The Downtown Deal (5 page)

I
moved back through the rest of the downstairs. She had a large, well-appointed
office, sunlit through bay windows allowing a panoramic view of the lake. A
metal file cabinet stood in one corner, all four drawers unlocked. Each drawer
was filled with mostly real estate paperwork. I riffled through it for a couple
of minutes, but nothing caught my attention.

Sitting
down at her desk, I checked out the drawers for an address book, but of course,
there was none. Madden's boys would have taken it and gone over it, trying to
pick up a lead. I was pretty sure they snatched her computer, too, which had undoubtedly
occupied the empty spot on the desk, where the modem cord now lay by itself,
unconnected.

I
pushed a couple of buttons on her telephone, revealing the number of the last
person to call her. The caller ID read, "Silverstone Towers". I
pressed the back arrow for the call before that, and the one before that, making
note of her last fifty calls, while writing down names and numbers with one of
her pens and a sheet of lined paper off a yellow pad on her desk. I always want
to have a pen on me, you know, for things like this, but for some reason, I
never have one.

Afterward,
I went upstairs, straight into her bedroom. It was the same as when I'd seen it
this morning, with all the feminine touches. Lots of pale blue and peach stuff
everywhere. In her closet, which was extremely large, I noticed a two foot-long
blank space on one of the hanging rails, from which Ryan Farrow had retrieved
his clothes. The rest of the closet was filled with her things. The ones I
looked at all bore upscale designer labels.

Over
on the nightstand was a cream-colored phone, the kind people had in their ritzy
penthouses in the old black-and-white movies. The receiver was a thin
cylindrical handle, with an earpiece and mouthpiece attached to the ends. In
the movies, the black and white film invariably made these telephones look
white.

Also
on the table was a lamp and a book. It was a hardcover copy of
The Da Vinci
Code
. I had tried reading that one a couple of months back, borrowing a
copy from the library, but I threw it on the floor after about fifty pages.

A
bookmark barely showed itself, just peeking through the top rim of the pages. I
thumbed to that spot, about two-thirds of the way through. The bookmark was in
fact a business card, belonging to one Hector Olivera, president of the Olivera
Group, Miami. Their logo tastefully covered the left side of the card. It was
made of very heavy stock, glossy and expensive. Madden's boys had apparently
missed this one. It surprised me, because he's a good cop, not known for
missing details at a crime scene. I flicked the card between my fingers a
couple of times, feeling its high-end thickness, then slipped it in my shirt
pocket, next to the photo of Sandra that Blake had given me. As I made my way
down to the first floor, I wondered what a Miami business card was doing in a
book in Sandra Blake's bedroom.

Back
downstairs, I opened the door into the spacious garage. A sleek white Mercedes
SL sat all by itself, dwarfed by three empty spaces next to it. Fawn-colored
leather upholstery with matching carpeting covered the car's interior. It was
immaculate, as though it were sitting in a showroom someplace. The Nevada plate
read "SANDY1". A perfect car, I thought, for a realtor dealing in top-dollar
condos.

I
loaded the wine into my car, then headed for home. Once I arrived, I placed it
on the floor of my closet, covering it with an old blanket. I looked at it
sitting there, a lump on the floor under a blanket. What was it with wine that
made people get so crazy? The taste? To me, once you graduate from the cheap
shit — all that convenience store crap the winos get — it all
tastes the same. Whether it costs ten dollars a bottle or five hundred dollars
a bottle — and I've had both — I couldn't tell the difference. I
really wanted to pry the box open and check out the bottles to see what all the
fuss was about, but Blake was very insistent that I not open it, so I didn't.

After
pouring myself a very short Dalmore, I went to the computer and googled
"Olivera Group".

According
to their website, they were a real estate development company out of Miami,
with extensive holdings in south Florida, as well as a couple of footholds in
California and Nevada. The story on Hector Olivera, their CEO, was compelling.

A
Cuban exile, he left his homeland as a teenager on a life raft back in the
early eighties, washing ashore several long days later in Key West. He soon
arrived in Miami, where he set about learning English, finding his way around,
and eventually establishing a real estate empire in that freewheeling city.

