The Downtown Deal (14 page)

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The drive out to
Silquist's office took almost a half an hour, due to rubberneckers slowing down
for a bullshit fender-bender at the Sahara entrance to I-15. Once I finally got
there, I saw it was a smallish operation, occupying no more than three or four
rooms on part of the first floor of the two-story building. As I entered, The
receptionist was just returning to her desk.

She
was on the back side of fifty, but still slim and very pretty. The kind of
pretty that told you she was a knockout thirty years ago. Her hair, its
original color long since vanished, was now dark blonde and stylishly done, streaked
and falling down around her face to just above her shoulders. Clean blue eyes
were deeply set under penciled-in brows, while her hands showed no signs of
years at the typewriter. Her lacquered nails weren't too long for typing, and
appeared to have been recently manicured. A very attractive deep green dress
fit her the way it should have.

She
asked me if she could help me. I told her I wanted to see Mr Silquist on a very
important matter.

"And
what would that be?"

I gave
her my name. Then: "Tell him it's about the land deal for the new
stadium."

"One
moment, please."

She
left her desk, apparently to give him the news personally. I guessed this was
too important to entrust to the intercom.

A few
moments later, she came back out, saying, "You may go in now, Mr
Barnett." She pointed me toward the back.

I
strolled the few steps back to Silquist's office. It was unremarkable. An
ordinary desk, two chairs facing it, a couple of low-grade still-life prints on
the wall, as well as what appeared to be a grainy Old-West photo, and that was
about it. The window behind him offered a view of the front parking lot and
beyond that, the traffic on West Sahara.

"Mr
Barnett," he said, standing to greet me with a handshake. "I'm Norman
Silquist."

He was
somewhere in his forties, but he could pass for older. Thinning brown hair and
tired brown eyes tipped me off. He had the paunch around the middle common to
men in business, once their work makes them sedentary, once they quit throwing
a football around on weekends with their buddies. I guessed Silquist had been
sedentary for about twenty years.

"Pleased
to meet you, Mr Silquist. Thanks for seeing me on the spur of the moment like
this." I sat in one of the chairs. It was uncomfortable.

"Well,
it's not a problem. Now, Maureen says you are somehow connected to certain
parcels of land on the west side of downtown? I must confess, I don't know who
you are. Would you be kind enough to explain?"

"Of
course." I pulled out my ID and ran it in front of him just long enough to
see the photo and the big print, but not long enough to absorb any of the
details. "I'm a private investigator looking into the murder of Sandra
Blake. I believe that —"

He
guffawed a little. "Now, you don't think
I
had anything to do with
that, do you?"

"Not
really, but if the truth be known, Mr Silquist, I can't rule anybody out just
yet. However, that's not why I'm here." That clearly put him at ease, as
he relaxed back into his swivel chair, which looked like the most expensive
item in the entire office. I went on. "I believe that her death was linked
to this deal you're doing for the downtown stadium land. I already know quite a
bit about it. I know about Hector Olivera's interest in building the stadium
and his connection to the Florida Marlins, plus I know about John Brendan
Blake's attempts to wrest Olivera's land from him. But I need you to tell me
what you can. Keep in mind, everything you tell me is confidential. The law
says I have to keep it that way." I was hoping he wasn't that familiar
with the law.

He
rubbed his chin, then shook his head one time, moving into full freeze-up mode.
"I'm afraid there's nothing more I can add."

"Please
think about it some more. It's very important. The slightest bit of information
could lead to the killer."

"As
I said, Mr Barnett, there's nothing more I can add."

I
moved forward in my seat. "How about adding that your company is owned
lock, stock, and barrel by Blake Enterprises. How about adding that you're a
shill for Blake, trying to confuse Olivera and maybe even stage a fake bidding
war for the land by making it look like you're an interested third party,
totally unconnected to anyone else. That way, Olivera might be persuaded more
easily to give up and sell his little piece of land to Blake. How about adding
that it's Blake who really wants to build the stadium, not you." My arm
swept his undersized office. "Of course, looking at these surroundings,
it's easy to imagine a great stadium being planned and developed from
here."

