The Downtown Deal

by Mike Dennis

  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."

&nb
sp; "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.

  6

  The 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.

  As I poured myself a second cup, I entered the numbers of Martine, Farrow, Silverstone Towers, the Olivera Group, and the private Miami number into my cell phone, then went to my computer to do a reverse white pages search on the remaining numbers. I drew a blank.

  I then googled "Silverstone Towers". Its website featured an image of an impressive building, soaring above the cityscape, in all its high-priced glory, existing only in the fevered dreams of the developers, or in other words, in an architectural rendering and a plastic model. It certainly looked like it would be nice if it ever actually came into being, while the advertised unit prices assured would-be buyers the condos would be very nice indeed.

  Sandra Blake's photo appeared about halfway down the page. She was listed as "Assistant Sales Manager".

  Standing next to the plastic model in another, larger photograph was a smiling Khalil Aziz, the company CEO. He had the look of a rug merchant, even in his two-thousand-dollar business suit. Wiry black hair carpeted his flat, wide head. Knowing dark eyes smiled for the camera, but their true intent appeared to be well-hidden. A thick, black mustache overlaid his upper lip, contrasting with shiny, symmetrical white teeth. His accompanying statement promised "luxury living at its finest". I noticed their sales office was located less than ten minutes from my apartment.

  I took a shower. As I stepped into my dim, claustrophobic stall and felt the puny flow of water on my skin, I imagined what it must be like in Silverstone: marble showers big enough for two, or three even, with high-powered jets shooting water at you from all angles, a wide display rack of cleansing products at your disposal, and when you're all done, a thick white robe to slip over you so you can swagger around in it.

  ≈≈≈

  After a short drive, I arrived at the Silverstone sales office, located in a corner building at a minor intersection of Las Vegas Boulevard just south of downtown. It's in what they ironically call the "historic district", meaning ethnic neighborhood restaurants, cheap motels promising HBO, and older strip joints, the oldest of these structures dating back only to the fifties. The sales office interior was pretty much what you'd expect: lots of glitzy distractions, glassed-in offices spread along one side, and a large, tasteful plastic model, the one in the website photo, occupying nearly the entire surface of a big, square table. This display carved out a large portion of the center of the entire office premises. According to the model, the building looked like it would be forty or fifty stories high. Plastic vegetation, cars, and figures of people were meticulously arranged all around it to complete the visual impact. This was apparently to be a major step in the recently-talked-about drive to "Manhattanize" Las Vegas, growing it upward instead of outward.

  A well-groomed, slender woman of about thirty in a demure gray business suit approached me with a smile the moment I passed through the doorway. Perhaps another "Assistant Sales Manager".

  "I'd like to see Mr Aziz," I said.

  "Oh, is he expecting you?" She rapidly assumed the mantle of gatekeeper to Aziz's personal space.

  "No, not really." I ran my ID rapidly before her eyes. "I'm a private investigator. I'm looking into the death of Sandra Blake."

  "A private investigator?" Her face, small and tight to begin with, crinkled up a little further at not being given sufficient time to read my ID. "I don't think Mr Aziz is available right now."

  "Well, that's too bad, because I'm trying to find out who killed Mrs Blake and I'm sure Mr Aziz can provide some information that would help. I'm also sure he would appreciate the opportunity to provide it at this time." Meaning, I can always nail him in the parking lot after work and tell him you wouldn't give me the time of day at this critical moment in the investigation of the tragic death of a valued employee.

  Her jaw tightened. "Just a moment, please."

  She hustled into one of the glassed-in offices and picked up the phone, punching up a couple of numbers. Moments later, she emerged.

  "This way, please."

  She led me to the rear area, her heels clicking on the shiny marble floor, into a large corner office with a view of the street. I recognized Aziz from his photo, sitting behind a granite-top desk. He stood to greet me, revealing a chunky, close-to-the-ground build.

  "Mr Aziz," I said, "my name's Jack Barnett. I'm a private investigator." We exchanged a hearty handshake. It was almost like he was glad to see me.

  "Barnett, did you say?"

  "With two T's." He returned to his high-backed swivel chair, while pointing at one of two fancy seats in front of his desk. I took it.

  "I understand you're investigating Sandra's death?"

  "I am." It occurred to me Aziz might not want to talk to me. That's often the case in what used to be my line of work, but when that happens, you have to know how to apply very subtle pressure to get them to talk to you.

  He said, "What a horrible tragedy! I cannot tell you. We are all shocked here. We can't believe it. Who would do such a thing?"

  "Well," I said, "I hope to find out. Have the police been here yet?"

  He shook his head. "No, but I am sure they will come before long."

  "I'm sure they will. But for now, I would appreciate it if you could give me just a little bit of background information on Sandra."

  "Background information?"

  "Yes. Basic stuff. For instance, can you tell me what kind of employee Sandra was? Was she efficient, likable, dynamic, what?"

  "All of the above." He made a grand gesture with both hands. "She was one of our most important peopl
e here at Silverstone."

  "Did she do any actual selling?"

  "Oh, yes. She sold several units."

  "Were there any problems with any of these? Now, please think carefully before answering, Mr Aziz. And also, I want to emphasize that I am required to keep whatever you say confidential."

  He thought about it, his hands folded in prayer position, with stubby index fingers tapping his lips. "No … no, there were no real problems. None that I can think of."

  "Is it possible she may have made enemies here? Jealous colleagues? Customers who may not have liked her? Someone who may have had some kind of motive to kill her?"

  "Absolutely not." As he said "not", he gave his desk a light tap with his fist, for emphasis. "Everyone here liked her very much. Our customers loved her. She was the kind of girl you liked from the moment you saw her." Satisfied with his own answer, he clasped his hands across his stomach.

  I accepted Aziz's answer. Liking her was my reaction, too, when I first saw the photo Blake had handed me.

  "Can you tell me who she sold the units to?"

  "Well now, Mr Barnett, that's not exactly …"

  "It's exactly public information. I can go downtown and look it up, or you can save me the trouble and give me the names right now. I'm not being nosy here. I don't really care about the details of your business. I'm only trying to find her killer. And time is important."