From
his closeup photo, I guessed him to be in his late thirties. He had the Latin
good looks, right out of Hollywood central casting, with dark, deepset eyes
peering out under angled eyebrows. His black hair was combed straight back from
a lean olive face, indicating a slender body. Looking back at his business
card, I reached for my cell phone and punched up his number. I checked my
watch. It was after seven in Miami. He'd probably gone home for the day.

Surprisingly,
a man answered on the first ring.

"Mr
Olivera, please," I said.

"This
is he."

"Mr
Olivera, my name is Jack Barnett. I'm a private investigator, calling you from
Las Vegas. This is in regard to Sandra Blake."

"Yes.
What about her?" His voice carried just a sprinkling of an accent. He'd
done a good job with his English.

 
I said, "She's dead."

"Dead?
My God! What happened?"

"I'm
afraid she was murdered. Shot to death in her home."

"Murdered?
Why — why —"

"It
just happened Tuesday, night before last. The reason is unclear right
now."

He
seemed genuinely upset. After he mumbled a few more things, I said, "What
was your connection to her?"

"She
was … she was helping me with a real estate deal in Vegas. But wait. How do you
know about me?"

"Your
name and telephone number were found among her effects." I let that sink
in. Then: "What kind of a deal were you working with her?"

He
hesitated. "I — I don't think I have any more to say right now.
Goodbye, sir."

The
line went silent, but I held the phone in my hand for a few moments. The news
of Sandra Blake's death had clearly shaken Olivera. A guy who goes as far as
he's gone in the Miami real estate business — which must be as cutthroat
as it gets — is not a guy who is easily unnerved. Yet if he were standing
during our phone conversation, I could picture his knees buckling.

After
a small sip of the Dalmore, I looked up the number of the Bootlegger Bistro,
then rang it up.

When
they answered, I said, "Does Martine Devereaux play there tonight? … I see
… and what time does she start? … Eight? All right, thank you very much."

That
gave me a few hours to eat and take a nap. After all, I'd been up since seven
this morning.

≈≈≈

The Bootlegger is a
refined kind of a place located way, way south on Las Vegas Boulevard, beyond
all the casinos and hubbub. Despite the fact that it's pretty good-sized, it's
also hard to see from your car. I almost missed it driving by, but I made the
turn just in time.

A big
U-shaped bar, covered by the requisite video poker machines, along with a few
high tables and stools, gives way to a pretty good-sized dining room. From the
pungent aroma of garlic, one can assume Italian food is the house specialty. A
sleek grand piano and a set of drums occupy nearly one whole side of the room,
with additional space for other musicians, if needed. From what I hear, they
try to keep the old Las Vegas lounge scene alive. Lots of Sinatra music, old
standards, that kind of thing. I looked around. The restaurant side was about
half-full, the bar about half of that.

I got
there at eight-thirty, just as Martine Devereaux was finishing up what sounded
like a spirited version of
Route 66.
I took a seat at the bar. They
didn't have Dalmore, of course, so I settled on Glenlivet. I nursed the drink
until she took a break, which was around nine. Eventually, after a few hellos
in the restaurant area, she made her way to the bar. She stood next to me,
waiting to catch the bartender's attention.

"Nice
set," I said to her.

She
threw me a glance, but a brief one, not sure how to take my remark. At the same
moment, a quick laugh leaped out of her, coming from way down in her throat. It
got to me.

"Thanks,"
she said, taking my comment the right way. Her attention went back to the bartender,
waiting for him to look in her direction.

Finally,
she threw him a hand signal, and in a moment he brought her a glass of red
wine. She was about to walk away with it, when I put a hand very softly on her
arm.

"Martine,"
I said, "my name's Jack Barnett."

"Well,
I'm pleased to meet you, Jack." The tone of her greeting was practiced.
Her smile looked like she meant it, but I couldn't really tell if she was
inviting me or playing me. Her dark eyes and hair contrasted sharply with high,
strong bones and an alabaster complexion, making for a powerful allure. I gave
her a couple of years, but still put her just south of forty. Her curves,
subtle and firm, suggested the final surge of youth in her body.