He
threw me a mean grin, tightly wrapped around small teeth. "You really have
done your homework, haven't you?"

"Like
I said, I'm only interested in finding Sandra Blake's killer. I don't care
anything about this stadium, or the land, or anything else. I'm not out to
derail your deal. I only want to get to the bottom of her murder. And I repeat,
everything is confidential." I tossed him a slight hand gesture as a token
of my sincerity. I hoped he bought it.

He
took a long time before he spoke. Finally, he leaned toward me and said,
"Mr Blake felt I would present a better face to the city when the time
came to work out their participation in the deal. You see, I'm the rarest of
the rare breed, Mr Barnett. A native Las Vegan."

I had
to give him that. "They are rare indeed," I said.

He
quickly added, "Rarer still, my family goes all the way back before the
very founding of the city in 1905. The Silquists were one of the original
families who settled the Las Vegas Valley back before there was a city at all.
I mean before there was gaming, before there was a Hoover Dam, when there were
virtually no cars, no permanent buildings, and of course, no air conditioning.
Do you have any idea what it was like for those settlers back then? Here in
this hot, dusty, godforsaken valley?"

He
didn't wait for my response, although none was coming. His voice rose to a
fervent, preacher's pitch. "At first, it was nothing more than a boiling,
sandblown tent town, built around the railroad. There were little more than a
few saloons and whorehouses, plus a general store, and also a hotel, if you
could call it that."

He
stood up, pointing to the framed photo on the wall. I finally looked at it.
There were two men in big, thick mustaches standing in front of a wooden
building by a hitching post. They were both wearing guns. A horse was in the
left of the picture. He tapped the frame glass with his index finger.

"That's
my great-grandfather on the right. Benjamin Silquist. One of the original
pioneers of this city. He bought two lots at auction right after the city was
officially founded, and received the very first deed to Las Vegas land. Our
family settled on one of those lots, and we've lived in Las Vegas ever
since." He returned to his chair, calmer. "Mr Blake believes that my
pedigree would be much more palatable to the city, as well as to the media,
when it came time to negotiate their role in the stadium financing."

I
said, "More palatable, say, than that of a Cuban exile from Miami who came
to this country a few years ago on a life raft?"

"Well,
I don't want to put it in those terms …"

"But
you will if you have to."

"I
will do whatever it takes to get this stadium built. The city needs it."

I
shifted my weight in the chair. I couldn't get comfortable. "Were you
acquainted with Sandra Blake?"

"I
was. Back before she and Mr Blake got divorced. My wife and I saw them socially
on several occasions."

"How
about after?"

He
swiveled his chair around a little, facing slightly off to my left. "I saw
her maybe a time or two. Most recently, right after Mr Blake enlisted her to
help him get Olivera's land. Previously, she and Ryan Farrow were working the
other side of the street, trying on Olivera's behalf to acquire all of Mr
Blake's holdings in that downtown area."

"How
did you feel about that?" I asked.

"About
what?"

"About
her working with Olivera. I mean, she was, after all, Blake's ex."

"She
was very knowledgeable in the world of real estate and development. Much more
so than you might think. She evidently felt Olivera would pay her a healthy
commission. That's the way the business works, you know."

"How'd
you feel about her switching sides? Coming back to Blake."

"They
were divorced, but Mr Blake would never let personal feelings stand in the way
of a major business deal like this one. Sandra was perfectly positioned to help
him, what with her relationships with Farrow and Olivera. Myself, I think it
was a good move."

I
glanced out the window behind him. Traffic had picked up some, moving smoothly
in both directions on West Sahara. The little noon-hour bump was in full flow.
In addition, the top fronds of the tall desert palm outside his window were
beginning to stir. The wind had arrived.

"What
kind of relationship did she have with Olivera?"

