by Mike Dennis
"Jack! Come on in. Here, check this out, man. See what I did." He showed me his DVD player with its top plate removed, exposing the drive and all the mechanism and electronics underneath. Wires not original to the unit ran all over the place, spilling over the side, connected helter-skelter.
"Look!" he said, pride brimming from his voice. "I got it working again. I'm watching Psycho. It's right before Anthony Perkins pushes the car containing Janet Leigh's body — along with the forty grand, I might add — straight into the swamp." I set the wine case down as he finally noticed it. "Whoa, what's that?"
"This is your ticket to a new DVD player, Ronnie." I reached in my pocket for my money clip. Peeling off five of Blake's hundred dollar bills, but not giving them to him yet, I said, "I need you to keep it for me a little while."
He looked at it, then back at me. "What is it?"
"It's a case of wine. Nothing more. All I need you to do is not tell anyone you have it and don't open it. Just leave it in a corner someplace until I'm ready to come back for it."
"Is it illegal? What's the big deal with it?"
"I can't tell you the details, but I can promise you there's nothing illegal about it. No cops are going to be banging your door down or anything like that. It's valuable, though, and I just need you to hold it for a while. And here's five hundred for your trouble. Okay?"
He took the bills and ran them through his gnarled fingers one at a time. "Sure, I'll keep your damn wine, Jack." He grinned and put a hand on my shoulder. "And thanks so much for this. This really means a lot to me, you know? Now I can get a player with a bigger screen." I thought I caught the beginnings of a tear about to well up in his left eye.
"Go get your player," I smiled. "Just don't open that case." As I headed for the door, I turned and added, "And keep it away from your damn floor heater. Put it in the coolest part of your apartment."
13
I called Martine after leaving Ronnie's. She wasn't quite ready, but gave me the okay to come over anyway. Within twenty-five minutes, I was parking outside of her apartment.
We kissed in the doorway, and she beckoned me in. I hadn't noticed too much about the place when I got up this morning. She was still asleep, so I just tried not to trip over anything on my way out. And last night, the lights never came on.
But now, it was lit and ready for company. It had all the standard stuff — couch, chair, TV, bookcase, knick-knacks — but good taste covered everything like syrup on pancakes. I'm no decorator, and I'm certainly no furniture expert, but the stuff looked like it cost. Maybe that was the idea with furniture. Buy cheap and somehow make it look expensive by moving it around just so. I don't know, whatever she did, she did it right. The place looked great.
She didn't look so bad herself, dressed in a tight skirt and yellow sweater. She excused herself while she retreated to the bathroom to finish working on her hair and makeup, saying she would still be a few minutes yet. Meanwhile, I sat down on the couch and turned on the TV.
Surfing around the channels, I landed on the Marlins game. It was game five of their seven-game series with the Cubs. The Miami crowd was going wild as a home run just put the Marlins up 2-0. A little while later, Martine emerged from the bathroom, hair in place, makeup perfect, and looking like she stepped off the cover of Cosmo. By then, it was the seventh inning, and the Marlins had upped their lead to 3-0. I turned off the TV, and we went out into the cold, dark night.
Dinner was at a little out-of-the-way Mexican place over on East Sahara. It was clean, quiet, with good food and good service. As we hovered over our drinks, nibbling on the chips and salsa, she said, "So, you found out any news yet?"
"Not really. Plenty of opinions out there, though."
"Like what?"
I swigged at my Mexican beer. "Well, some people think Blake did it. Or had it done, actually."
"Oh, John would never have done it. He loved Sandra."
"That's what I think, too. Plus, Ryan Farrow was killed Friday night. Shot once in the head, just like she was."
Her mouth flew open, as her eyes grew wide, and her upper body twitched. She bumped her wineglass, nearly spilling its contents all over the table. "Ryan? Killed? Shot?"
