The Downtown Deal (21 page)

"The
wine is still safe, is it not?"

"I
told you before, don't worry about it. It's where Olivera can never find
it."

"Yes,
but maybe he could use … persuasive means to induce you to tell him where it
is."

I
didn't like where that was leading, so I closed it off. "He's not getting
the wine."

"Glad
to hear it. Just be careful. I'll call you soon."

As I
poured another cup of coffee, I didn't feel at all comfortable with what Blake
had said. I went into my bedroom, to my dresser, and opened the top drawer.
There, silently awaiting me, lay my .357 SIG in its gleaming black leather
shoulder holster. I pulled it out, leaving the holster in the drawer, then
checked the magazine. Full to the brim. I put two extra loaded magazines in my
pocket, and I moved back to the living room, where I placed the weapon on the
coffee table.

Then I
settled into the couch to watch TV.

D
arkness drew down over the city as I watched the fourth game
of the World Series. The Marlins had jumped out to a quick 3-0 lead, but the
Yankees scored a run later on, making it 3-1 going into the top of the ninth. I
was by now sitting up straight, eyes glued to the TV screen. As the commercials
were airing, my cell phone rang. I answered it right away, without even looking
at the caller ID. I wanted this call to be over immediately.

"Jack!
Jack!" Martine's anguish came through loud and clear.

"Mar
— what is it? What?"

"Jack!
My apartment! It's been burglarized! They — they just tore it up. They
— oh,
God!
It's awful!" I could hear the tears. She teetered
on the brink of hysteria.

"First
tell me, are you okay?"

"Yes,
I'm fine. But my apartment! Oh, it's —" The tears flowed harder.

"I'll
be right over. Did you call the cops?"

"No.
Not yet."

"Well,
call this number." I gave her Madden's cell number. "It's Detective
Madden. He'll answer the call. Tell him I said for you to call him."

I hung
up. For a moment, I considered strapping on my .357, but decided against it.
The cops would be there, so I didn't need to complicate things by showing up
carrying a concealed weapon without a permit. Instead, I returned the weapon to
its place inside my dresser drawer, then raced out to my car.

Cranking
it up, I turned on the radio, looking for the World Series game. As I flew out
of the parking lot, I didn't know what station it would be on, or even if it
would be on AM or FM. I guessed AM. Sweeping the dial, I couldn't find it. I
figured I went too fast, maybe sliding right over it, so I made a second pass,
only more slowly.

Finally,
by the time I got halfway to Martine's, I found it. Weak reception, but it was
there. The Yankees had two men on and nobody out.

One
out later, I swung into Martine's parking lot. A Yankee pinch hitter smacked a
two-run triple, tying the game, just as I pulled into the spot outside her
apartment. I debated whether to sit there and listen to the next batter. Shit,
I really wanted to hear at least the end of this inning, you know? But I had
more pressing business inside.

I
approached her door. It was the same as with Colby Farrow's, forced open. I
peeked inside and called her name. She came running from the other room into my
arms, sobbing uncontrollably. I pushed the door into a somewhat closed position
with my foot, then tried my best to console her, while taking a good look
around.

Just
like with all the others, everything was in a state of ruin. Things thrown
around on the floor, broken, cut, spilled, smashed — I was getting
deadened to this repeated scene.

"Who
could've done this?" she cried. "They didn't even take
anything!" She returned to my shoulder to continue shedding her tears.

"Come
on," I said. "Come on over to the couch. Let's sit down."

We
picked up the torn cushions from the floor, putting them back on the sofa
frame, torn side down so we could sit on them. After a few more minutes of
sobbing, she wound down to merely sniffling, as I took her hand in mine.

I
said, "Martine, this is only the latest in a series of similar break-ins
involving people connected to the murder victims."

"What?"

