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14
SINCE PEABODY WAS BETTER WITH WEEPERS had a way of easing and eking information out between sobs—Eve had her talk to Barbie while she took Bobbie.
The layout of the law office was identical to Asner’s with a no-frills decor. She left Peabody with Sunny the assistant and the teary Barbie in the reception area, and sat with Bobbie in his office.
“What do you know, Bobbie?”
“It may not be anything. I know A was riding high the last couple days. Big payoff from a client. I don’t know the details, and I’m not sure I’d tell you if I did.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got most of them already.”
“Well.” He shrugged. “He liked to gamble, and he was flush. I know he was going to hit a game yesterday because he stopped by, said I should go with him, he’d front me. I don’t do that kind of thing—gamble. I can’t afford to. And I don’t play with money I don’t have in the first place. So I said I’d pass. I had work anyway.”
“Okay.”
“It could be he played too deep, lost what he didn’t have, or needed to get more from his office.”
“Did he keep money there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” His eyes tracked to the door as Barbie let loose another spate of sobs.
“My partner’s good with the grieving,” Eve told him.
“Yeah, okay.” Bobbie pressed his fingers to his eyes, took a couple long breaths. “Okay.” Dropped his hands back to the desk. “Anyway. It could be he got into it over the bet, and whoever he owed or was there to collect killed him. But—”
“Kill him, you don’t get paid,” Eve finished. “But we have to check these things out. Do you know where he played yesterday?”
“They move around. I think he said he was picking it up in Chinatown. The thing is—Lieutenant, right?”
“That’s right.”
“The thing is, yeah, A liked to play, but he wasn’t stupid about it. I went with him a couple times, and I never saw him play past his limit, never used a marker, never swung toward the high-stakes, break-your-legs-if-you-welsh kind of game. He just liked to play, have some fun at it. So I don’t see it going here.”
“You see something else.”
“Maybe. Listen, do you want some coffee?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“I’m just going to get some coffee.” He rose, went to a shoe box–sized AutoChef on a short counter. It made ominous grinding noises, then clunking ones. “I’ve got to replace this piece of crap.”
He pulled out a mug, and the steam sent out a scent worse than Morris’s morgue coffee.
“I don’t know if it’s anything. But …”
“But.”
Bobbie sat, sipped, winced. “God, this is truly horrible. A asked me some legal questions, hypothetically. Bought me a beer the other day, made it like conversation. But I’m not stupid either.”
“Did he hire you?”
“No, or I wouldn’t be talking to you. It still doesn’t feel right, but he’s dead. Not just dead. Murdered. I liked him, a lot. Everybody liked A.”
“What was the hypothetical?”
“He wondered if somebody had something come into their possession, and they requested compensation of a monetary nature for that something from an interested party, how much legal hassle would there be? I asked straight out if he was talking about stolen property, and he said no. Just a kind of memento. Nothing exactly illegal.”
“Exactly illegal,” Eve repeated, and Bobbie managed a faint smile as he choked down another swallow of coffee.
