The Downtown Deal (12 page)

The
funeral was a long, drawn-out affair, but I exited a few minutes early to stake
out an observation point outside, enabling my first look at the man from Miami
as he stepped out of the church.

Within
minutes, he came out and brushed by me in his black topcoat. He was everything
his photo had promised: handsome, self-assured, and charismatic. Especially
when compared to the pasty Colby on his right. The third man with them,
obviously Hispanic, was probably the cousin, as Colby had mentioned.
 
He wasn't nearly as good-looking as
Olivera, but he wore what looked like a similar designer topcoat. The valet
brought Colby's Jaguar, and they all entered it.

The
wind was really picking up under thick clouds, sending a chill right into my
bones, so I hustled back to my car, hands in pockets, and made the trip down to
Las Vegas Boulevard and the Venetian Hotel.

Reluctantly,
I valeted my car. The Venetian was notorious for a poorly-organized valet
system designed to keep you waiting forever when you pick up your car. But I
didn't want to miss Olivera's arrival. It was a good thing, too, because only
about three or four minutes later, not nearly enough time for me to self-park
in their distant garage and rush back to the front, Colby's car pulled up, as
Olivera and his companion stepped out. They said goodbye to Colby, heading
straight for the front door. I let them get inside.

As
they moved into the breathtaking, high-ceilinged lobby, I came up from behind
them, around to their left.

"Mr
Olivera," I said, once I got into their line of sight.

They
stopped to look me over. I was obviously not connected with the Venetian.
Olivera said, "Yes?"

"Mr
Olivera, I'm Jack Barnett. I spoke with you by phone about a week ago. I'm a
private investigator."

A
smile leaped out onto his face. His dark eyes sprang to attention, or at least,
it looked like they did. "Yes, Mr Barnett." He held his hand out. I
gave him mine and we shook. "What can I do for you?"

"I'd
like to speak with you for a moment if I could." This close and in the ambient
light of the Venetian lobby, I could see his topcoat was not black, but rather
a deep violet, most likely cashmere. I wanted to touch it, to run my palm over
its sensuous surface. It occurred to me he probably looked forward to wearing
it today, since he didn't get to do it too often in Miami.

"Ah,
Mr Barnett, we are very busy. We are here for a very short time, and we —"

"Yes,
I know you're busy. But if you could just give me a minute. It concerns Sandra
Blake. Like I told you, I'm investigating her death, and I know you're anxious
to find her killer."

He
continued walking past me. I kept up, staying abreast of him.

He
said, "I'm sorry, Mr Barnett, our time is very limited. We cannot
—"

"I
also know of your desire to put together a parcel of land downtown, the
majority of which you want to buy from John Brendan Blake. And on this land,
you want to build a stadium for the future Las Vegas Marlins."

He
stopped walking. Turning to face me directly, he said, "All right, Mr
Barnett. Let's go into this lounge right over here. It's quiet and we can have
one drink. One drink." He held up an index finger, while he eyed me
carefully.

"Of
course. One drink."

The
lounge was quiet, all right. Dim, unobtrusive lighting made it practically
invisible from the casino floor. As we took seats in comfortable leather chairs
around a small, round cocktail table, it was clear we were the only customers.
A grand piano sat unattended off to one side. The bowtied bartender carefully
arranged the gleaming bottles on his back bar. A gorgeous waitress descended on
us immediately. I ordered a Dalmore, while Olivera and his cousin each had a
Johnnie Walker Black.

I
turned to Olivera's cousin. "Jack Barnett," I said, sticking my hand
out to him.

Olivera
spoke up immediately. "Oh, please forgive me, Mr Barnett, for not
introducing you. This is my cousin, Marco Antonio Calzado."

"Mr
Calzado, pleased to meet you," as we shook hands. Solid black eyes like
hard little marbles looked straight into mine. He tossed me a chilly nod.

"Now,"
Olivera said, "what is on your mind?"

