by Mike Dennis
I poured a Dalmore and turned on the TV. The Yankees had won their game earlier against Boston, earning their ticket to the World Series, so I picked up the middle innings of the Cubs-Marlins game in Chicago. According to the announcers, the Cubs were the "team of destiny", absolutely predetermined to go on to the World Series, where they would vanquish the evil Yankees for their first championship in nearly a hundred years, blah, blah, blah. Being a Yankee fan, I didn't really care for that kind of cheerleading from guys who were paid to be impartial, but I watched the game anyway.
By the top of the eighth inning, the Cubs were winning 3-0 and seemed to have everything well under control, being just a few outs away from their long-awaited trip to the World Series, so I turned the channel to a movie.
≈≈≈
I called Colby Farrow first thing the next morning, trying him at work first. I was surprised to find him there, given that his brother's funeral was scheduled for the following day. He'd been pretty cooperative during our little meeting the other day at Ryan's house, despite having just learned of the murder, so I thought I'd try pushing him a little further.
"Colby, Jack Barnett."
"Yes, what can I do for you."
"I need to know whatever you can tell me about Sandra Blake and Hector Olivera. How were they connected?" While I was talking with him, I maneuvered around my kitchen, making coffee with the phone between my cheek and my shoulder.
"They weren't, really. Or not directly, anyway. Ryan dated Sandra, as you know, and he and I were putting together the money for Olivera. Like I told you, forty-three million for his buyout of Blake, and then another four hundred million for the stadium construction."
"Didn't you say that stadium loan was all set?"
"Just about. I've got a group of real estate investment trusts in the northeast who are looking favorably on the stadium project. Provided, of course, that Olivera can put all the land together."
I took that all in. Colby was apparently preparing for a big payday once he got all this dough in place.
I said, "Okay, so what about Sandra? There must've been some kind of link between her and Olivera."
"Why do you say that?"
I wasn't about to let him know that Olivera had told me he and Sandra were working together on something, so I said, "I'm just trying to get a clear picture of everything here. It's still pretty foggy. You were right there in the middle of it all, so I figured you could help me sort the whole thing out." After a little effort, I finally got the coffee on. Then I got some bread to make toast.
He said, "Well, there was no link."
"You sure? I mean, I found his business card in her bedroom." I figured I could let that much out and see where it got me.
"You what?"
Bread into the toaster, nice and easy now. "Hector Olivera's card was in her bedroom. Now, what was it doing there?"
The line fell silent. I let him take that around the block a time or two.
Then, he said, "I knew she sold him a condo some time back, around last Christmas I think it was. While he was in town for that, she introduced him to Ryan one day. He and Ryan kind of hit it off, and pretty soon they were talking about sizeable loans. Then I came into it, mentioning that I'd developed a connection with the big pension fund in California. That's when he started the wheels turning for his land-for-stadium scheme. But … but as far as I knew, that was all she had to do with Olivera. You know, selling him the condo and introducing him to Ryan."
"I think there was more to it than that." Get the blueberry preserves from the fridge.
He hesitated again before saying, "You're not suggesting that … that there was anything going on between them, are you? Or that Olivera had anything to do with killing my brother?"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm only trying to find out what the story is here. I just want to get the names and numbers straight." Cup, saucer, plate. Put them on the table.
"Look here, Barnett, if you're trying to hang this on Olivera when Blake is probably who you're looking for —"
"Keep your shirt on, Colby. I'm not trying to hang anything on anybody. But you've got to understand, I have to pursue every lead that comes my way. Now, I found a connection between Sandra and Olivera. So I have to check it out. But if there's nothing to it, well, that'll probably lead me right back to Blake."
"Well … all right."
"Now, I want you to think hard. If you can remember any other time when Olivera might have seen Sandra, or even mentioned her name in one of your meetings with him, I need you to tell me, okay?"
"Okay," he sighed.
"Remember, I'm on your side here. I want justice for your brother, and for Sandra Blake, just as much as you do. Let me know if you can think of anything." I hung up.
I glanced at the paper. The sports section screamed out at me. Last night, the Marlins pulled off a miraculous late-inning rally, beginning the moment after I turned the channel. After trailing 3-0 with the game nearly over, they wound up winning 8-3, forcing a seventh game in Chicago tonight. I was letting that run around inside my mind, when I heard a sound from the kitchen.
Presto! The coffee was ready at the very moment the toast popped up. Do I know what I'm doing or what!
16
On Wednesday night, the Marlins completed their improbable comeback, winning 9-6, and sending the Cubs reeling into another winter of frustration and futility. The Marlins would now head to New York to face the Yankees for Saturday night's opening of the World Series. Olivera would no doubt be in attendance, so I knew I had a very limited window of opportunity to see him here in Las Vegas.
I called Colby Farrow to tell him I would be at his brother's funeral on Thursday afternoon. He said Olivera and his cousin would be there, but he asked if I would at least wait till the funeral was over to approach them, when he would drop the two of them at the Venetian. I agreed. He repeated the directions to the church.
≈≈≈
The funeral was a long, drawn-out affair, but I exited a few minutes early to stake out an observation point outside, enabling my first look at the man from Miami as he stepped out of the church.
