The Downtown Deal (16 page)

After
a lot of quiet talk about how well we were getting along, as well as how we
might spend tomorrow afternoon, she eventually said, without looking up at me,
"So, honey, have you figured out who killed Sandra yet?"

I
don't know about you, but when a girl starts calling me "honey" early
in a relationship, I get nervous. This wasn't the first time the word had
slipped her lips, but it made me think of what I was getting into here. You
know, those kinds of cutesy names are always a sign that the relationship is
heading straight into more serious, and often uncharted, territory.

Not
that I didn't want it to go there, mind you, it's just that I wasn't altogether
used to this kind of affection from a woman, especially one who appeared to
have her shit so together. I think I liked it, but I just needed more time with
it.

"Not
yet," I replied. "But tell me, are you sure you don't remember
anything about Sandra having a case of fancy French wine lying around?"

"I
remember you asking me that before. No, I don't think she ever mentioned it.
Why do you keep asking about it?"

"It's
somehow involved in this whole thing. People want it and it looks like they may
be willing to do anything to get their hands on it."

Finally,
she lifted her head up to look at me. Brushing away hair from her eyes, she
said, "You don't think she was killed over that wine, do you?"

"Probably
not. If she was, the killer would've taken it right after he shot her. It was
still there two days later. The Farrows were trying to remove it from her
house, did you know that?"

"They
were? No, I didn't know. They were actually in her house the next day?"

"No,
not the next day. The police were there then. But the day after, when the
police had cleared out." I heard the wind picking up outside over Irma
Thomas' soulful crooning.

"I
never cared for either of those Farrow brothers," she said, sipping her
wine and settling back into cuddling position. "I told her I didn't think
Ryan was right for her. He was … I don't know … just not right."

"What
do you mean, 'not right'?"

"Oh,
he used to like to flaunt all of his money all over town, you know? Sandra had
money, too. Well, when she was married to John, of course, but even afterwards.
She made a lot of money selling those condos at Silverstone. You know how big
real estate is in this town."

I
nodded.

She
continued, "Sandra and John, neither one of them ever tried to impress
anyone with how much they had. Especially John. He never talked about his
wealth around other people. But Ryan was always trying to do that."

"Like
how?"

"Like
she and Ryan would go out someplace, to one of his friends' fancy parties or
somewhere, and Ryan would start talking about how he made two million at this
or three million at that. Sandra told me he did that kind of stuff all the
time. It was just disgusting."

"Did
you ever try to get her to break up with him?"

She
chuckled a couple of times. "Only every chance I could. I thought if she
left him, she could find a decent guy who would be right for her."

"But
she didn't pay you any mind?"

"Not
really. She liked Ryan. Thought he was a little brash at times, but he was of
'her standing', as she put it."

"Her
standing?"

"Yeah,
you know, rich, like her. John was rich, too, only a lot nicer guy than Ryan.
Much more real. He really knew how to treat a woman."

"Why
did she and John split up?"

"She
caught him cheating on her."

My
eyebrows lifted for a moment. "Really? With whom?"

"I
don't know for sure, but she said it was with some woman from California. LA, I
think. He had some deal going over there, and he had to travel there quite
often. I guess that's how it got started. Anyway, Sandra found text messages on
his cell, so she hired a computer expert to do a forensic check on his email,
and she uncovered a bunch of steamy exchanges from California that he thought
he had deleted. From there, it was all over."

"Text
messages?" My mind went back to the messages I saw on Blake's cell phone.
As I remembered it, they were sent to and from "Netty" during this
past spring and summer. "When did those take place?"

"You
mean, when were they sending them to each other?"

"Yeah."

"Oh,
I'd say a little over a year ago. They divorced a year ago this month, and the
proceedings took a couple of months, so I'd say the messages were from-m-m … the
summer before last. The summer of '02."

So
Blake had not one, but two series of hot text messages. One from Netty and one
from some babe from LA. I filed it away.

