The Downtown Deal (19 page)

"I
will not sit here while you make these … these wild guesses."

"While
we're guessing, I would also guess that you got your land financing in order on
Friday, and then the mayor probably assured you that the city would happily
pony up its share of the money for the stadium. Now you finally had the package
together, along with the blessing of the Marlins ownership. You thought that
would give you the upper hand in your negotiations with Blake, so why not just
grab the wine now and use the power of the city to force Blake into a deal.
How's that for a guess?"

"I
don't do business that way."

I
laughed, a sardonic, one-note laugh.

Then he
said, "You think this is funny? Do you?"

"I
think you'll do whatever it takes to get your hands on that wine. That's what I
think."

"This
is not even worth discussing, it is so stupid. If you think I would kill that
beautiful woman — I will not discuss this any further. Just understand,
Jack, that I know you can get your hands on that wine. If you get it for me,
there will be a very nice bonus in it for you. If not, well …"

"The
wine belongs to Blake. You'll have to deal with him for it. I can't get it for
you."

He
hung up. Fuck him.

I
emptied my glass of Scotch.

I
picked up Martine at her place early the next morning, about
nine-thirty. We were going to go out to Hoover Dam. Neither one of us had ever
seen it. It was supposed to be a mind-blowing visual, and I heard the story
behind it was powerful.

We
couldn't've picked a better day for it. The sun was bright, the temperature was
in the sixties, and best of all, no wind. Martine brought along a few
sandwiches, as well as a bottle of her favorite wine, although we weren't sure
if we could do a picnic-kind of thing around the dam. I'm not really a wine
type of guy, but for an occasion like this one, I was ready to make an
exception.

I truly
wanted to enjoy the day with her, so I decided not to tell her about the
ransacking of Sandra Blake's house, so as not to form any clouds over our
little outing. As we drove over to US 95, the freeway to Boulder City and
eventually to the dam, we were in high spirits, laughing and joking the whole
way.

Once
we got past Henderson, US 95 petered out into a regular thoroughfare for the
final leg into Boulder City, which itself was no great shakes. Martine told me
the town was thrown up fast to house the workers who built the dam back in the
thirties.

On the
other side of Boulder City, with Lake Mead visible in the distance, the road
narrowed to two lanes, winding downward as we approached the dam. Speed limit
signs got lower and lower until they reached five miles per hour just before
the checkpoint. I was told by poker players at Binion's to be ready for a long
wait, because ever since September 11, the dam authorities were plenty jittery,
and thorough checks of vehicles, as well as body searches, were not unusual.

The
line for the checkpoint was sort of long, but we were lucky that day. It moved
pretty quickly ahead of us. When we got to the front of the line, two large
uniformed guys looked at us, peered into the back seat, then stuck some kind of
rod with a mirror on it under the car, looking for, I don't know, explosives, I
guess. Satisfied, they waved us through.

As
soon as we got to the dam area itself, we found a parking spot, then got out to
see the whole thing on foot in a leisurely manner. And it was something to see.

One of
the most overpowering structures I ever hoped to see, it boggled my
imagination. How could it have been built? Who conceived it? Seven hundred feet
high, the equivalent of sixty stories, and two football fields wide, with the
raging Colorado River constantly pressuring it from behind, it was supposedly
built to last forever. From where I stood, it certainly lived up to its billing
as one of the greatest engineering accompllishments in history.

Martine
snapped lots of photos with her camera, then we just gazed at it for awhile.

We
leaned on the observation railing overlooking the whole thing, like a prime front-row
balcony seat for a concert. She murmured, "I'm really glad we came here,
you know?"

I
looked at her, giving her a soft kiss on the lips. Suddenly, I couldn't tear my
eyes away from her, despite the gargantuan dam in the background that was
urging me to do exactly that. "How is it you've never been here before?
You've been in Las Vegas a lot longer than I have."

"I
don't know, I just never gave it any thought. My last … my last boyfriend
wanted to take me out here, but I was, like, you know, a dam. Who cares?"

"How
about now?"

"Oh,
now, I think it's great. I can tell it's not just a dam. It makes you think.
Think about the people who designed it and built it and the relentless river.
It's awesome. Thank you for this."