"Really,
Mr Barnett, let's not let this degenerate into gossip. I'm very busy, and I
would prefer to end our discussion right now."

"I
would prefer to keep it going."

"Well,
it will have to be some other time, I'm afraid." He stood and gestured
toward the door. I got the idea.

O
livera had said his money meeting was this morning. My watch
said it was nearing noon. Hoping the meeting had concluded, I motored on down
to the Venetian, thinking I could catch him before his meeting with the mayor this
afternoon. Reluctantly, I decided to valet my car again, since timing was
important. Inside the hotel, I picked up a house phone and asked for his room.
I was in luck.

"Mr
Olivera, it's Jack Barnett, the private investigator."

"Yes,
Jack. What is it?"

"I
hope your meeting with the money people went well this morning."

"It
went very well. But somehow, I do not think you are calling to congratulate
me."

"I'd
like to see you for a moment. It's very important."

"Do
you have further information on who killed Sandra?"

"I'm
working on it, but I need to speak with you. And not over the phone like
this."

"Jack,
I'm afraid I have to prepare for my meeting with the mayor this afternoon.
There isn't time."

"And
you're leaving town tomorrow to go to New York for the World Series. I must
speak with you. I
promise
I'll be
brief."

"All
right. Room twenty-four one-thirty-six. But only for a moment. I have very
little time."

"I'm
downstairs right now. I'll be right up."

There
were so many digits in the room number, I was about to forget them, so I went
to the front desk and borrowed a pen and a piece of paper to record it. I hoped
I'd gotten it right.

I
glided smoothly to the twenty-fourth floor, then down the lush hallway to the
room number he gave me. I knocked, and almost immediately, Calzado answered the
door. He was surprisingly well-dressed, sporting a French blue dress shirt with
an appropriate silk tie, along with dark blue pants. I assumed the pants were
part of a suit.

"I
must have the wrong room," I said. "I was supposed to meet Mr
Olivera."

He
opened the door wide enough, gesturing to let me know I should come in.
"This Hector's room," he said. I went in. I noticed his suit jacket
was neatly folded over the back of a chair just inside the door.

It was
a suite of olympic proportions. My entire apartment could have fit into the
living-room area, with enough room left over to throw a dance. High-ticket
furniture all over the place, plenty of gadgets everywhere, original artwork
— or what looked like it, anyway — and a sensational view of the
south Strip. I had to admit, I was impressed. I thought about my one-bedroom
apartment in a questionable part of town and realized I could learn to live
like this.

There
were two doors leading out of the living room. Both were shut. Momentarily,
Olivera came through one of them, closing it behind him. He exuded every bit of
his vibrant youth, all thirty-some-odd years, itching for his next challenge,
with no fear in his playbook. He was dressed in shirtsleeves, just like me,
only his shirt was a hard-to-get shade of lavender and made of Sea Island
cotton, costing about fifteen times as much as mine. His designer tie probably
went for upwards of two hundred dollars. He welcomed me and we shook hands.

"I
have ordered lunch, Jack. Would you like to join us?"

"You're
very kind, but no, thank you. This is certainly a beautiful suite,
though."

"Yes,
I like the Venetian. They treat you well here. But when my condo is ready, that
is where I will stay whenever I come to Vegas. It will be even nicer than
this."

Of
that, I had no doubt.

"Would
you care for a drink?" He motioned to a silver table with two cut glass
decanters, an ice bucket, and various pieces of glassware. One of the decanters
contained a clear liquid, the other was amber. He pointed at the amber with
raised eyebrows, as if forming a question.

I
nodded. He poured the whiskey — straight up, fortunately — then
handed it to me. He didn't pour one for himself. I reasoned it was because he
didn't want to take the edge off for his big meeting with the mayor after
lunch.

He
took a seat on a big tan couch made of buttery leather and motioned me to sit
on it as well. Calzado sat in the adjacent matching loveseat, not registering
any emotion on his face.