Reitzfeld opened the door for us. I was about to walk in when Kylie grabbed me by the elbow and whispered in my ear. “Don’t say anything.”
“About what?” I said.
“I’ll explain later,” she said, the whisper even more urgent. “Just be cool, and don’t say anything about anything.”
“Vow of silence,” I said, and I mimed zipping my lips.
We entered the suite. One look around the room, and I understood why Shelley wanted to keep the robbery under wraps. Most of the poker players were familiar faces. I recognized a retired NBA player turned ESPN commentator, a stand-up comic, a director, an actor, and an aging rock legend. There was another man sitting on a sofa at the far side of the room with a cell phone to his ear, but I’d never seen him before.
As soon as we walked in, Shelley Trager, a sixty-year-old bundle of kinetic energy with a receding hairline and an expanding waistline, came bounding toward us, wrapped his arms around Kylie, and planted a big kiss on her cheek. Shelley is a film producer and a studio overlord, but he’s not one of those Hollywood air kissers. Shelley is Big Apple to the core, so the smooch was pure New York: loud and genuine.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
“You call; we come,” Kylie said. “Any day, any time.”
“And I couldn’t have picked a worse day or a worse time. I know how busy you are with those bombings. Plus I heard you’re working on the Davenport murder. By comparison, this is small potatoes.”
“Maybe so,” a voice said, “but a hundred thousand bucks’ worth of small potatoes still adds up to a lot of fucking spuds.” It was Rick Button, the comic. He was sitting at the bar. “I came here figuring I’d lose a hundred grand tonight. I just didn’t expect to be cleaned out so fast. But those guys had guns, and I could tell they weren’t bluffing.”
“You want your money back, Rick?” Shelley said. “I’ll write you a check.”
“I don’t need your money. I could write this whole crazy poker game into my act and make a fortune.”
“You do that, and you’ll be dead before you can spend a dime,” Shelley said. “And my two friends here will have seven suspects.”
Kylie put a hand on Shelley’s arm. “I realize you guys have the ability to joke about this,” she said, “but there are two armed robbers walking around the city thinking they’re the baddest asses in town, and they’re not going to quit while they’re ahead. They’re going to do it again, and the next time, the outcome might not be something to laugh about. Are you sure you won’t reconsider reporting this to NYPD?”
“I can’t,” Shelley said. “Do you see the guy on the couch talking on the phone? His name is Eitan Ben David. Doctor Eitan Ben David, plastic surgeon to the rich and wrinkled. If you think these show business assholes would be embarrassed for this to get out, imagine how a respectable citizen like Eitan would feel. Look, you guys did your job. You ran right over, and you stopped the cops from making a federal case out of this.”
“We didn’t do anything,” Kylie said. “By the time Zach and I got here, Reitzfeld had it under control.”
“Then it’s over and done with.”
“Shelley, it’s not over and done with. Bob Reitzfeld is going to go after these guys, and he’s a damn good cop with a lot of resources at his disposal, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he caught them. Then what? You can farm out the police work, but once these felons are apprehended, they still have to be prosecuted through the city’s criminal justice system.”
“I know, but that can happen quietly. No hoopla, no newspapers, no other victims besides me, and no trial, because we’ll make it worth their while to cop a plea.”
“And maybe you’ll get your money back.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
“Then why bother?”
“First, to do what you want: get these bastards off the streets. And second, to do what Reitzfeld wants: get even with the two punks who snookered him.”
Kylie shrugged. “Two noble goals. Call if you need our help.”
“Thank you both for coming,” Shelley said. “One question before you go. Have you heard from Spence?”
Kylie shook her head. “Not a word. You?”
“Nothing.”
The door to the adjoining suite opened, and a man entered, carrying a plate of shrimp and a beer. He saw us talking to Shelley, put his food and drink on a table, threw his arms up in the air, and yelled, “Kylie!”
He headed straight toward her, took her in his arms, and kissed her. This was a far cry from the father-figure, happy-to-see-you kiss Shelley had given her. This was a full-on mouth kiss that could easily have escalated into something a lot more passionate if there hadn’t been eight other men in the room.
Quick-witted detective that I am, I immediately figured out two things.
One: I now knew what Kylie meant when she said “Don’t say anything.”
Two: I was about to meet Kylie’s new boyfriend.