The Downtown Deal (9 page)

My
mouth was clamping down around the hook of this case, and I felt myself being
slowly reeled in.

I went
back to the Olivera-Marlins connection on the computer. One of the articles
mentioned that Olivera's first cousin, Marco Antonio Calzado, owned a very
small percentage of the Marlins. Calzado had come to the US in a similar
fashion as his cousin, and was currently a junior partner in the Olivera Group.

The
article also said that the Marlins ownership changed hands earlier this year,
but that Calzado and a few others from Miami kept their interests in the team,
which amounted to a total of less than five percent. The new owners, it seemed,
were from the West Coast, headed up by a woman, Mrs Elva Wiltenauer, while the
five-percent group was entirely made up of Miami investors. So, in the
interests of keeping up good local PR, they didn't force out the small south
Florida partners.

Smart
move.

One
group they did force out, however, was the previous owner's management team,
who had led the struggle to keep the Marlins in Miami.

I
googled "Florida Marlins relocation". Hundreds of hits popped up, all
speculating on when, not if, the Marlins would leave town. Several cities were
reported to be in the running, the pack leaders being Charlotte and San
Antonio. Las Vegas was mentioned only a couple of times, and then purely as an
outside contender.

Mrs
Wiltenauer, through her management mouthpieces, made it clear in one article
that if a new stadium deal did not materialize in Miami "very soon",
the team would have no choice but to look for another home. It was clear she
and her colleagues desired the money those empty orange seats weren't currently
bringing in.

I got
up and poured a hefty shot of Dalmore. Sipping it as I walked back to the
computer, I thought back on all my baseball knowledge regarding this type of
thing. I knew that relocating a team was something not often done. It was an
unwieldy process, and very disruptive. It showed bad faith to the original
city, to say nothing of the high monetary and public relations costs involved.
But I also knew that if the magic words, "new stadium", were uttered
by the prospective host city, all other negatives tended to fade into the fog.

It was
beginning to look like Sandra Blake and Ryan Farrow died so the Florida Marlins
could move to Las Vegas.

T
here was no point in watching the game any further. I put my
jacket on, walking out into the cold night to make the long drive down to the
Bootlegger.

Martine
was well into her set by the time I arrived. I caught most of
Come Rain Or
Come Shine
, an old torch song that always gets my attention. She looked
ravishing, her dark brown, shoulder-length hair falling around the straps of a clingy
burnt orange dress. The place was fairly full, both the bar and the dining
room, in contrast to Thursday's sparse crowd. In fact, I had trouble finding a
seat at the big bar, but when I did, I ordered a Glenlivet.

I took
a long look around. People mostly in their late thirties and up, all the way
into what looked like maybe their seventies, yet it still didn't feel like an
old folks' place. It was alive, humming with exuberance you would usually
associate with youth.

I
sipped at my Scotch for a while until she finished her set. As she made her way
through the thick crowd, I waved at her a couple of times. She eventually saw
me, then came over to where I was seated.

"Hi,
Jack." Her smile was infectious.

"You
sound great, as usual," I said, looking around for another empty stool,
but finding none. I got up, moving my drink aside. "Here, take a
seat."

She
resisted at first, but I insisted that she sit. I ordered her a drink, house
red, as before. When it arrived, her work smile vanished and she asked,
"Any news on who killed Sandra?"

"Not
yet. But there are a couple of more things I'd like to ask you about it."

She
talked over me and said, "I heard her body is still in the morgue. It's
been, what, four days now. What's up with that?"

I had
to admit I didn't know the answer. "Maybe the coroner has some further
testing he wants to do. It's not uncommon in a high-profile murder case. That's
usually one of the prime reasons for not releasing a body."

She
relaxed her posture. "Sorry, Jack. I'm just, well, you know, upset over
the whole thing. She was my
friend
."

I
patted her shoulder. "I know. But there's no point letting it get the best
of you now. Just go with it and when the coroner's ready, he'll release her for
the funeral."

