"Let me-what do you say, Coop?-let me refresh your recollection, Counselor. The uptight guy who looks like he had his hair cut by Sergeant Bilko. The one whose rental car you were tooling around town in last week," Mike said.
Robelon pushed back from his desk and played with a pencil, tapping it against his left thumb. "I've got no idea what you mean. I thought you had something urgent to discuss, Mr. Wallace? Try not to act like you've picked up all your techniques on television, Detective." He raised his right leg and rested it on a desk drawer. His disdain for Chapman was palpable.
"Shit, you're probably right. I woulda been a bartender if it wasn't for Law and Order. Wouldn't have to put up with empty suits like you. There's the lovely Miss Cooper, running down the street last week in those ridiculous high heels she favors, trying to hail a cab, and you didn't even stop for her. Downright rude."
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Alex? Cab?"
"Thomas Street," I said, "you were-"
"Keep a lid on it, Coop. Think back to Wednesday, Counselor. A black sedan with rental plates. Parked on Thomas Street. Maybe it was a stranger who screamed at you to open the door and jumped inside holding a gun, is that it?"
Robelon kicked the desk drawer shut and crossed his legs. He yelled to his secretary, "Mrs. Kaye, you want to show these people the way out?"
She hadn't heard him clearly and came to the door of his office to look inside and ask him to repeat what he said.
"Lionel Webster, also known as Harry Strait. You got a second job as his limo driver?" Mike asked.
Mrs. Kaye looked confused. "Did you want me to get Mr. Webster on the phone?"
Robelon was fuming. He held up his hand and spun it around, motioning the secretary to back out of the room. Sorry, no doubt, he had made her come in for the impromptu weekend meeting.
Mike was on his feet, lifting the lid on the humidor and helping himself to a cigar.
"I'm so glad you weren't about to give me that 'I don't know any Lionel what-did-you-say-his-name-is?' Give that broad a raise. She saved your ass just now."
"Yeah, and I'd like to tell you what to stick up yours if there wasn't a lady present."
"Who, her?" Mike said, pointing the cigar at me. "That's no lady. Help yourself. She's just a louche broad masquerading behind a Wellesley degree and a fine pair of pins. Nothing you can say to me she hasn't said herself. So about Lionel Webster, what can you tell us?"
"Haven't seen him in a dog's age."
"Why don't you just talk to me about him? Everything you know."
"Whatever happened to attorney-client privilege, or don't you believe in that either?"
"Oh, so now he's your client, not your employee? Wasn't he working for you, trying to spook Paige Vallis?"
"This interview is over," Robelon said. "And Alex, don't ever try to sandbag me again, okay? You want me to answer questions, there's a proper way to do that. I didn't see Webster on Wednesday and if he had anything to do with you and some kind of chase, I can promise you I don't have the first clue about it."
Mercer's pager went off and he reached into his pocket to shut it down. The loud beeps seemed to signal the meeting's end.
Peter Robelon was holding the door open for us. It was probably the wrong time to ask another question but I gave it a shot.
"Do you know where Andrew Tripping is?"
He looked down at his right foot as he pawed at the carpeting. "You guys don't get it, do you? I represent him, Alex, remember?"
"No, no, no. I'm not going to do an end run. I mean, can we get to the courtroom in a couple of weeks and put this whole thing to bed?" I asked.
Peter seemed surprised by my offer, debating whether to talk with me. "There's a-there's a meeting this morning. Andrew and the child welfare agency lawyers-they're getting him together with his son. It's all supervised. Planned for today so he wouldn't miss another school day. Don't worry, Dulles won't be alone with him. Give me a call later on."
The elevator doors opened and the three of us got on.
"What do you think?" Mike asked. He lighted the cigar as we hit the sidewalk.
Mercer retrieved the number on his pager as I answered. "That we can't trust him. He's the target in an investigation pending with my office, remember that? I just don't think you can believe what he says. Who's the beep from?"
"Unfamiliar number. I'll call it now," Mercer said.
"You sure that was Robelon behind the wheel on Wednesday?"
I rolled my eyes at Mike. "Please don't start second-guessing me. If you two don't believe in me, who will? I had a pretty good look at the guy and yes, it was Peter Robelon."
"This is Mercer Wallace. Did you call me?" He was leaning against Mike's car and talking into his cell phone. He stood straight and gave us a thumbs-up. "Sure, I've got time to help you, Mrs. Gatts. No, no, I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to that homicide detective. Yeah, I can. Sure."
"What kind of stroke job is he getting now from that tub of lard?" Mike asked.
"The numbers joint on One Hundred and Eighteenth and Pleasant? You stay put in your house. I'm on it."
"What's she got?"
"Bessemer's back," Wallace said, pounding his fist on the hood of the car. "C'mon, unlock your batmobile and run me over to One Hundred and Eighteenth. Kevin Bessemer just showed up, high as a kite and looking to score. Drugs and the daily number. Sooner or later they all come back round."
"You, blondie. Backseat. Buckle up and keep your yap shut. Maybe Kevin'll tell you who the real moneybags is behind the whole operation. Find who paid to hire Helena Lisi for Tiffany."
Mike reached under his seat and lifted the red bubble dome to the dashboard. He tested the whelper to make sure it was working and wheeled out of his parking space, headed back to the northbound FDR Drive.
Mercer was on the phone, calling the precinct to talk to the squad lieutenant. "Get your men over to Limpy's place. Kevin Bessemer, the snitch who-"
The lieutenant didn't need a scorecard. He knew the players. Especially the one who'd taken himself out of the lineup.
"Don't you want to grab him yourselves?" I asked.
"And take the chance we knew where he was and let him get away again?" Mike said. "They'll hold him there for us and then we'll get to eyeball him."
Mercer dialed again. "Limpy? Wallace here. That scumbag you got hanging out? Yeah, that's the one. The cavalry's coming. No, no, not to worry. They're not there to break your balls-they just want Bessemer. Don't let him outta your sight, okay?"
"Why'd you give him a heads-up?"
"Good guy, Alex. He's worked with us for a long time. Runs a pretty clean operation. Does numbers on the side. Just didn't want him to panic when the men in blue burst in. Limpy's bigger than I am, so Bessemer won't be going anywhere."
"How's he going to hold down an out-of-control junkie, high on crack? He limps, no?" I asked.
"Not his leg," Mike said. "Limp dick. That's how he got his name. Ex-wife gave it to him and it stuck."
We were almost there when Mercer's cell rang.
"Be there in two minutes," Mercer said. He repeated the rest of the conversation to us. "Bessemer's acting like a wild man. Limpy has him pinned in a chair in the basement with the cops at the top of the stairs."
We pulled up to the building that housed the newsstand that was the front for the illegal numbers business. Mike and Mercer got out and went inside. I stepped onto the curb and explained to the two uniformed cops posted beside the open door that I was just waiting for the detectives to bring the prisoner out.
I could hear Kevin Bessemer screaming at the top of his lungs. There was a sound like furniture crashing around the room, and Wallace's deep voice telling him, "Stop kicking, man. Stop breaking up the place. Calm down."
They were on the staircase now and the scuffling noises continued, getting closer. Bessemer was kicking the walls and cursing.
One of the cops felt it necessary to apologize to me for the perp's foul language. "That's the crack talking, ma'am. Sorry you have to hear it."