I took
a quick look around. Lots of people with cameras and open mouths, just like us,
were walking around, as well as passing cars filled with gawking passengers,
slowly making their way across. It was pretty obvious, though, that there would
be no place around here for us to break out the food and wine.

My arm
pulled her next to me. Her head tilted upward to catch my eyes, and she said,
"Jack, tell me something."

"Sure,"
I replied. "Anything." I meant it, too.

"You
told me once you didn't really have a private investigator's license. What
happened?"

This
was not what I wanted to talk about. Not exactly my favorite topic. It was a
jam of my own making, one I could've easily avoided. Talking about it only
reminded me of my shortcomings. I took a deep breath.

"I
used to have one," I told her in a soft voice. "Then a couple of
years ago, I was collecting a debt for a client out in LA. The guy who owed the
money didn't think he should have to pay. My client didn't see it that way. And
frankly, neither did I." I paused for another breath. "I got a little
rough with him."

"You
mean, you beat him up?" I thought I caught a twinge of excitement in her
voice.

"You
could say that. But you've got to understand, when you've got a situation like
that, the longer he owes you money, the less he feels like he actually owes it
to you. It just becomes a distant memory for him, one which, in his own mind,
gradually releases him from his obligation. That's really how it works in those
cases, you know? And when the guy gets to that point, the only thing that usually
brings him back to reality is … well … blunt force trauma."

"You
mean, you …"

My
voice lowered to minimalize the impact of these facts. "Like I said, I roughed
him up a little." Then I added, "Anyway, the guy was well-connected
in LA, unbeknownst to me. Next thing I knew, the state revoked my license and
the Los Angeles County DA was threatening criminal action against me. So I
packed up and left town one middle of the night, and came here."

"Aren't
you afraid they'll find you here?"

"Not
really. Here, anyone can become anonymous, if you know what I mean. And they've
got much bigger fish to fry back in LA."

She
snuggled a little closer. "Well, it sounds terrible. But it ended up in
our getting together. So I'm glad."

Right
then and there, I was, too.

We stayed
a little while longer, then got back in the car for the forty-minute drive back
to Martine's apartment. There, we polished off the sandwiches, along with the
entire bottle of wine, and then she made me forget all that talk about debt
collection and California lawmen.

T
he third game of the World Series took place in Miami, where
the Yankees triumphed by another 6-1 score for a two-games-to-one lead. They
had taken it to the Marlins on their home turf, dominating them the entire
game. No question, the Marlins' luck was about to run out.

About
an hour after the game was over, while Martine and I were cozy on her couch, my
phone rang. The caller ID pinned it on Colby Farrow.

"What
is it, Colby?"

I
could hear the anxiety in his voice. "Barnett, I was at a charity
fundraiser tonight and I just got home. My condo has been ransacked!"

"Did
you call the cops?"

"Of
course! They're on their way over."

"What
do you want from me?"

"I
want to know what you know about this."

I felt
Martine's arms tighten around me before I reluctantly said, "I'll be right
over. We need to have a little talk. Make sure you call down to the gate and
tell them to let me in."

"All
right."

"I'll
be there in a half an hour." I glanced at Martine with an apology in my
eyes.

≈≈≈

The gate guard at
Turnberry eyed me with great suspicion as I told him Colby Farrow was expecting
me. He checked his list no fewer than three times, then asked me to spell my
last name. Finally, he demanded to see my driver's license.

At
places like this, they don't take to cars like mine infecting their unspoiled
surroundings. He reluctantly waved me through, telling me twice not to park in
reserved spots. I selected a reserved one right next to a snazzy Ferrari. As I
got out and started walking toward the building, I couldn't help but chuckle at
what the Ferrari driver would think if he ever came down and saw my car next to
his. It would probably mean a quick trip to an all-night car wash.

Colby's
apartment was on the fourteenth floor, high enough to be above the riffraff,
but not high enough to afford the really sensational views that these
condos-in-the-sky are supposed to be all about. Just knowing there are another
twenty or thirty floors above you must really be aggravating to a guy like
Colby. But he had just lost his brother, so I decided against making any
wisecracks to him about his poor-folks location in the building.

In the
lobby, the front desk clerk insisted on knowing my intentions, so I had to go
through it all over again with him to clear that final hurdle. Finally, he
warily granted me permission to go to the elevators. I felt like I had just
passed through customs in North Korea.