"I
mean that John Brendan Blake's house, Sandra Blake's house, and Colby Farrow's
Turnberry condominium have all been ransacked in exactly the same manner as
yours. Ryan Farrow's home was lightly gone over right after he was killed, but
I suspect they've returned to do a more thorough kind of a job on it, like
this." I indicated the wreckage in her apartment.

"What?
Why? What's going on? Who's doing this?"

"I
think I know who's doing it, but I'm more certain as to why they're doing
it." Her tear-dimmed eyes were looking out at me, wide and innocent, from
her milky complexion. I just wanted to hug her tight. But instead, I continued,
"I believe a guy named Hector Olivera is behind these break-ins, and I
believe he's looking for that case of wine I asked you about."

"Wine?
Why would he think I would have it?"

"Because
he thinks I took it from Sandra's house and hid it here, so he couldn't get
hold of it."

"But
… but how does he even know who I am? How does he know to wreck
my
apartment?"

"He's
probably been having me tailed. That's my guess. It's really the only way he
could know about you. I might add, I thought he would target me next. I never
had any idea he'd come after you."

I
finally gave in to the urge to hug her. She came right at me and returned it.

The
knock at the door snapped us back to reality. Martine got up from the couch as
Madden pushed the door open. Bolino was not with him. He wasn't surprised to
see me.

"Jack,"
he said in a grim greeting.

"Frank,
look at this. Just like the others. When are you going to nail that son of a
bitch? How many more of these does he have to do?"

"Now,
take it easy, Jack. You know there's nothing I can do right now. There's no
evidence that he was involved in any of these, even though we both know that he
was."

"Shit,
this isn't right! She had nothing to do with this. He just thinks I'm stashing
the damn wine over here. He'll tear up the whole goddam city if he thinks he
can find it."

"He's
not gonna tear up the city." He put a big, cool hand on my shoulder as a
means of calming me down. "Now let me get the information I need here. Go
on over there and take a seat, okay?" I returned to my seat on the couch,
wanting to turn on the baseball game, but knowing it wouldn't be a good idea
right then.

He
turned to Martine and showed her his badge. She was actually a little more
together than I was at this point. "Miss Devereaux? I'm Detective Madden,
Homicide. We met the day after Sandra Blake's murder." Martine nodded her
recognition. "When did you discover this?" He began writing in his
little notebook.

They
talked awhile, Madden asking the questions, Martine answering them. Soon Madden
said, "Miss Devereaux, I'll need to see your ID again if I could, please.
Just to get the information I need for this incident. Full name, spelling,
correct address, and so on."

Martine
looked around for her purse. It was by the couch, at my feet. "Here it
is," I said, and I reached in to retrieve her wallet.

I
walked over to where they were standing and handed it to her. She pulled her
driver's license out, then gave it to Madden. He took down the data.

As he
returned the license to her, she handed the license and the wallet to me, so I
could return them to her purse. On my way back to the sofa, I glimpsed the
license and saw something I didn't want to see. I looked at it for a moment,
swallowed hard, then shoved it back into the wallet, burying the wallet deep
inside the purse. What I really wanted to do was bury the last ten seconds deep
in a fucking hole somewhere. I didn't want to think about it, but I knew I
would have to sooner or later. Not tonight, though.

Madden
stayed a little while longer, walking around, examining everything, going
through the motions. Eventually, he finished up, then left. I took Martine to
bed, where she fell asleep almost immediately.

I laid
awake most of the night. I didn't find out who won the game until the next
morning.

U
pon arising, I helped Martine straighten out her place. She
was still very upset. Shit, who could blame her?

Fearful,
she begged me to stay, but I assured her the burglars wouldn't be back. It was
the wine they were after, not her, I told her. I gave her all of Blake's money
that I had with me, about five hundred, to get her door fixed. Then I let her
know I would give her more to help replace her ruined furniture. Finally, I put
on my jacket and got the hell out of there.