Her
hand reached for mine, still on her shoulder. It felt good. She said,
"What else do you want to know? I thought I told you everything the other
night."

We
were being jostled by people coming and going. "Well, it's pretty noisy
here, and I'd rather do it in a more subdued setting. How about a bite to eat
when you get done?"

She
looked at her watch. "I'm through at eleven. A little over an hour. Can
you wait that long?"

"Of
course."

Looking
into her eyes, I thought I picked up a flicker of interest. I hoped I wasn't
wrong.

Following
a little more friendly chitchat, she picked up her wine and started back for
the piano. It would take her several minutes to get there, what with stopping
for a few hellos and hugs along the way. I ordered another Glenlivet.

She
finished her night in what seemed like an eyeblink, closing out with a great
version of
Walking After Midnight.
In no time, we were out the door, on
our way to a brightly-lit family restaurant up on West Tropicana, about fifteen
minutes away. We selected a booth in the rear corner. Just in time, I might
add, because the place was starting to fill up with the first wave of the
Saturday night after-party crowd.

After
we ordered, she said, "So … Jack, what's on your mind?"

I
didn't want to tell her that a long night of making love to her was on my front
burner. Nor did I want to tell her about Ryan Farrow's murder just yet. She
didn't really need to know it at this point. It would lead to too many
questions, so I said, "Did Sandra ever mention someone by the name of
Hector Olivera?"

"Olivera?
No, I don't think so."

"You're
sure? Hector Olivera?"

"Yeah,
I'm pretty sure. Why? Who is he?"

"Did
she ever mention any connection to anyone in Miami?"

She
thought for a moment, her dark eyes sliding downward toward the tabletop.
"I think she did say that she knew somebody there. Wait … I think she
mentioned that she sold a condo to someone from Miami. Is that this Olivera
person?"

The
waitress brought her an iced tea, and coffee for me. "Was there ever any
talk of some other kind of real estate deal with anybody from Miami? Please try
to remember, Martine."

She
drank from her iced tea. "I … I don't think she said anything else about
Miami." That appeared to be all there was to say on the topic, but then
she quickly added, "Oh, but I do remember her saying she had something
cooking outside of those condos she was selling. She said it was going to be
really big."

"That's
all? Nothing specific?"

"Nope.
That's it. And nothing about Miami."

I
sighed. I hoped Sandra might have confided in her. This put Colby Farrow at the
top of my list for tomorrow. I didn't want to think about it.

As I
added a little more sugar to my coffee, I shifted my voice from clinical to
approachable. "So, where are you originally from?"

"New
Orleans. Born and raised."

I
allowed myself a fast smile. "I thought I heard that accent. I love New
Orleans. It's a great town."

"You've
been there?"

"Many
times. Many great memories. How come I never saw you there?"

She
threw me a coy glance, then purred, "Maybe you didn't look in the right
spots."

"Well,
I guess I didn't." But at that moment, I certainly wished I had.

"How
about you?" she asked. "Where do you hail from?"

I
tasted the coffee. It wasn't bad. "I'm originally from New York. West side
of Manhattan. But I lived in LA for awhile before coming here. I've been here
about a year and a half."

"Were
you always a private investigator?"

"Yeah,
I guess I was. In LA, mostly. My granddad was a famous PI in New York. He died
when I was very young, back in the middle seventies, but still, I always wanted
to follow in his footsteps. Ever since I was old enough, really. I don't think
I … well, I only kind of do it part time now."

I
wasn't about to mention that I didn't have a PI license in Nevada, or anywhere
else, for that matter.

She
threw me a quick, playful smile, arching her eyebrows just a little. A brief
stab of hurt zinged through me. That smile.

Lyla.