"Do
you know who she was? I mean, her name?"

"No.
Just that she was from California."

"Sounds
like a pretty rough breakup. That's not how Blake remembers it."

"What,
did he tell you something different?"

"Well,
not exactly. He just said they had a more or less amicable divorce."

"Once
the divorce got going, it wasn't too bad. John was heartbroken over it, though.
He knew he'd done wrong, made a really stupid mistake, and it cost him the love
of his life. He didn't really put up a fight during the proceedings. Also,
Sandra didn’t want to crucify him, either. Remember, she loved him, too, and
she was just as heartbroken, if not more. They both just kind of wept and
signed the agreement without too much fuss."

Irma
Thomas finished her set on the CD player. Martine got up and put on Sally Townes.
As her soft blues glided out into the living room, Martine poured herself
another Merlot. I nodded to another taste of the Dalmore. She brought it and
curled back up next to me. Her snuggling figure felt good.

"Did
Sandra ever tell you she regretted leaving him?" I asked.

"She
never really told me as much, you know, but I don't think she did. There were
times when she could've helped him in his business, and other things."

"Helped
him in his business? Like how?"

"Oh
… um, I don't know exactly. But I remember her telling me she could've done a
thing or two for him, but didn't." She put her wineglass on the coffee
table, then threw both arms around me. With her lips inches from mine, she drilled
her big brown eyes into me and whispered, "But right now, I can do a thing
or two for you. How about it?"

And
that was the end of that conversation.

M
y cell phone rang at some ungodly hour of the next morning,
waking both of us from a very deep, very peaceful sleep. Martine grabbed it
from the nightstand, then awkwardly shoved it at me as it kept ringing. Unable
to bring the caller ID into focus, I flipped it open, wondering who in the hell
would be calling me at this hour on a Saturday morning.

"Mr
Barnett," said a somewhat familiar accented voice coming from far away in
the universe. "This is Khalil Aziz. From Silverstone Towers."

I
shook some cobwebs from my brain, trying to enter the land of the living so I
could speak with Sandra Blake's former employer. "Yes. Yes, Mr Aziz. What
can I do for you?"

"I
am so sorry to disturb you at this early hour, but I have someone coming in to
my office in just a little while who wants very much to speak with you."

"Who
is it?"

"I
could tell you his name, but you would not know it. He is a very important
person, however."

"What
does he want to see me about?"

"I'm
afraid I do not know. But he was most insistent about meeting with you. I would
imagine it concerns Sandra's death."

I
rolled over onto my back. "What time are we talking about?"

"Shall
we say, eight o'clock?"

"You
mean this morning?"

He
chuckled. "Yes, of course. This morning."

"No,
we shall not say eight o'clock. It'll have to be later."

Impatience
moved into his voice. "Eight-fifteen. At the latest."

Sounded
like that was as good as it was going to get. "All right. Eight-fifteen. At
your office?"

"Yes."

"I'll
be there."

I
finally opened my eyes. Martine rolled over to face me. "Who was
that?" she asked.

"The
messenger of the No-Sleep God," I mumbled. "What the hell time is
it?"

She
looked back at the clock. "Quarter of seven."

"Oh,
shit." I threw the covers off. "All right, I've got to go down to
Silverstone's offices."

I
staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, where I took a shower. It didn't go
very far toward waking me up. I was still dragging as I stepped out to dry
myself. Even after I got dressed, I wasn't fully conscious, but once I put some
coffee on, the aroma shoved me into a higher gear.

I
skimmed the newspaper as I poured the hot, dark liquid down my throat. During a
press conference yesterday afternoon, Mayor Niekamp tried to drop a subtle hint
about the new stadium, mentioning during an answer to an unrelated question
that an "unprecedented first for Las Vegas" would soon be announced.