Within minutes, he came out and brushed by me in his black topcoat. He was everything his photo had promised: handsome, self-assured, and charismatic. Especially when compared to the pasty Colby on his right. The third man with them, obviously Hispanic, was probably the cousin, as Colby had mentioned. He wasn't nearly as good-looking as Olivera, but he wore what looked like a similar designer topcoat. The valet brought Colby's Jaguar, and they all entered it.
The wind was really picking up under thick clouds, sending a chill right into my bones, so I hustled back to my car, hands in pockets, and made the trip down to Las Vegas Boulevard and the Venetian Hotel.
Reluctantly, I valeted my car. The Venetian was notorious for a poorly-organized valet system designed to keep you waiting forever when you pick up your car. But I didn't want to miss Olivera's arrival. It was a good thing, too, because only about three or four minutes later, not nearly enough time for me to self-park in their distant garage and rush back to the front, Colby's car pulled up, as Olivera and his companion stepped out. They said goodbye to Colby, heading straight for the front door. I let them get inside.
As they moved into the breathtaking, high-ceilinged lobby, I came up from behind them, around to their left.
"Mr Olivera," I said, once I got into their line of sight.
They stopped to look me over. I was obviously not connected with the Venetian. Olivera said, "Yes?"
"Mr Olivera, I'm Jack Barnett. I spoke with you by phone about a week ago. I'm a private investigator."
A smile leaped out onto his face. His dark eyes sprang to attention, or at least, it looked like they did. "Yes, Mr Barnett." He held his hand out. I gave him mine and we shook. "What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to speak with you for a moment if I could." This close and in the ambient light of the Venetian lobby, I could see his topcoat was not black, but
rather a deep violet, most likely cashmere. I wanted to touch it, to run my palm over its sensuous surface. It occurred to me he probably looked forward to wearing it today, since he didn't get to do it too often in Miami.
"Ah, Mr Barnett, we are very busy. We are here for a very short time, and we —"
"Yes, I know you're busy. But if you could just give me a minute. It concerns Sandra Blake. Like I told you, I'm investigating her death, and I know you're anxious to find her killer."
He continued walking past me. I kept up, staying abreast of him.
He said, "I'm sorry, Mr Barnett, our time is very limited. We cannot —"
"I also know of your desire to put together a parcel of land downtown, the majority of which you want to buy from John Brendan Blake. And on this land, you want to build a stadium for the future Las Vegas Marlins."
He stopped walking. Turning to face me directly, he said, "All right, Mr Barnett. Let's go into this lounge right over here. It's quiet and we can have one drink. One drink." He held up an index finger, while he eyed me carefully.
"Of course. One drink."
The lounge was quiet, all right. Dim, unobtrusive lighting made it practically invisible from the casino floor. As we took seats in comfortable leather chairs around a small, round cocktail table, it was clear we were the only customers. A grand piano sat unattended off to one side. The bowtied bartender carefully arranged the gleaming bottles on his back bar. A gorgeous waitress descended on us immediately. I ordered a Dalmore, while Olivera and his cousin each had a Johnnie Walker Black.
I turned to Olivera's cousin. "Jack Barnett," I said, sticking my hand out to him.
Olivera spoke up immediately. "Oh, please forgive me, Mr Barnett, for not introducing you. This is my cousin, Marco Antonio Calzado."
"Mr Calzado, pleased to meet you," as we shook hands. Solid black eyes like hard little marbles looked straight into mine. He tossed me a chilly nod.
"Now," Olivera said, "what is on your mind?"
"First of all, let me congratulate you on the Marlins' great victory in Chicago last night. I understand you were there."
He lit up. When he did this, his face took on a movie-star quality, all flashing eyes and high cheekbones and white teeth. "What a great playoff! I knew all along we were going to win. And we are going to defeat the Yankees in the World Series!"
I caught a glimmer of a smile from Calzado, his first emotion since our meeting.
Then he said, "You wait. When we get to New York, we are going to shock the baseball world."
I didn't want to tell him that he would be the one on the receiving end of any shocks. The Yankees were fielding one of their best teams ever, and were a prohibitive favorite to roll over the upstart nobodies from Miami.
I said, "Well, that kind of leads me right into what I wanted to talk about." Olivera cooled off immediately, sipping his Scotch and going straight into no-nonsense mode. I set my drink down and said, "I need to know the exact nature of your connection to Sandra Blake. Did it have anything to do with your participation in the ownership of the Marlins?"
His eyebrows shot up for a brief moment, telling me I had caught him by surprise with my knowledge of his hidden ownership in the team. I let him take a moment to drink from his Johnnie Walker and regroup. He and Calzado had a brief exchange in Spanish, then he put on a smile.
"My compliments, Mr Barnett. You are very thorough. If you are ever in Miami looking for work, I would be pleased to hire you."
I smiled back at him, chuckling to myself. Blake had made me the same offer after I gave him back his eighty-five dimes in February.
"However," he continued, "I am afraid this is all very personal, very confidential, and does not concern you."