"I'm
a private investigator, and I'm working on the Sandra Blake case."

Her
small mouth turned into an O. "I've already told the police everything I
know. I was at a movie when it happened. It was just so
terrible.
"

"I
know. Yes, it was. But, maybe there are some things you can help me with. I'd
really appreciate just a moment of your time." I let loose a smile.
"I promise it won't take long. Okay?"

Her
shoulders relaxed, along with her facial muscles. "Well … okay."

"I
understand you were friends with her. Is that true?"

"Oh,
we were close. Yes. We were good friends."

"How
long did you know her?"

"We
met, probably-yy … about three years ago."

"So,
she was still married at the time."

"Yes.
She and John were still together." She sipped her wine, then returned the
glass to the bar, never taking her fingers off the stem.

"How
did you meet?"

"I
was playing at the Baccarat Bar back then. It's a nice little spot inside the
Mirage. She and John used to eat at one of the Mirage's better restaurants, so
before dinner, they would come into the Baccarat Bar from time to time. We
became friends." Her voice was steady. Very feminine, too. I liked it. I
made the accent as New Orleans. It went with the name.

"Were
you friends with … just her, or with John, too?"

"Well,
I was friendly with John, let's put it that way. But I never got to know him
too well, because, you know, he worked so much. He was hardly ever home. Did he
hire you for this?" Her eyes probed mine for an answer.

"I'm
not allowed to discuss my client." I shifted around in my stool to face
her more directly. "You and Sandra went to a restaurant Tuesday night,
right?" She nodded. "Did you do that often? I mean, go out someplace,
just the two of you?"

"I
don't know about 'often', but I'd say, we went out once every month or
two."

"Where
would you go?"

Another
sip of the wine, then: "Dinner, maybe a movie, maybe we'd just sit around
and watch TV, or chat."

"At
her house?"

Her
posture had loosened considerably. She seemed very much at ease, now gesturing
easily with her hands. This in turn made me feel comfortable. I was getting to
like her.

She
said, "Well, sometimes at my apartment, but more often at her house. She
liked to have people over. You know, a born hostess."

"You're
drinking red wine here. Did you know Sandra had a case of Château Mouton?"
I hoped I pronounced it right, even though there was no French in my accent, as
I concentrated hard, looking for a reaction.

"What's
that?"

"It's
some kind of French red wine. I thought she might've served it to you when you
were over there."

"No,"
she said. "She did serve wine over there, but it was just regular stuff,
you know? Nothing real fancy. At least, she didn't say it was."

I
decided she was telling the truth. She only blinked once when she spoke, and
her "what's that" question seemed genuine when I asked her about the
wine. I decided she didn't know about it.

"One
more question," I said. "Can you play
Stormy Weather
?"

A
smile broke across her smooth face. "Oh, sure. I love that song."

"Could
you do it for me?"

"You
bet I will."

I
peeled a twenty out of my money clip and slid it into her palm. She thanked me,
then went back to the piano, where her full-throated version of
Stormy
Weather
damn near made me cry.

T
he next morning, over coffee, I went over the list of phone
numbers I copied from Blake's cell phone. I stopped at "Netty", the
name of Blake's springtime playmate and the subject of his suggestive text
messages. I called the number, but got a recording. A very authoritative Ma
Bell informed me it had been "disconnected or is no longer in
service".

Then I
checked the phone numbers I copied from Sandra Blake's new-call list. The fifty
calls stretched back about a week. Many of them were to and from Silverstone,
many more were to and from Ryan Farrow, a few were from Martine Devereaux, and
a few were to a number in the 305 area code, Miami, which matched the number on
Hector Olivera's business card. There was also a number of calls marked
"Unknown caller". These last calls were all incoming, all after nine
PM, Las Vegas time. There were also about an equal number of outgoing calls,
all made after nine PM, to another number within the 305 area code. Nine PM was
midnight, Miami time.