On the
way home, I heard on the radio that the Marlins had won the game, 4-3 in twelve
innings, on a walk-off home run. In doing so, they had tied the Series at two
games apiece, with game five set for tonight. If the Yankees won that one, they
headed back to New York for two games, needing to win only one of them.

I
spent the better part of the day going over every last detail of this whole
affair, arranging it in my mind, sorting out the people involved, remembering
who said what, and when they said it. After I thought I had things in order, I
went to the computer, going back over all my research on Blake, Olivera, the
Marlins, everyone.

I
didn't exactly have a crisp picture yet, but the fog was starting to lift.

Late
in the afternoon, the World Series came on, so I watched it. I purposely
refrained from drinking any Scotch, however, because I wanted to play poker
afterward. It's never a good idea to play poker if you have alcohol in your
system, even one drink.

Good
ideas aside, I was really tempted to break out the Dalmore. From the second
inning on, the Marlins were in complete control of things. At one point in the
game, they led 6-1, while their pitching shut down the Yankee bats. The Marlins
eventually won, 6-4, but the game wasn't nearly as close as the score
indicated.

Now,
after taking Friday off, they were leading the World Series, three games to
two, and were scheduled to play game six in New York on Saturday. The Yankees,
with their backs to the wall, needed to win two in a row at home. I could
visualize my eleven hundred dollars that I had bet on the Series floating off
into the fog.

Following
the game, I drove straight to Binion's. There was an open seat in the game I
wanted, so I took it. I played till around two AM, winning a little over four
hundred. Because of what Fong did to me the last time I played, however, I
tended to avoid getting involved with him in most hands.

That's
the way it is in poker. Sometimes a player just gets your number, and you hear
his footsteps for a long time. Maybe a lot of it was in my own head, but I knew
it would be awhile before I felt comfortable challenging Fong again in a major
pot.

≈≈≈

The next day, around
noon, I drove to the Palms. Making my way across the odd-shaped casino floor, I
headed straight for the movie theater complex, located in the rear. I
approached the ticket taker, a kid around twenty years old, whose name badge
read "Jared". I showed him one of the photos I had of Martine at
Hoover Dam, somewhat of a close-up, and asked if he'd ever seen her.

"It
would've been about two weeks ago," I said, giving him the day and exact
date. "She was here to see
American Wedding
. It would've been an
evening show."

He
didn't look at the photo right away. Instead, he looked at me, saying,
"Two weeks, man. That's a long time. I was working day shift then, but I
don't know …"

I put
the photo in front of him. "Just have a look, Jared. And please, try to
remember."

He
took it, gazing at it for a minute. Then: "Yeah, wait a minute. I remember
her. With the dark brown hair and real white complexion. Yeah. She was, like,
old, but kind of hot … in a way."

"You're
sure. She was here."

"Positive,
man. I remember that ultra-white skin, you know? Plus, it was a weekday
afternoon first show, so there weren't too many people here. Hers was one of
the only tickets I tore for
American Wedding.
You know, everybody wants
to see
Pirates Of The Caribbean.
That's the one that's, like, a monster hit
movie right now."

I
pulled out my money clip, sliding a hundred off the top. I gave it to the kid,
and you'd've thought I just gave him a new car. He thanked me over and over,
even as I walked away.

≈≈≈

I took a small roundabout
detour, making sure I wasn't being tailed, and swung past Ronnie Wills'
apartment on the way home. He was still at work, so I just got out of the car
and went up to his front door. I pushed on it. It was locked. Thankfully,
Olivera hadn't found this place yet. I headed home, stopping off at the liquor
store for a fresh bottle of Dalmore.

When I
arrived at my apartment, I parked around back of the other building in our
complex, to make it look like I was out. Inside, I retrieved my .357 from the
dresser drawer in my bedroom. This time, I strapped on the shoulder rig. I
jacked a cartridge into the chamber, put two extra full magazines in my shirt
pocket, just as I did the other night, then slid the weapon into the holster,
as I went back into the living room to watch TV. And wait.