She
implied that major construction was involved, and that the land package was
"virtually complete". The hint landed with a loud boom, and the paper
blew it up big. No names were named, but conjecture swirled all through the
story as to what this monumental event might be, and what it would mean for Las
Vegas. No mention was made of baseball or a stadium. According to the story,
the press conference took place at around five in the afternoon, which would
likely have put it after her huddle with Olivera. I wondered if some new
bombshell was dropped at that meeting. Meanwhile, the mayor's smile in the
accompanying photo showed her trademark confidence.

Elsewhere
in the paper, the Yankees were heavy favorites over the Marlins in Game One of
the World Series, which started tonight in New York. I made a mental note to
watch the game on TV.

≈≈≈

I arrived at Aziz's
office at eight-twenty, in no mood for any lectures on punctuality. For
dragging me out of bed with Martine, he was lucky I came at all at this
ridiculous hour. The big glass front door was locked. I knocked, and
momentarily, he emerged from somewhere to let me in.

"Mr
Barnett, thank you so much for coming at what I am sure is a most inconvenient
hour. Please be assured I would not have asked you here if it were not in
everyone's best interests, including yours."

I
never like it when someone tells me what my best interests are. That's
something I think I can figure out all by myself, using my own limited powers
of reasoning. So when I hear this kind of talk, my guard shoots up, as it did
just then.

He
escorted me back to a conference room adjacent to his corner office. It was
decent-sized, with a large, rectangular, marble-topped table at its center,
surrounded by about eight or ten comfortable-looking chairs. The picture window
offered a view of the traffic on that end of Las Vegas Boulevard, and a good
look at a pornographic bookstore and a small Romanian restaurant across the
street. What really got my attention, though, was the very large, very
well-dressed black guy sitting at the head of the table.

"Mr
Barnett," Aziz said, "this is Mr Black. I will leave you two alone to
discuss your business."

"Mr
Black" stood up to shake my hand. "Mr Barnett, I'm pleased to meet
you." He was around six-four, maybe two-forty, with very broad shoulders
tapering to a trim waist. Solid African features dominated his wide,
black-brown face. His dark blue suit looked custom-tailored, probably costing
around four or five grand. His off-white shirt was probably a custom job, too.
The fact was, his size and shape alone made it damn near impossible to get good
clothes off the rack.

We
shook hands, and his grip engulfed mine completely. I felt he could've broken
every bone in my hand just by squeezing it hard enough.

"Mr
Black," I said. "The pleasure is mine."

He
offered me the first seat to the right of his chairman's position. I took it
and he opened.

"Mr
Barnett, I understand you are looking into the killing of Sandra Blake, is that
true?"

His
voice was clear and deep, almost at bass level, and extremely low-key, but I
couldn't place his accent. He definitely was educated, not from the streets,
maybe not even American. Possibly Caribbean. My ear remained open.

"Yes,
I am," I replied.

"I
also understand that your investigation has led you into a sort of quicksand
involving competitors in the real estate arena, yes?"

"Right
again. But wait a min —"

"And
each of these elements are pursuing their own plan for the construction of a
new baseball stadium, with the hope of bringing a big league team here?"
He spoke quietly, in eerily level tones.

I
said, "What business is this of yours? Who are you? Do you work for
Aziz?"

He
briefly smiled, then said, "You must forgive me for not clarifying my
position here, Mr Barnett. No, I do not work for Mr Aziz. I represent local
gaming interests."

The
accent was definitely Caribbean-formal, but sounded like he'd been in the
states for awhile, losing a lot of it.

"Gaming
interests?"

"Yes."

He
kept his hands folded in front of him the entire time, only occasionally
gesturing slightly with his right hand to punctuate a word.

"Like
who?" I asked.

"Those
who are intimately connected to the gaming industry here in Las Vegas."

"Who?
Wynn? Adelson? Kerkorian? Who?"

"Ahh,
names. Names are not important. What is important is that you understand what
is good for gaming is good for Las Vegas. You do understand that, do you
not?"