Just
that one god-damned smile. Took me right back to 1992. Redondo Beach. When Lyla
had me in her pocket. When she was the sun that rose over every new day. But
she couldn't control her internal demons and they eventually took over. Demons
that maybe I could've stopped if only I'd tried harder. Instead, I had to let
her go and she began her spin into madness.

Martine
fondled her iced tea glass. She watched herself do it for a moment, then she
looked up at me and asked, "Do you have your gun with you?"

That
one threw me off stride. "No, I don't. I only carry it when the
circumstances dictate."

"And
they didn't dictate your coming to see me at the Bootlegger packing heat?"

"Packing
heat?" I had to smile at that one. Straight out of a 1940s "B"
movie.

With
great fanfare, the waitress swooped down upon us with our food. After all the
plates were properly arranged, and we assured her we didn't need anything else,
I said, "To tell you the truth, I didn't think I needed to be 'packing
heat' to come see you. I was hoping you wouldn't be too dangerous. Was I
mistaken?"

She
smiled again, this one being modest and refreshing, warming up her smooth, snowy
complexion. It was the kind of smile I wanted to see every day.

And
for once, it didn't take me back to … Lyla …

She
said, "You don't have anything to worry about with me. I'm no
threat."

Right
then, her body language told me it was time to reach across the table and take
her free hand. I did, and she returned a little squeeze.

We
stayed like that for only a few seconds. During those seconds, however, our
eyes did about two hours worth of talking. My gut stirred and my breathing
picked up just a little. I don't know if she noticed.

Then
she asked, "Are you seeing anyone right now?"

"Right
now, I can't see past you." I saw her blush a little, then I added,
"Seriously, no, I'm not seeing anyone. How about you?"

"No.
I broke up with a guy about two months ago."

"What
happened?"

She
threw me a you-know-how-it-goes shrug but never took her eyes from mine, and
said, "What always happens. Wrong guy."

Our
hands still touched. I gripped hers a little tighter. Then she said, "There's
been no one since then."

Until
me. That was how it started.

That
night, she took me home. And made me forget about Lyla.

T
he next day, after I got back to my apartment, I did a little
checking around. I found out Colby Farrow lived in a condo at Turnberry Place,
a slick high-rise behind the Strip, over by the Las Vegas Hilton. It was the kind
of place Silverstone wanted to be: big, imposing, lavish, screaming money,
filled with people who didn't want the hassle of keeping up a big house.

According
to what I was told, Turnberry had been up and running for a couple of years or
so, serving your basic filthy-rich clientele. I assumed it was gated, probably
with a twenty-four-hour guard, so I'd have to make prior arrangements. That
meant calling Colby first, something I didn’t really want to do.

Then I
remembered he and his brother had gone to Sandra Blake's house the day after
the cops moved out. It would be entirely possible he'd be at his brother's
house, clearing out inventory there as well. I got in the car, pointing it
toward Summerlin.

On the
way out there, I called Martine, asking her if she wanted to get some dinner
later on. She agreed, and I said I'd pick her up around seven. Knowing she was
waiting for me at the end of the day put me in a much more agreeable frame of
mind to talk to Colby Farrow.

Upon
arriving at Ryan Farrow's home, I saw a midnight blue Jaguar parked in his driveway,
right next to Ryan's BMW. I left my car out front and stepped up to the front
door of the house. Colby answered almost right away.

"Good
afternoon, Colby. I figured I'd find you here."

"Listen,
Barnett, in case you don't know, my brother —"

I put
my palm facing toward him, showing no threat. "I know what happened, and,
even though you may not believe me, I'm truly sorry for your loss."

His
eyes lowered. "Well … thank you for that."

"Now,
may I come in. I think I might be of some help."

He
ushered me in. We went into the den. All those books gazed down on us from
their secure shelves, as he led me over to the big leather couch, where we both
took a seat. The bar had been put back together, wine bottles were back in
their horizontal slots, the broken ones were picked up. No attempt had been
made to get the stains up from the wine that spilled out of them. I wondered if
Colby planned to clean up those stains.