"Looks like it might've been the same one who killed Sandra." I signaled the waitress for more salsa. Then, I reached across the table, taking both her lovely hands in mine. She calmed herself a little, while I put on a grim face and said, "Martine, this is getting serious. When two people in the same circle of acquaintances get themselves killed, especially when it looks like they were killed by a professional, it's time for the others in that circle to take notice."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you've got to be careful from now on. You knew both victims. You were friends with one of them. I don't want anything happening to you." I squeezed her hands for emphasis, then let them go.
"Oh, I'll be all right. Nothing's —"
I grabbed her hands again. "No, no. I mean this. You have to start taking precautions until this is wrapped up."
"What do you mean? What precautions?"
"I mean, don't let anyone into your apartment, except me. That means no one. Especially anyone who knew both Sandra and Ryan Farrow. Don't give anyone a ride after work. Be careful walking from your car to your apartment. Park in the closest possible spot you can find, even if it's an illegal one. Use caution at all times."
"Jack, I can't live that way, like some kind of a paranoid hermit."
"Better to live like a paranoid hermit than die like a helpless girl in the open. And when all the dust settles, those might be your only choices. Now, I'm not trying to scare you unnecessarily here. But whoever's responsible for these killings may — may come after someone else next, someone in that group of acquaintances. The killer's motive isn't totally clear at the moment, so until I tell you different, you've got to be careful. Now, promise me. Okay?"
"Jack, I —"
"Promise me!" I gripped her hand tighter. The intensity in my eyes said the rest.
"All right. All right. I promise." She pulled her hands away like she didn't want to talk about it anymore, but I was sure she'd gotten my point.
≈≈≈
The hovering danger leaked over into our sex, consuming us both. She kept me up most of the night. After very little sleep, I left her place early the next morning, early enough to get buried in Monday morning rush hour traffic. As I sat in the parking lot that was Interstate 15, I reached for my cell phone and dialed Frank Madden. It nearly went to voicemail, but he answered just in time.
"Frank, it's Jack. Anything turn up from the Farrow crime scene?"
"Well, try this one on. He took one shot to the head from a .22 semiauto, probably silenced. Sandra Blake, if you'll recall, was killed with a .38."
That was one straight from the blind side. "Holy shit!"
"Right. So we may be looking at two killers here."
As I crawled northbound approaching the Sahara Avenue exit, I caught an opening and jutted into the next lane over to my left, moving now at a breakneck five miles per hour.
I said, "Well, we know the killer is most likely a pro. Maybe he ditches his weapon after each use, so as not to tie him to multiple jobs."
"Possible," Madden said, but I knew he didn't believe it.
"Also, Sandra and Farrow were dating each other. They were both in real estate. They both knew Hector Olivera. And Blake, too. It's not like they were totally unrelated. Maybe it was one of those two."
"Possible."
"Well, what the hell, Frank. It's 'possible'. So what do you think is 'probable'?"
"We checked on Olivera with Miami-Dade PD. He's got no criminal record, clean as a whistle. He's the poster boy for the American immigrant success story. He's active in the community, does charity work. They love him down there. And he's got an alibi, ironclad, for both killings."
"Well, of course he's got an alibi. He didn't pull the trigger. But you can be sure he knows someone who will, for the ri
ght price." Another opening developed in the lane to my right. I eased over into it, and immediately came braking to a halt, while all the cars in the lane I just left breezed blissfully past me.
"Doesn't look that way, Jack."
"How about if he used two different shooters. I mean, maybe his first choice was uneasy about killing a beautiful young woman. You know, the Latino worship of beauty."
"That's stretching it. Besides, Olivera had no motive to kill either one of them."
"None that we know of at present."
"By all accounts, Farrow was helping him get financing for something connected to that downtown stadium land you were telling me about. And, according to what you told me yourself, Sandra Blake was working on something with him. Maybe she was involved in that deal, too. Maybe they were lovers. Who knows?"
"Any worthwhile forensic evidence at either scene?"
"Very little. They found a couple of hairs on the floor in Farrow's bedroom that clearly weren't his. Preliminary indications show the hairs were black, and belonged to a male. We may know more later on."
