by Mike Dennis
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.
11
The 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.
I opened. "I want to know who did this, Colby. You can help me. Do you want to? Do you want to help me find out who killed your brother?"
The muscles beneath his wan face tightened, and he grit his teeth around a light jawline. "I know who did it. It was Blake. That bastard Blake!"
"I have to disagree with you there," I said. "I know you and your brother had differences with Blake, maybe big differences, but I don't think he did this. I think whoever killed your brother may also have killed Sandra. And I definitely don't believe Blake would've killed his ex-wife. Or had her killed."
"You don't know him," Colby snarled. "He's a real piece of shit!"
"I know, I know." I gave him another palms-forward gesture. "Believe me, I've seen his ruthless side firsthand. But I have to say, I don't think he killed your brother."
I let that sink in for a minute. Once I felt he absorbed it, I went on. "Colby, I want to know what the story is between you and Hector Olivera?"
"What does he have to do with this?"
"Come on, now. Don't get all naïve on me. I know he owns that little strip of land Blake needs for the stadium deal. What's the connection between the two of you?"
"Barnett, this is all very confidential. Nobody knows about any of it. You're not supposed to know. All of this Olivera stuff is —"
"I know, I know, it's confidential. And as a private investigator, I'm bound to confidentiality. Now what's the story."
Even though my conversations with Colby weren't bound under any circumstances, license or not, I was going to treat this one as if it were, so I spoke from the heart, filling my voice with sincerity. Way in the back of my mind, however, I knew if I learned anything vital, I would turn it over to Frank Madden.
He sighed, then slumped back into the thickness of the sofa. "Ryan and I were arranging financing for him. We had a big loan just about set with a pension fund in California."
"A big loan? How big?"
"In the neighborhood of forty-three million dollars."
"Forty-three million? What's Olivera need that kind of money for?"
"He wants to buy Blake's land downtown."
My eyebrows shot up. "Blake's land? Blake owns nearly ten times as much as Olivera. I thought Blake wanted to buy Olivera's little strip of land."
"He does. But he's not going to get it."
"Well, I'm not too steeped in real estate expertise, Colby, but I can tell you, from what I know of Blake, he's a tough customer. He'll never sell that land to Olivera."
"He will when crunch time comes." His voice was even and clipped, and it carried a lot of authority. He was firmly in his wheelhouse. I gave him credit.
"Crunch time? And exactly when would that be?"
He moved around a little on the sofa, facing me somewhat more squarely. He pursed his lips as if to give himself a thoughtful pause, a moment to get his wording straight.
Then he said, "Hector Olivera is tied into the ownership of the Florida Marlins baseball team. They're talking about moving here."
"I know, I've heard about that."
"Well, what you may not have heard is that Mayor Niekamp is willing to do almost anything to get a major league sports franchise here. She's tried the NFL, the NBA, but no one in those leagues will give her the time of day."
I remembered the mayor's pitch to the NBA a couple of years ago, while I was still in LA. It was right after she took office. It made the LA papers, because she was young, dynamic, and promised great things for Sin City. The NBA told her to fuck off.
Colby continued. "Olivera plans to use his leverage with the Marlins to get on the mayor's good side. You know the kind of talk, I can bring them here singlehandedly, I can get it done, blah, blah, blah. Listen, you want a drink. I'm going to have one."
"Sure," I replied. "Got any good Scotch?"
He got up and walked over to the bar. As he looked behind it, he said, "How's Johnnie Walker Red?"
I hoped he didn't see me roll my eyes as I said, "Yeah, that's great." He probably kept the good shit for his fancy friends.
He poured it, along with one for himself. At least he had the good sense to pour them straight up. He came back to the couch with the drinks in his pale, delicate hands. He handed me one. As we sipped, he said, "If Blake doesn't sell his parcels to Olivera, Niekamp will think he's obstructing progress. And of course, Olivera will be publicly pounding on that theme every hour of every day that Blake holds out. Eventually, Olivera will force an eminent domain showdown, which he thinks he can win."
