The Downtown Deal (10 page)

I
opened. "I want to know who did this, Colby. You can help me. Do you want
to? Do you want to help me find out who killed your brother?"

The
muscles beneath his wan face tightened, and he grit his teeth around a light
jawline. "I know who did it. It was Blake. That bastard Blake!"

"I
have to disagree with you there," I said. "I know you and your
brother had differences with Blake, maybe big differences, but I don't think he
did this. I think whoever killed your brother may also have killed Sandra. And
I definitely don't believe Blake would've killed his ex-wife. Or had her
killed."

"You
don't know him," Colby snarled. "He's a real piece of shit!"

"I
know, I know." I gave him another palms-forward gesture. "Believe me,
I've seen his ruthless side firsthand. But I have to say, I don't think he
killed your brother."

I let
that sink in for a minute. Once I felt he absorbed it, I went on. "Colby, I
want to know what the story is between you and Hector Olivera?"

"What
does he have to do with this?"

"Come
on, now. Don't get all naïve on me. I know he owns that little strip of land
Blake needs for the stadium deal. What's the connection between the two of
you?"

"Barnett,
this is all very confidential. Nobody knows about any of it.
You're
not supposed to know. All of this
Olivera stuff is —"

"I
know, I know, it's confidential. And as a private investigator, I'm bound to
confidentiality. Now what's the story."

Even
though my conversations with Colby weren't bound under any circumstances,
license or not, I was going to treat this one as if it were, so I spoke from
the heart, filling my voice with sincerity. Way in the back of my mind,
however, I knew if I learned anything vital, I would turn it over to Frank
Madden.

He
sighed, then slumped back into the thickness of the sofa. "Ryan and I were
arranging financing for him. We had a big loan just about set with a pension
fund in California."

"A
big loan? How big?"

"In
the neighborhood of forty-three million dollars."

"Forty-three
million? What's Olivera need that kind of money for?"

"He
wants to buy Blake's land downtown."

My eyebrows
shot up. "
Blake's
land? Blake owns nearly ten times as much as
Olivera. I thought Blake wanted to buy Olivera's little strip of land."

"He
does. But he's not going to get it."

"Well,
I'm not too steeped in real estate expertise, Colby, but I can tell you, from
what I know of Blake, he's a tough customer. He'll never sell that land to
Olivera."

"He
will when crunch time comes." His voice was even and clipped, and it
carried a lot of authority. He was firmly in his wheelhouse. I gave him credit.

"Crunch
time? And exactly when would that be?"

He
moved around a little on the sofa, facing me somewhat more squarely. He pursed
his lips as if to give himself a thoughtful pause, a moment to get his wording
straight.

Then
he said, "Hector Olivera is tied into the ownership of the Florida Marlins
baseball team. They're talking about moving here."

"I
know, I've heard about that."

"Well,
what you may not have heard is that Mayor Niekamp is willing to do almost
anything to get a major league sports franchise here. She's tried the NFL, the
NBA, but no one in those leagues will give her the time of day."

I
remembered the mayor's pitch to the NBA a couple of years ago, while I was
still in LA. It was right after she took office. It made the LA papers, because
she was young, dynamic, and promised great things for Sin City. The NBA told
her to fuck off.

Colby
continued. "Olivera plans to use his leverage with the Marlins to get on
the mayor's good side. You know the kind of talk, I can bring them here
singlehandedly, I can get it done, blah, blah, blah. Listen, you want a drink.
I'm going to have one."

"Sure,"
I replied. "Got any good Scotch?"

He got
up and walked over to the bar. As he looked behind it, he said, "How's
Johnnie Walker Red?"

I
hoped he didn't see me roll my eyes as I said, "Yeah, that's great."
He probably kept the good shit for his fancy friends.

He
poured it, along with one for himself. At least he had the good sense to pour
them straight up. He came back to the couch with the drinks in his pale,
delicate hands. He handed me one. As we sipped, he said, "If Blake doesn't
sell his parcels to Olivera, Niekamp will think he's obstructing progress. And
of course, Olivera will be publicly pounding on that theme every hour of every
day that Blake holds out. Eventually, Olivera will force an eminent domain
showdown, which he thinks he can win."

"You
mean, where the city coerces a deal between them in favor of one or the
other."

"Right.
And when Olivera gets control of Blake's land, then he's in prime position to
put together financing for the stadium itself. Ryan and I have been quietly
doing some work on that end of it. There's no doubt, with someone of Olivera's
stature, with his credit background, that such financing is doable."

"How
much are you talking about?"

"Total
cost to build the stadium: four hundred million dollars."

"Four
hun — "
Holy shit! I had no
idea!