"Okay, Frank. Thanks for the update. You coming to Binion's tonight?"
"Maybe. It depends on how much we get done on this today."
I was going to tell him what Colby Farrow revealed to me about Olivera's scheme to tie up the land, the stadium, and the Marlins all in one neatly-wrapped bundle, with a pretty little ribbon around it. But I flinched. Madden had a point. Olivera had no clear motive. Killing Ryan Farrow would be a blow to his own efforts to put together the stadium deal, even though Colby had indicated he could carry on by himself and see it through to completion. As for Sandra, if she was helping Olivera in any way, doing her in would obviously be against his own best interests.
But it wouldn't require too much imagination to see how John Brendan Blake might want them both dead.
All this, plus the never-ending drive on the freeway, along with my lack of sleep, was wearing me out. After about another twenty minutes of battling the traffic, I finally arrived home. Inside, I turned up the heat and went straight to bed. Within thirty seconds, I was out.
14
I woke up at the brink of nightfall. After a little puttering around in my apartment, I decided to head down to Binion's. It had been awhile since I'd played poker, and I was itching to get back into action.
Walking into the poker room, I could see that the game I wanted, a small no-limit hold'em game, was in progress. Some of the usual suspects were in their seats, along with assorted tourists I'd never seen, as well as an Asian or two to stir up the action. One of the regulars had just gotten up from the game, so the floorman gave me his seat. I bought in for two hundred, and as I got myself situated, with my chips properly arranged in front of me, I started to focus on players and cards and tells, trying to purge my mind of shady land deals and murder.
Twenty minutes in, I beat Manny the Mexican out of a three hundred dollar pot, picking off his bluff with ace-queen high, when the seat on my right became vacant. Before I knew what was happening, Frank Madden was sitting in it.
"Looks like you're having a good night," he murmured, eyeing my skyline of five-dollar chips.
I held back a smile. "Could be worse."
And on the very next hand, it got worse. Much worse. I fell victim to a major-league bluff by Fong, one of the Asian players at the table. He took over half my chips and had completely outplayed me. It pissed me off.
I muttered under my breath, something to the effect of, "I've had it", as I got up from my chair to take a needed break, leaving my remaining chips on the table in front of my seat. I walked out of the poker room, while I saw Frank walking behind me. We went to the coffee shop.
It was crowded down there, jammed with customers, plates clattering, waitresses moving around, lots of noisy talk. You know, just the kind of place where you want to go and unwind. We were shown to a small booth.
Frank spoke first. "You made the right decision to fold, Jack. Don't forget that. He's gonna have queens full ninety-nine times out of a hundred. Don't beat yourself up over it."
I wanted to believe him, but I knew better. If I'd called him, I'd have won a thousand-dollar-plus pot.
The waitress took our order, two coffees. Just then, my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number on my caller ID.
"Hello."
"Barnett, it's Colby Farrow."
I sat up straight. "Yes, Colby. What's happening?"
"I can hardly hear you, it's so loud there. Where are you?"
I modulated my voice up a notch or two. "I'm in a crowded restaurant. What's up?"
"I thought you'd want to clear your appointment calendar for Thursday."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because Hector Olivera will be coming to town for the latter part of the week."
A jolt ran through me. I'm sure Frank saw it. I motioned to him for a pen. He pulled one out of his shirt pocket.
I said, "What time, and where is he staying?"
"If he comes on Wednesday, he'll be here around twelve-thirty. He's staying at the Venetian."
"What do you mean, if he comes on Wednesday?"
"He's on his way to Chicago right now for the Marlins series against the Cubs. Apparently, if the Cubs win tomorrow's game, it's all over for the Marlins. If the Marlins win, then he says there'll be another game on Wednesday night. And if that's the case, he'll stay for it and come on Thursday morning."
I jotted it all down on a napkin. "What's he doing here?"
