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“This is a bad time for me. How about tomorrow morning?”
Cappy and Conklin came through the front door. Cappy is big, bald, and streetwise. The badge he wore on a chain around his neck was visible once he opened his jacket.
Jack Robbie said, “Damn it. Give me a second. Stay here, okay? Don’t scare the pigeons.”
I pictured Robbie making a break for the rear exit. I didn’t want to chase him, pile on, cause a riot instead of avoiding one. But I was prepared to do all of that and make an arrest if I needed to when Robbie stopped at the craps table.
“Tony,” he called out. He bent, put his mouth to the croupier’s ear. Whispers ensued. The croupier made an announcement.
“That’s it, gents. Table is closed due to circumstances beyond our control.”
Tony pushed chips across the table, pocketed the dice, and put down the arguments. He checked out our crew as he walked forward and took Robbie’s seat in the cage.
I frisked Robbie and removed a 9mm Glock tucked into his waistband.
“I got a license for that,” said Robbie.
I sniffed the muzzle. It hadn’t been recently fired.
“Have any other guns?”
“I live here. Second floor, front. I’ve got a .45 inside the drawer next to the bed. Don’t mess with the girls up there, okay? And I got a shirt hanging on the back of the chair. If you don’t mind.”
Of course JR had working prostitutes on the second floor where he lived. Probably sold drugs while he was at it. Conklin took the stairs and ten minutes later he came down with the bedside .45 and a shirt.
Robbie said of the gun, “Like I said. It’s licensed.”
“Fine, Mr. Robbie. Is this everything or do I need a search warrant?”
“I didn’t shoot your father,” he said. “I haven’t left this place for a month and about twenty people here can attest to that.”
I said, “We’ll send your guns out to the lab and get them back to you in a day or two.”
“You want me to thank you?”
Robbie ditched the checkered napkin, put on the shirt, and told Tony to stay put until he heard from him. Then the four of us walked the proprietor of JR’s Aces High Dry Cleaners out to Mission Street and helped him into the back seat of Conklin’s unmarked car.
CHAPTER 15
BACK AT THE Hall, we brought Jack Robbie to an interrogation room. Alvarez settled our person of interest at the table, bought him a vending machine ham-and-cheese on a roll and a can of Sprite.
I checked that the video camera in the corner of the ceiling was recording. Cappy and Conklin were behind the one-way mirror between the observation room and the box.
Alvarez is not just smart, she’s beguiling. Robbie was asking Alvarez why she became a cop, flirting as if he’d ever have a chance. She hooked her hair behind her ears and put Marty’s PI license on the table facing Robbie.
She asked Robbie, “Is this a photo of Marty Boxer?”
I was thinking Robbie had plenty of reason to kill my father. True, you can’t squeeze money from cold dead hands, but Marty owing Robbie a six-figure debt could only encourage other clients to bet above their means. Robbie was the bank and carrying debt was bad for his business.
Robbie said, “I didn’tknowhimknowhim, you get me? We didn’t socialize.”
“Just looking for a positive ID on your customer,” Alvarez said.
“That’s him,” said Robbie. “Okay?”
He put his hands flat on the table, preparing to get to his feet.
I said, “Hang on, Mr. Robbie. We have a few more questions. Mr. Boxer’s records show that he’s into you pretty deep.”