"First
of all, let me congratulate you on the Marlins' great victory in Chicago last
night. I understand you were there."

He lit
up. When he did this, his face took on a movie-star quality, all flashing eyes
and high cheekbones and white teeth. "What a great playoff! I knew all
along we were going to win. And we are going to defeat the Yankees in the World
Series!"

I
caught a glimmer of a smile from Calzado, his first emotion since our meeting.

Then
he said, "You wait. When we get to New York, we are going to shock the
baseball world."

I
didn't want to tell him that he would be the one on the receiving end of any
shocks. The Yankees were fielding one of their best teams ever, and were a
prohibitive favorite to roll over the upstart nobodies from Miami.

I
said, "Well, that kind of leads me right into what I wanted to talk
about." Olivera cooled off immediately, sipping his Scotch and going
straight into no-nonsense mode. I set my drink down and said, "I need to
know the exact nature of your connection to Sandra Blake. Did it have anything
to do with your participation in the ownership of the Marlins?"

His
eyebrows shot up for a brief moment, telling me I had caught him by surprise
with my knowledge of his hidden ownership in the team. I let him take a moment
to drink from his Johnnie Walker and regroup. He and Calzado had a brief
exchange in Spanish, then he put on a smile.

"My
compliments, Mr Barnett. You are very thorough. If you are ever in Miami
looking for work, I would be pleased to hire you."

I smiled
back at him, chuckling to myself. Blake had made me the same offer after I gave
him back his eighty-five dimes in February.

"However,"
he continued, "I am afraid this is all very personal, very confidential,
and does not concern you."

"With
all due respect, Mr Olivera, it does concern me. I'm investigating her death.
Now, I know you were connected to her. I know you bought your condo at
Silverstone from her. I know you spoke to her by phone many times before she
died. Even quite a few times late at night."

Calzado
pushed his chest forward, then finally spoke in a guttural voice. "Hector
say this not your business." His English was not nearly as proficient as
Olivera's, being far more heavily-accented.

My
eyes slid over toward his. "Well, Mr Calzado … I say it
is
my business." We exchanged
hostile glares. I sipped from my Dalmore, never taking my eyes off him.

Olivera
broke in: "Mr Barnett — may I call you Jack? —" I nodded,
still looking straight at Calzado. "Jack, of course I want to know who
committed this ugly deed, who killed this beautiful woman. But my relationship
with her was private. You must understand."

I turned
my eyes back to Olivera. "I do. But
you
must understand anything you tell me is confidential. I'm required to keep it
that way. I'm a licensed private investigator, not from the media. I'm not
going to splash anything in the newspapers. I have no personal interest in any
of it. It's only business. All I want to do is find Sandra's killer. I just
need certain information, and you have it. Now, won't you please help me?"

He
tried that on for size, thinking for a minute. Then, he said, "This is
confidential?"

"Absolutely."

Calzado
then spoke to him in rapid Spanish, and Olivera replied, before turning back to
me. "I must have your promise." He looked straight at me.

"You
have it." I drank some Scotch.

He
took a breath. "When I bought the condominium from Sandra, she introduced
me to Ryan Farrow. You know, of course, that he was a mortgage banker?" I
nodded and he continued: "Sandra was working with me — and with Ryan
 
— to persuade Mr Blake to
sell me his property in that area."

"Persuade
Blake? She was divorced from him. And she was dating Ryan Farrow, who Blake
hated."

"Yes,
yes, I know. But she was very confident that she could get Mr Blake to
sell."

"How
could she be so sure? Was she holding something over his head?"

"No,
nothing like that. There was no — what is the word? —
blackmail
involved." He drank again
from his Scotch. I could see by what was left in his glass that we were one
more sip from ending the meeting.

"Well,
what was it, then? Why did she think Blake would sell the land to you?"

"Even
though they were divorced, they were still on good terms with each other. They
had high respect for each other's ability in the real estate arena. She had his
trust and she intended to capitalize on it."

"And
do
you
think Blake will sell to
you?"