Colby
continued, "We've got several lines out already, and I think we can get a
commitment of a major stadium construction loan very soon. But he needs Blake's
land to show he's got the site in place."

My
eyes grew wide, but only for a moment. Then, Colby said, "But there's more.
Once he gets his end of the financing committed, Mayor Niekamp will move Mount
Charleston if she has to in order to get the city on board with its
share."

"What
will the city's share amount to?"

"Well,
that's up in the air right now, but Olivera wants them to pony up around a
quarter of the cost."

"You're
talking about a hundred million dollars from the city."

"Right,"
Colby said. "Plus he'll want them to pay for the parking facilities and
other auxiliary items. And that stuff doesn't come cheap."

"Will
they do it?"

"They
will if they want a major league sports franchise here. And Olivera knows it.
Niekamp won't be able to say no."

I
grunted my amazement at the scope of this whole thing. "Nice little bundle
he's wrapped up for himself, isn't it?"

"Very
nice, but it's still not all. There's also the naming rights for the stadium. A
twenty-five or thirty-year deal can be worth up to as much as seventy-five
million dollars. All for him."

"Jesus!"

"Not
only that, as soon as this consortium of public and private money is finally
firmed up, then Olivera will make his move on the team."

"What
do you mean by that?"

He
took a healthy sip of his Red Label before going on. "He has already
armtwisted the majority ownership of the Marlins, headed by a woman named Elva
Wiltenauer, into selling him a larger percentage of the team in return for a
favorable long-term stadium deal. Still a minority percentage, but one much
larger than the four or five points he controls right now."

"
He
controls four or five points right now? I thought there were several local
owners whose total percentage added up to that. And that he wasn't even one of
them."

Colby
shook his head, letting me know how mistaken I was. "They're all under his
thumb. And he stands to quadruple that share. Maybe even more."

The
room was beginning to spin. I said, "And how much would that be
worth?"

"He's
aiming for around a hundred and fifty million equity in the team."

I
couldn't add all these numbers together fast enough, but I didn't have to. It
was a shitload of money. That's all I needed to know.

Colby
added, "And that's what his end would be worth right now. If they win the
playoffs and the World Series, that figure goes way up."

"The
land, the stadium, the team itself! Shit, he wants it all!"

"He's
shooting for the sky,' Colby said with a slow nod. "And he just might hit
it." He drank again from his Johnnie Walker. Then he added, using his
index finger for emphasis, "But it's all contingent on getting Blake's
land."

Now it
was my turn to sink back into the squishy sofa cushions. I pulled on the
Scotch, realizing the stakes in this game were rocketing clear out of sight.

I
t had gotten a little colder, so when I got back home, I went
into my closet for a sweater. As I pulled it out, I noticed the blanket on the
floor covering the case of Blake's wine. Remembering the ransacking of Ryan
Farrow's bar and wine storage, I bent down and uncovered it.

The
wooden crate had fancy French writing on it, along with the stamped label,
"Château Mouton Rothschild". The stamping had faded somewhat, but in
color only. It was still well-defined and pretty legible all the way around.

I
wondered what all the fuss was about with this wine, what it must taste like.
Blake obviously didn't know, or didn't care to know, because he left it with
me, and appeared to be well on his way to forgetting about it once again. He
even told me he didn't know much about wine in general, and I think he said he
didn't drink it at all. But he really, really didn't want the Farrows to have
it.

I
loaded it into my car, then drove over to see Ronnie Wills.

Ronnie
would be home, I was sure, because it was a little after four. He got off work
at three, and sometimes went to Binion's to play poker, but not usually until
around six or seven. This would give him time to slip in a movie beforehand.
Sure enough, when I knocked on his door, after lugging the wine case all the
way up the steps, he answered right away.

"Jack!
Come on in. Here, check this out, man. See what I did." He showed me his
DVD player with its top plate removed, exposing the drive and all the mechanism
and electronics underneath. Wires not original to the unit ran all over the
place, spilling over the side, connected helter-skelter.

"Look!"
he said, pride brimming from his voice. "I got it working again. I'm
watching
Psycho
. It's right before Anthony Perkins pushes the car
containing Janet Leigh's body — along with the forty grand, I might add —
straight into the swamp." I set the wine case down as he finally noticed
it. "Whoa, what's that?"

"This
is your ticket to a new DVD player, Ronnie." I reached in my pocket for my
money clip. Peeling off five of Blake's hundred dollar bills, but not giving
them to him yet, I said, "I need you to keep it for me a little
while."

He
looked at it, then back at me. "What is it?"

"It's
a case of wine. Nothing more. All I need you to do is not tell anyone you have
it and don't open it. Just leave it in a corner someplace until I'm ready to
come back for it."

"Is
it illegal? What's the big deal with it?"