Fourteen
floors later, I stepped off the elevator and found Colby's condo just two doors
down. Very undesirable. Living practically right next to an elevator? People
coming and going at all hours right past your front door? My goodness! I could
feel my opinion of Colby revising itself, sliding downward.

I
knocked, but nobody had to answer. The door pushed open all by itself. The jamb
was separating from the lock receptacle where the intruder had pried his way
in. As I stepped into the luxury pad, I saw Colby in the living room with Frank
Madden standing behind him, only this time Frank wasn't alone. I didn't know if
the guy with him was his partner or not, but he was certainly a cop.
Off-the-rack suit, cheap white shirt, skinny black tie. His average build told
me nothing. Same with his dark hair and olive complexion. But his mean, dark
eyes, which were too close together, tied in closely with his thin, slanted
lips, which were cut across his face to give him the look of a permanent sneer.

"Frank,"
I said, "what are you doing here? Isn't this something for burglary?"

"Mr
Farrow called us, Jack. He believes it's related to the murder of his brother.
So we took it."

"It's
definitely related," Colby said. "They were looking for the
wine!"

"How
do you know that, Colby?" I asked.

The
guy with Madden spoke up. "We'll handle this, pal."

I
checked him out. I'd never seen him before, since all my contact with Frank was
either at Binion's or our private little talks like we'd been having since the
beginning of this case.

"Jack
Barnett," I said, sticking out my hand. "With two t's."

He
didn't take it. Instead, Madden said, "Jack, this is Detective Bolino, my
partner." He slightly emphasized the word "partner" to let me
know this guy was for real, and therefore not to be messed with.

"I
know who you are," Bolino said in a snarling New York accent. "You're
the wannabe private eye who keeps getting in our way."

Another
New Yorker full of himself. I thought I left those idiots behind me years ago
when I went to California. You know the type.
I'm from the streets of New
York. Therefore, I am God and you are shit.

"You
may not believe this, Detective, but I know who you are, too."

He
looked at Madden, the lines between his eyebrows pointing straight up and the
corners of his unevenly-shaped mouth turning straight down. "We got
ourselves a wise guy here, don't we, Frank?"

Madden
replied, "He's all right, Nick. It's like I told you, he's uncovered a lot
of information for us while working on this case."

"Who
hired you?" Bolino said. His attitude was way out in front of him, like a
"coming attractions" ad.

"None
of your business."

"I'll
make it my business, asshole! This is a murder investigation. I can take you in
right now for withholding evidence."

I
squared my shoulders and made sure he saw me do it. "I'm not withholding
anything. I've told Frank everything I know about this case. Go on. Ask
him!"

"He's
been cooperative, Nick," Madden said. "Let him alone."

Bolino
ranted on, threatening me with this and that in his annoying New York voice for
a few more moments. Meanwhile, I took my first good look around the condo. It
looked like the work of the same guy who did Sandra Blake's house. My first
thought was, I wondered how he got past all the clipboard cops at the gate and
the front desk.

Everything
was torn up and flipped over. A wet bar over in the corner was completely
overturned, and what looked like Colby's wine storage area was virtually
destroyed, wine bottles thrown around, some broken. Big red splotches stained
his plush carpeting. The replacement cost on that alone was going to be
serious.

Bolino
was wasting a lot of time asking Colby things like who, if anyone, knew he was
going out for the evening, and that kind of crap. I said, "You know,
everyone in this room knows who did this, or at least," — I looked
right at Bolino — "they should know."

All
eyes and all heads turned slowly toward me. I gave them an are-you-kidding-me
look before I said, "Are you kidding me? You really don't know who did
this?"

Madden
said, "You pinning this on Olivera, Jack?"

"Well,
shit, Frank, it's not
too
obvious, is it? Look around." I made a
sweeping motion with my arm, covering the whole place. "Nothing of any
value was stolen. The TV, the computer … not taken. Your jewelry's probably
still here, right, Colby?" He nodded. "They wanted the wine. Of
course, Olivera didn't do it personally. My guess is his cousin, Marco Antonio
Calzado, who looks like no stranger to the other side of the law, farmed it out
to a couple of Miami second-story pros. Guys who could get past the security
boobs that work downstairs." I let that sit there and ripen for them.