"With all due respect, Mr Olivera, it does concern me. I'm investigating her death. Now, I know you were connected to her. I know you bought your condo at Silverstone from her. I know you spoke to her by phone many times before she died. Even quite a few times late at night."
Calzado pushed his chest forward, then finally spoke in a guttural voice. "Hector say this not your business." His English was not nearly as proficient as Olivera's, being far more heavily-accented.
My eyes slid over toward his. "Well, Mr Calzado … I say it is my business." We exchanged hostile glares. I sipped from my Dalmore, never taking my eyes off him.
Olivera broke in: "Mr Barnett — may I call you Jack? —" I nodded, still looking straight at Calzado. "Jack, of course I want to know who committed this ugly deed, who killed this beautiful woman. But my relationship with her was private. You must understand."
I turned my eyes back to Olivera. "I do. But you must understand anything you tell me is confidential. I'm required to keep it that way. I'm a licensed private investigator, not from the media. I'm not going to splash anything in the newspapers. I have no personal interest in any of it. It's only business. All I want to do is find Sandra's killer. I just need certain information, and you have it. Now, won't you please help me?"
He tried that on for size, thinking for a minute. Then, he said, "This is confidential?"
"Absolutely."
Calzado then spoke to him in rapid Spanish, and Olivera replied, before turning back to me. "I must have your promise." He looked straight at me.
"You have it." I drank some Scotch.
He took a breath. "When I bought the condominium from Sandra, she introduced me to Ryan Farrow. You know, of course, that he was a mortgage banker?" I nodded and he continued: "Sandra was working with me — and with Ryan — to persuade Mr Blake to sell me his property in that area."
"Persuade Blake? She was divorced from him. And she was dating Ryan Farrow, who Blake hated."
"Yes, yes, I know. But she was very confident that she could get Mr Blake to sell."
"How could she be so sure? Was she holding something over his head?"
"No, nothing like that. There was no — what is the word? — blackmail involved." He drank again from his Scotch. I could see by what was left in his glass that we were one more sip from ending the meeting.
"Well, what was it, then? Why did she think Blake would sell the land to you?"
"Even though they were divorced, they were still on good terms with each other. They had high respect for each other's ability in the real estate arena. She had his trust and she intended to capitalize on it."
"And do you think Blake will sell to you?"
"You already know, Jack, that I intend to build the stadium on that land, once I acquire it. The Farrows were working on the financing, and now Colby has arranged a meeting tomorrow morning between me and some very important lenders. At this meeting, I expect to finalize, in principle, the terms of the loan for the downtown land."
"From what I hear around town," I said, "that land would currently be worth somewhere north of forty million dollars."
"That is right. In addition, I am meeting with the mayor tomorrow afternoon to discuss the city's participation in the stadium project. You may also already know that Blake has no interest in constructing the stadium. He feels it would be too speculative. So he was just going to sell the entire parcel of land at a handsome profit to a local developer, who would then, supposedly, take my place and build the stadium himself."
"Keep going."
"On the other hand, I was prepared to pay Blake considerably more for the land than the local developer would pay him."
"And why would you want to do that?"
He puffed his chest out a little and said, "To build the stadium. To bring the Marlins to Las Vegas!"
"Mr Olivera, two people are dead. Murdered. Did they die so you can bring the Marlins here?"
"Jack, come on. That sounds like you think I was involved."
"You're heavily involved in the back-and-forth of this land deal and it's looking more and more like the deaths of Sandra Blake and Ryan Farrow were somehow connected to it."
He gave off a slight smile and shook his head once, dismissing the possibility of his involvement. "
I don't want anyone dead, Jack. All I want is to buy Blake's land so the team can move here."
"And Blake wants to sell locally for the same purpose."
"Yes. And if that happened, I would be very reluctant to try and convince Mrs Wiltenauer to move the team here. You see, because I am part owner of the team, through one of my companies, I would be able to offer her a very favorable stadium deal, which is something the local developer could not do, because he can only get his profit out of the stadium and not the team. Are you hearing me?"
"In Dolby Stereo. In other words," I said, "if you don't get the land, there will be no stadium because the Marlins aren't going to move here."
He smiled. "You understand everything, Jack." He picked up his drink and added, "And Sandra was working to persuade Blake to sell to me in order to ensure that the Marlins move to this great city."
I swirled the whiskey around in my glass. "Also, I would imagine, to ensure a bigger cut for herself. If you're willing to pay Blake more than the local developer will pay him, and if Sandra gets Blake to accept, then her piece for brokering the deal is that much bigger, right?"
"Well, since you put it that way … yes."
"And you were probably going to give her a little taste yourself, right? So she could collect on both ends."
He bit his lip. "Yes, that is true."
"Did you have any … any … more personal connection to Sandra Blake?"
A trace of a tight grin briefly brushed across his face, then disappeared. He drained his drink, stood up, and said, "Jack, I'm sorry, but we must go. We have a lot to do. We have to prepare for tomorrow's meetings."
I didn't want to leave right then, because we were just getting to the good part, the part that might tie it all up. Olivera, however, made it plain the meeting was over. We shook hands all around, but Calzado hadn't lost the hostility in his eyes.