"You mean, where the city coerces a deal between them in favor of one or the other."
"Right. And when Olivera gets control of Blake's land, then he's in prime position to put together financing for the stadium itself. Ryan and I have been quietly doing some work on that end of it. There's no doubt, with someone of Olivera's stature, with his credit background, that such financing is doable."
"How much are you talking about?"
"Total cost to build the stadium: four hundred million dollars."
"Four hun — " Holy shit! I had no idea!
Colby continued, "We've got several lines out already, and I think we can get a commitment of a major stadium construction loan very soon. But he needs Blake's land to show he's got the site in place."
My eyes grew wide, but only for a moment. Then, Colby said, "But there's more. Once he gets his end of the financing committed, Mayor Niekamp will move Mount Charleston if she has to in order to get the city on board with its share."
"What will the city's share amount to?"
"Well, that's up in the air right now, but Olivera wants them to pony up around a quarter of the cost."
"You're talking about a hundred million dollars from the city."
"Right," Colby said. "Plus he'll want them to pay for the parking facilities and other auxiliary items. And that stuff doesn't come cheap."
"Will they do it?"
"They will if they want a major league sports franchise here. And Olivera knows it. Niekamp won't be able to say no."
I grunted my amazement at the scope of this whole thing. "Nice little bundle he's wrapped up for himself, isn't it?"
"Very nice, but it's still not all. There's also the naming rights for the stadium. A twenty-five or thirty-year deal can be worth up to as much as seventy-five million dollars. All for him."
"Jesus!"
"Not only that, as soon as this consortium of public and private money is finally firmed up, then Olivera will make his move on the team."
"What do you mean by that?"
He took a healthy sip of his Red Label before going on. "He has already armtwisted the majority ownership of the Marlins, headed by a woman named Elva Wiltenauer, into selling him a larger percentage of the team in return for a favorable long-term stadium deal. Still a minority percentage, but one much larger than the four or five points he controls right now."
"He controls four or five points right now? I thought there were several local owners whose total percentage added up to that. And that he wasn't even one of them."
Colby shook his head, letting me know how mistaken I was. "They're all under his thumb. And he stands to quadruple that share. Maybe even more."
/> The room was beginning to spin. I said, "And how much would that be worth?"
"He's aiming for around a hundred and fifty million equity in the team."
I couldn't add all these numbers together fast enough, but I didn't have to. It was a shitload of money. That's all I needed to know.
Colby added, "And that's what his end would be worth right now. If they win the playoffs and the World Series, that figure goes way up."
"The land, the stadium, the team itself! Shit, he wants it all!"
"He's shooting for the sky,' Colby said with a slow nod. "And he just might hit it." He drank again from his Johnnie Walker. Then he added, using his index finger for emphasis, "But it's all contingent on getting Blake's land."
Now it was my turn to sink back into the squishy sofa cushions. I pulled on the Scotch, realizing the stakes in this game were rocketing clear out of sight.
12
It had gotten a little colder, so when I got back home, I went into my closet for a sweater. As I pulled it out, I noticed the blanket on the floor covering the case of Blake's wine. Remembering the ransacking of Ryan Farrow's bar and wine storage, I bent down and uncovered it.
The wooden crate had fancy French writing on it, along with the stamped label, "Château Mouton Rothschild". The stamping had faded somewhat, but in color only. It was still well-defined and pretty legible all the way around.
I wondered what all the fuss was about with this wine, what it must taste like. Blake obviously didn't know, or didn't care to know, because he left it with me, and appeared to be well on his way to forgetting about it once again. He even told me he didn't know much about wine in general, and I think he said he didn't drink it at all. But he really, really didn't want the Farrows to have it.
I loaded it into my car, then drove over to see Ronnie Wills.
Ronnie would be home, I was sure, because it was a little after four. He got off work at three, and sometimes went to Binion's to play poker, but not usually until around six or seven. This would give him time to slip in a movie beforehand. Sure enough, when I knocked on his door, after lugging the wine case all the way up the steps, he answered right away.