"He's coming for Ryan's funeral, which is Thursday afternoon. Then on Friday, he'll be meeting with me and a rep from the California pension fund that's going to lend him the money for the downtown land. He won't miss that meeting, I promise you. He goes back to Miami Saturday. Or, to New York for the World Series if the Marlins win two from the Cubs."
"Thanks, Colby. Where's the funeral?"
He told me the name of the church and gave me the directions, while I scribbled it down. I flipped my phone shut, then handed Frank his pen, as the waitress brought our coffees.
"Colby Farrow?" he asked.
"Right. Olivera's coming to town. He'll be staying at the Ven —"
"Save it, Jack. There's nothing we want from him. As far as we're concerned, he's a respectable businessman in town representing his company, which is operating well within the law. If it even looks like we're harassing him or interfering with his business, we'd only be inviting trouble for ourselves."
He stirred cream into his coffee and took a sip. Too hot. Then, he shifted his big body in his seat, leaning halfway across the table toward me. His pale blue eyes darted around to make sure no one was listening. Finally, they burned into mine, and he said in a hushed tone, "However … if, uh, if you wanted to go nosing around, we won't get in your way."
I threw him a knowing nod, pulling my coffee cup up to my lips. Before it could get there, he put a firm hand on my arm, nearly spilling the coffee into my lap. He said, "Of course, if you should happen to find out anything, you'll come straight to me with it. Right?"
"Right, Frank. Straight to you."
I took a drink of my coffee. It was just right.
15
I took the next day off. There was a lot of personal business that had piled up on me which I had to attend to. Bills, a quick run to the supermarket, a minor repair on my car, and other little shit like that.
Worst of all was a dreaded trip to the Post Office. Something about going there just depresses me, you know what I mean? Like it spreads a black cloud over my whole day. I think it's the certain knowledge that no matter what time of day I arrive, there will be a long, long line waiting in front of eight windows, of which only two will be manned. What's more, of those two working windows, one will invariably be tied up for forty-five minutes by someone who doesn't speak good English, with an armload of packages and a request for a dozen money orders, each for odd amounts, to be sent to forbidden places like Libya and Iran.
I'd much rather go to the
dentist.
Anyway, despite the blow of losing that big hand to Fong at Binion's, I did manage to recover later in the night and I wound up winning a couple of hundred, so I used that to take care of some of these little items on my agenda.
Plus, I still had Blake's ten dimes, or most of it anyway. But so far, I had only spent that money on expenses directly related to the case. Not only that, after getting sapped at Ryan Farrow's house and waking up with it still in my pocket, I decided not to push my luck and carry it around with me anymore, so I kept most of it hidden in my apartment from that night forward. Whatever was left over after this case was finished, plus the additional twelve-five Blake would owe me for finding Sandra's killer and for holding the wine, I was going to put away in some kind of investment.
I didn't know shit about that kind of thing, but I had a line on an investment counselor, I think they call them, who could steer me in the right direction. I was tired of living off the cash in my pocket, tired of not having anything put back for my future, you know, because when I get there, there won't be any pension or any kind of retirement package waiting for me.
That was how it was in PI work, and that's how it is in the poker world.
I was due to turn thirty-seven in January, and even though my retirement was still quite a ways off, I was getting a little nervous just thinking about it. I didn't want to eat up the years between now and then diddling around with no preparations.
Back in February, I gave back over eighty-five grand to Blake, which was actually his money to begin with. I got it under unusual circumstances, which I won't go into here, but suffice it to say I could've kept it without his ever knowing. I don't really regret giving it back to him, because I know it was the right thing to do, but now, with the anxieties I've been feeling lately concerning my future, well, I just don't know. It damn sure would've provided me a nice nest egg.
So, this money Blake was paying me to find Sandra's killer was sailing straight into my retirement fund. I wasn't exactly wild about doing PI work again — I really wanted to put all that behind me — but I decided that if any of these other odd jobs came my way for money I couldn't refuse, said money would go toward my future.