gone full immersion.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nik, don’t get me wrong, I love my ride-alongs with you, but at a certain point, I have to break away, throw out the orange cone, and be the journalist I am.” She caught her hand gripping into his knee and brought it back to rest on her lap. He didn’t seem to notice. “I am officially on assignment with this story, you know. That’s a core deal — home plate for me — and I have to protect it. When I’m rolling with you, I benefit, for sure. I get a ton of insights and observations. But it’s too easy to lose my objectivity. If I lose that, I’m not a journalist anymore. I need to keep my independent eye.”
What was going on here? she wondered. Rook spoke so calmly and clearly about this, but the effect of what he was saying — about independence and breaking away — planted a kernel of anxiety deep inside her that took root fast and grew with every sentence he spoke. More comfortable (or, at least, safer) with facts, Nikki shifted the direction this had taken. “All right. Writers’ solitude. I’ve seen you work, I get that. But what could you possibly conjure up that makes you think I don’t have a case?”
“Just to mention, when you say ‘conjure,’ you make me sound, I don’t know, like some conspiracy whack job.”
She was trying to keep this from descending into an argument, but that one deserved a pushback. “Come on, Rook, do you need me to make a list of all the wild speculations you’ve spouted?”
“Only to get outside the proverbial box. To stimulate you to new thinking. It’s not like I went all Area Fifty-one.”
“The other day at the planetarium you suggested the unknown body fell from outer space. The next day you were pitching voodoo.”
“Well, let’s not get anecdotal. This is different. I have some solid, rather eye-opening facts, if you’ll hear them.”
“Of course I will. Glad to.” No she wasn’t. She wanted to run away. To anywhere but this moment.
He fished a notebook out of his sport coat. She couldn’t help notice he’d switched from his usual black Moleskine to a bright orange Rhodia from France. One more différance to absorb. She made an irrational decision to pitch the Clairefontaine pad he gave her. “Let’s start at the slaughterhouse,” he said. “People like Fabian Beauvais don’t just show up out of the blue to choke chickens.”
“Nice,” she said. “No, I’m sure there’s word of mouth in his community.”
“Agreed. But. There are also referrals. What’s one thing every immigrant needs, especially if he’s illegal? Someone to get him through the maze. Red tape, housing, jobs. And discreetly. Under the radar.” He opened the notebook to one of the early pages. “The slang is Gateway Lawyer. Now these are not your Park Avenue barristers. They’re not even up there with the Accidentes personal injury guys you see on bus ads. These are bottom-feeders, for sure, but they serve a role helping the margin class.”
Outside, the urgency of reporters vying to get called on caught her eye through the window and told her the press conference was winding down. “Is this going to be a civics lesson?”
“Getting there. The whole coincidence of the slaughterhouse manager pointing us to the Hamptons never went down easy for me.”
“Why not? It’s what happened.”
Rook continued without acknowledgment. “So I did some research. Our friend Jerry, the GM of the chicken plant, has a job-referral arrangement, which sounds suspiciously like a kickback deal, with a Gateway Lawyer by the name of Reese Cristóbal. Remember Fabian Beauvais had a rap sheet for a trespassing arrest? I’m going to let you guess what attorney handled his case. Reese Cristóbal. I guessed for you.”
“So far, this is all good background but—”
“Reese Cristóbal is a very busy man. He not only has strong ties to the illegal immigrant community — the night Fabian Beauvais got arrested for trespassing for his Dumpster dive, a couple of other guys got busted with him. Also immigrants. Also repped by our Gateway Lawyer.”
“Which would only follow if he’s handling a lot of these cases,” she said.
“Correct. But this was a first offense for Fabian. I found out the pair he was consorting with had more interesting records.”
Nikki cocked her head. “How did you get information on them?”
Rook grinned. “Please. Do I have to carry my Pulitzers for investigative journalism around with me?” Already chiding herself for not checking on Beauvais’s fellow arrestees, Heat urged him to continue. He referred to notes again. “Bachelor Number-One, Fidel ‘FiFi’ Figueroa had a disorderly conduct reduced to malicious mischief for lobbing a stink bomb into a crowd. Oh, and the crowd? It was in Washington Square. At a campaign rally for Keith Gilbert.”
“Go on,” she said.
“Ah, the sweet sound of your undivided attention. Bachelor Number-Two, Charley Tosh, was arrested for B and E and vandalism. To wit: In the middle of the night, he broke into, and thoroughly trashed, a storefront at Sixty-third and Lex. The Keith Gilbert campaign headquarters. Are we recognizing a pattern here? From your expression, I’d say so. And know why? This was not random stuff. They were paid for their pranks by a very active political action committee. This PAC has very benign initials. It’s registered as the CBP. Want to know what CBP stands for? The Committee to Block the PATHole.”
He glanced up from his notes. “Don’t blame me, these political wonks can be very snarky. Ever watch Bill Maher?”
In spite of herself, Heat’s curiosity piqued. “Is that ‘PATH,’ as in Port Authority?”
“Indeed, but not the train. The PATHole in question would be a certain commissioner from the Port Authority planning to run for the U.S. Senate.”
“Rook, so what? Those two did dirty work for a PAC with a sketchy name—”
“—Specifically, against Keith Gilbert’s campaign.”
“But that wasn’t Beauvais. He was only Dumpster diving.”
“With those two characters. You lie down with dogs, you’re gonna get fleas. And if you ask me, the ransack of Gilbert’s campaign HQ seems awfully reminiscent of the job we saw on West End Avenue. Except…”
“Except what?”
“Well, at the campaign office, somebody left a grumpy on the fund-raising chairman’s desk.”
She made a sour face. “You read the police report?”
“No, I got that from Keith Gilbert’s public information officer today.”
“Wait. You talked with Gilbert’s press aide?”
Rook gave a no-biggie shrug. “I knew Dennis when he was dean of the J-school at Hudson University. We met up this afternoon. That’s why I had my phone off.”
“Rook. I can’t believe this. You talked to one of my prime suspect’s staff? About this case?”
“I did. It’s called getting both sides.”
“What did you tell him about the case? Because you have to know it’s going straight to Gilbert and his Dream Team.”
“Are we getting paranoid?”
“No, we are getting annoyed.” Completely floored, Nikki fixed him with a look of indignation that unnerved him.
He got busy flipping ahead in his notebook and said, “I sense resistance, so let me get to my closer.” He came to a dog-eared page. “Remember at the slaughterhouse how some of the workers seemed a tad shy of the police, and slipped out the rear?”
“Of course.”