"You
already know, Jack, that I intend to build the stadium on that land, once I
acquire it. The Farrows were working on the financing, and now Colby has
arranged a meeting tomorrow morning between me and some very important lenders.
At this meeting, I expect to finalize, in principle, the terms of the loan for
the downtown land."

"From
what I hear around town," I said, "that land would currently be worth
somewhere north of forty million dollars."

"That
is right. In addition, I am meeting with the mayor tomorrow afternoon to
discuss the city's participation in the stadium project. You may also already
know that Blake has no interest in constructing the stadium. He feels it would
be too speculative. So he was just going to sell the entire parcel of land at a
handsome profit to a local developer, who would then, supposedly, take my place
and build the stadium himself."

"Keep
going."

"On
the other hand, I was prepared to pay Blake considerably more for the land than
the local developer would pay him."

"And
why would you want to do that?"

He
puffed his chest out a little and said, "To build the stadium. To bring
the Marlins to Las Vegas!"

"Mr
Olivera, two people are dead. Murdered. Did they die so you can bring the
Marlins here?"

"Jack,
come on. That sounds like you think I was involved."

"You're
heavily involved in the back-and-forth of this land deal and it's looking more
and more like the deaths of Sandra Blake and Ryan Farrow were somehow connected
to it."

He
gave off a slight smile and shook his head once, dismissing the possibility of
his involvement. "I don't want anyone dead, Jack. All I want is to buy
Blake's land so the team can move here."

"And
Blake wants to sell locally for the same purpose."

"Yes.
And if that happened, I would be very reluctant to try and convince Mrs
Wiltenauer to move the team here. You see, because I am part owner of the team,
through one of my companies, I would be able to offer her a very favorable
stadium deal, which is something the local developer could not do, because he
can only get his profit out of the stadium and not the team. Are you hearing
me?"

"In
Dolby Stereo. In other words," I said, "if you don't get the land,
there will be no stadium because the Marlins aren't going to move here."

He
smiled. "You understand everything, Jack." He picked up his drink and
added, "And Sandra was working to persuade Blake to sell to me in order to
ensure that the Marlins move to this great city."

I
swirled the whiskey around in my glass. "Also, I would imagine, to ensure
a bigger cut for herself. If you're willing to pay Blake more than the local
developer will pay him, and if Sandra gets Blake to accept, then her piece for
brokering the deal is that much bigger, right?"

"Well,
since you put it that way … yes."

"And
you were probably going to give her a little taste yourself, right? So she
could collect on both ends."

He bit
his lip. "Yes, that is true."

"Did
you have any … any … more
personal
connection to Sandra Blake?"

A
trace of a tight grin briefly brushed across his face, then disappeared. He
drained his drink, stood up, and said, "Jack, I'm sorry, but we must go.
We have a lot to do. We have to prepare for tomorrow's meetings."

I
didn't want to leave right then, because we were just getting to the good part,
the part that might tie it all up. Olivera, however, made it plain the meeting
was over. We shook hands all around, but Calzado hadn't lost the hostility in
his eyes.

I
handed my ticket to the valet, and he instructed me to take
a seat on a bench in the waiting area. I looked it over. There were a lot of
people out there who had "taken seats", so I knew I was in for a long
wait. I cursed the Venetian's parking arrangement, then picked out the only
empty bench, and obediently sat down. The temperature had dropped a few more
degrees and the wind slashed through me as I sat on the cold concrete slab.
They had those outdoor heating pole things stationed here and there, and I was
fairly close to one. Close enough to feel a wisp of heat, but not close enough
to actually get warm.

I
pulled out my cell phone and punched up Blake's office number. Fortunately, he
was in. More to the point, he took my call.

"Any
new developments, Jack?" he asked.

 
"Why didn't you tell me about all this
maneuvering with the downtown land?"

"It
doesn't concern you."

"That's
what Hector Olivera just tried to tell me."

"Olivera?
You talked to him?"