"I
can't tell you the details, but I can promise you there's nothing illegal about
it. No cops are going to be banging your door down or anything like that. It's
valuable, though, and I just need you to hold it for a while. And here's five
hundred for your trouble. Okay?"

He
took the bills and ran them through his gnarled fingers one at a time.
"Sure, I'll keep your damn wine, Jack." He grinned and put a hand on
my shoulder. "And thanks so much for this. This really means a lot to me,
you know? Now I can get a player with a bigger screen." I thought I caught
the beginnings of a tear about to well up in his left eye.

"Go
get your player," I smiled. "Just don't open that case." As I
headed for the door, I turned and added, "And keep it away from your damn
floor heater. Put it in the coolest part of your apartment."

I
called Martine after leaving Ronnie's. She wasn't quite ready,
but gave me the okay to come over anyway. Within twenty-five minutes, I was
parking outside of her apartment.

We
kissed in the doorway, and she beckoned me in. I hadn't noticed too much about
the place when I got up this morning. She was still asleep, so I just tried not
to trip over anything on my way out. And last night, the lights never came on.

But
now, it was lit and ready for company. It had all the standard stuff — couch,
chair, TV, bookcase, knick-knacks — but good taste covered everything
like syrup on pancakes. I'm no decorator, and I'm certainly no furniture
expert, but the stuff looked like it cost. Maybe that was the idea with
furniture. Buy cheap and somehow make it look expensive by moving it around
just so. I don't know, whatever she did, she did it right. The place looked
great.

She
didn't look so bad herself, dressed in a tight skirt and yellow sweater. She
excused herself while she retreated to the bathroom to finish working on her
hair and makeup, saying she would still be a few minutes yet. Meanwhile, I sat
down on the couch and turned on the TV.

Surfing
around the channels, I landed on the Marlins game. It was game five of their
seven-game series with the Cubs. The Miami crowd was going wild as a home run
just put the Marlins up 2-0. A little while later, Martine emerged from the
bathroom, hair in place, makeup perfect, and looking like she stepped off the
cover of
Cosmo
. By then, it was the
seventh inning, and the Marlins had upped their lead to 3-0. I turned off the
TV, and we went out into the cold, dark night.

Dinner
was at a little out-of-the-way Mexican place over on East Sahara. It was clean,
quiet, with good food and good service. As we hovered over our drinks, nibbling
on the chips and salsa, she said, "So, you found out any news yet?"

"Not
really. Plenty of opinions out there, though."

"Like
what?"

I
swigged at my Mexican beer. "Well, some people think Blake did it. Or had
it done, actually."

"Oh,
John would never have done it. He loved Sandra."

"That's
what I think, too. Plus, Ryan Farrow was killed Friday night. Shot once in the
head, just like she was."

Her
mouth flew open, as her eyes grew wide, and her upper body twitched. She bumped
her wineglass, nearly spilling its contents all over the table. "Ryan?
Killed? Shot?"

"Looks
like it might've been the same one who killed Sandra." I signaled the
waitress for more salsa. Then, I reached across the table, taking both her
lovely hands in mine. She calmed herself a little, while I put on a grim face
and said, "Martine, this is getting serious. When two people in the same
circle of acquaintances get themselves killed, especially when it looks like
they were killed by a professional, it's time for the others in that circle to
take notice."

"What
do you mean?"

"I
mean, you've got to be careful from now on. You knew both victims. You were
friends with one of them. I don't want anything happening to you." I
squeezed her hands for emphasis, then let them go.

"Oh,
I'll be all right. Nothing's —"

I
grabbed her hands again. "No, no. I mean this. You have to start taking
precautions until this is wrapped up."

"What
do you mean? What precautions?"

"I
mean, don't let anyone into your apartment, except me. That means no one.
Especially
anyone who knew both Sandra and Ryan Farrow. Don't give anyone a ride after
work. Be careful walking from your car to your apartment. Park in the closest
possible spot you can find, even if it's an illegal one. Use caution at all
times."

"Jack,
I can't live that way, like some kind of a paranoid hermit."

"Better
to live like a paranoid hermit than die like a helpless girl in the open. And
when all the dust settles, those might be your only choices. Now, I'm not
trying to scare you unnecessarily here. But whoever's responsible for these
killings may —
may
come after someone else next, someone in that
group of acquaintances. The killer's motive isn't totally clear at the moment,
so until I tell you different, you've got to be careful. Now, promise me.
Okay?"

"Jack,
I —"

"
Promise
me!" I gripped her hand tighter. The intensity in my eyes said the rest.

"All
right. All right. I promise." She pulled her hands away like she didn't
want to talk about it anymore, but I was sure she'd gotten my point.

