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“Good to hear, Sonia.”
But the opposite scenario was playing out in my mind. I could see Leo having a motive to take Marty out. He knew about Marty’s gambling and maybe he no longer trusted him with half the business. Instead of walking Marty out the bar’s door last night, he could have followed him on cat’s feet and fired the kill shot. Duplicating the Joanna Lake murder may have well been intentional. A smart way to throw suspicion onto the Goose.
“Brace for landing,” Sonia said.
Conklin didn’t have to wave us down. A blue BMW was parked at the middle of the block and a CSI flatbed truck was pulling up just ahead of Marty’s car. I braked next to the BMW and Conklin stepped out into the street.
I buzzed down my window.
He said, “I’ve been thinking that maybe Marty was meeting someone on Harriet Street. Say, his killer lured him out. Marty parks his car off the main drag and goes for a short walk in the dark. Whoever he was going to meet is in hiding, waiting for him to walk past, and once he did…”
Conklin made his hand into a gun. “Bang.”
I nodded. I could see it happening, but I couldn’t see the doer. Not yet.
“That’s all I’ve got,” Conklin said.
“We need to see what the car turns up,” I said. “And take a good look through his phone.”
Rich crossed his fingers and turned back to help CSI.
CHAPTER 12
OFFICER GRABO CLIMBED out of the flatbed truck with a slim tool in her hand. She exchanged words with Conklin, high-fived Alvarez, and said, “Very sorry, Boxer,” to me.
I nodded my thanks, and watched Grabo slip the jimmy into the BMW’s passenger-side door, then unlock the driver’s side for her coworker, Ben Stukas.
Stukas got behind the wheel and jumped the engine. Conklin spoke with Grabo, who opened the glove box, reached in, riffled through flyers and manuals and receipts. Then she pulled out a small four-by-six-inch spiral notebook and held it up.
Conklin said, “Grabo, can I see that?” I watched as Conklin flipped through the small notebook.
He called out to me, “Mileage and fuel records.”
I called back, “Rich. Check the driver’s side visor.”
Conklin reached in and folded it down. Another notebook, the same size as the first, fell into his hand. Conklin held it up so I could see the betting slip taped inside the front cover.
After a quick look, Conklin said, “Personal notebook. Notes, observations, horses, bets, phone numbers.”
“Bingo.”
I told Rich to bring both books and we’d see him back at the Hall. Fifteen minutes later, while Alvarez and I were leafing through Marty’s surveillance files, Conklin came through the gate with the two small notebooks, bagged and processed at the scene.
He gave the books to me, then went to talk with Cappy. Alvarez and I gloved up, and I took the notebook with the betting slip out of an evidence bag. I was looking for his most recent notes. A name. A date. A clue.
I turned pages carefully and Alvarez took photos. Marty had been meticulous with his betting records. They were organized by date, track conditions, the names of the horses and the jockeys, the odds and amounts of the bets, wins and losses. It didn’t take higher math to see that financially, my dad was in deep. His bookie’s name wasn’t listed, but in places I found the initials “JR” beside a dollar amount and the word “paid.” And in some places, I saw entries crossed out and marked with the letters “FSR.”
There were a few pages of phone numbers attached by a bulldog clip to the inside of the betting book’s back cover. While Alvarez snapped photos of the mileage book, I unclipped the phone numbers from the betting book and checked them against my dad’s phone log.
Several names and numbers were in both places. Jack Robbie, Brad Mitcham, Darla, no last name. There were multiple daily calls to and from Darla. Today’s call log registered dozens of missed calls from her. Darla had to be Marty’s girlfriend. No number for Goose.
Conklin returned from speaking with Cappy, edged around his desk and took his seat. He tapped the desk next to the notebook Alvarez was photographing.
“Before I bagged that, I did some quick math. Looks like Marty owes his bookie two hundred thirty grand. The bookie kept taking his bets.”
“Bookie’s name could be Jack Robbie,” I said. I showed my partner the notations beside the initials “JR.” “Then there’s these initials, ‘FSR.’ Maybe he had some kind of patron?”
Conklin reached over the small pile of phone numbers that had been clipped to the betting book.