≈≈≈

The hovering danger
leaked over into our sex, consuming us both. She kept me up most of the night.
After very little sleep, I left her place early the next morning, early enough
to get buried in Monday morning rush hour traffic. As I sat in the parking lot
that was Interstate 15, I reached for my cell phone and dialed Frank Madden. It
nearly went to voicemail, but he answered just in time.

"Frank,
it's Jack. Anything turn up from the Farrow crime scene?"

"Well,
try this one on. He took one shot to the head from a .22 semiauto, probably
silenced. Sandra Blake, if you'll recall, was killed with a .38."

That
was one straight from the blind side. "Holy shit!"

"Right.
So we may be looking at two killers here."

As I
crawled northbound approaching the Sahara Avenue exit, I caught an opening and
jutted into the next lane over to my left, moving now at a breakneck five miles
per hour.

I
said, "Well, we know the killer is most likely a pro. Maybe he ditches his
weapon after each use, so as not to tie him to multiple jobs."

"Possible,"
Madden said, but I knew he didn't believe it.

"Also,
Sandra and Farrow were dating each other. They were both in real estate. They
both knew Hector Olivera. And Blake, too. It's not like they were totally
unrelated. Maybe it was one of those two."

"Possible."

"Well,
what the hell, Frank. It's 'possible'. So what do you think is 'probable'?"

"We
checked on Olivera with Miami-Dade PD. He's got no criminal record, clean as a
whistle. He's the poster boy for the American immigrant success story. He's
active in the community, does charity work. They love him down there. And he's
got an alibi, ironclad, for both killings."

"Well,
of course he's got an alibi. He didn't pull the trigger. But you can be sure he
knows someone who will, for the right price."
 
Another opening developed in the lane to
my right. I eased over into it, and immediately came braking to a halt, while
all the cars in the lane I just left breezed blissfully past me.

"Doesn't
look that way, Jack."

"How
about if he used two different shooters. I mean, maybe his first choice was
uneasy about killing a beautiful young woman. You know, the Latino worship of
beauty."

"That's
stretching it. Besides, Olivera had no motive to kill either one of them."

"None
that we know of at present."

"By
all accounts, Farrow was helping him get financing for something connected to
that downtown stadium land you were telling me about. And, according to what
you told me yourself,
 
Sandra Blake
was working on something with him. Maybe she was involved in that deal, too.
Maybe they were lovers. Who knows?"

"Any
worthwhile forensic evidence at either scene?"

"Very
little. They found a couple of hairs on the floor in Farrow's bedroom that
clearly weren't his. Preliminary indications show the hairs were black, and
belonged to a male. We may know more later on."

"Okay,
Frank. Thanks for the update. You coming to Binion's tonight?"

"Maybe.
It depends on how much we get done on this today."

I was
going to tell him what Colby Farrow revealed to me about Olivera's scheme to
tie up the land, the stadium, and the Marlins all in one neatly-wrapped bundle,
with a pretty little ribbon around it. But I flinched. Madden had a point.
Olivera had no clear motive. Killing Ryan Farrow would be a blow to his own
efforts to put together the stadium deal, even though Colby had indicated he
could carry on by himself and see it through to completion. As for Sandra, if
she was helping Olivera in any way, doing her in would obviously be against his
own best interests.

But it
wouldn't require too much imagination to see how John Brendan Blake might want
them both dead.

All
this, plus the never-ending drive on the freeway, along with my lack of sleep,
was wearing me out. After about another twenty minutes of battling the traffic,
I finally arrived home. Inside, I turned up the heat and went straight to bed.
Within thirty seconds, I was out.

I
woke up at the brink of nightfall. After a little puttering
around in my apartment, I decided to head down to Binion's. It had been awhile
since I'd played poker, and I was itching to get back into action.

Walking
into the poker room, I could see that the game I wanted, a small no-limit
hold'em game, was in progress. Some of the usual suspects were in their seats,
along with assorted tourists I'd never seen, as well as an Asian or two to stir
up the action. One of the regulars had just gotten up from the game, so the
floorman gave me his seat. I bought in for two hundred, and as I got myself
situated, with my chips properly arranged in front of me, I started to focus on
players and cards and tells, trying to purge my mind of shady land deals and
murder.

Twenty
minutes in, I beat Manny the Mexican out of a three hundred dollar pot, picking
off his bluff with ace-queen high, when the seat on my right became vacant.
Before I knew what was happening, Frank Madden was sitting in it.

"Looks
like you're having a good night," he murmured, eyeing my skyline of
five-dollar chips.

I held
back a smile. "Could be worse."

And on
the very next hand, it got worse. Much worse. I fell victim to a major-league
bluff by Fong, one of the Asian players at the table. He took over half my
chips and had completely outplayed me. It pissed me off.