by Mike Dennis
I was about to ask him something else, but he beat me to it. "Now I have a question for you, Jack. Do you know where the wine is?" Without losing his winning smile, his wide black eyes narrowed now, until all that was visible were dark, gleaming slits.
I felt like a wide receiver who's just caught a long pass, with nothing but daylight between him and the end zone, and then is suddenly tackled from behind. I tried not to show my surprise, but I'm sure I failed. Olivera's eyes were too sharp, too perceptive to slide that one by him.
"The answer is no. But the bigger question is, why would you think I know where it is?"
"You prevented Ryan Farrow from picking it up at Sandra's house. And it is not there now."
I polished off the remaining Scotch in my glass. "I didn't know the Farrows at the time, but I knew neither one of them lived there. They could've been thieves, burglars."
"But they identified themselves to you, didn't they?"
"Yes, eventually. But I didn't think it was right to let them take things out of a house where a murder had been committed just a short time before."
"You didn't realize they were only trying to rescue the wine? To keep it from being stolen? To put it in a safe place?"
"You mean like maybe a nice, safe little spot in Miami?"
"Very funny, Jack. You know what I mean."
I'd had about all of this I could take. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Now listen, I didn't know anything about that wine. All I know about it is what you just told me. I did know, however, that it didn't belong to the Farrows, and I wasn't going to let them take it or anything else out of that house." Calzado suddenly turned his attention away from the window. He moved a little forward in the loveseat, like a cat about to spring. I kept him in my peripheral vision.
"And you did not take it?"
I waved that one off.
Olivera said, "You are certain."
"Why would I take it? Like I said, I didn't know about its value, or anything else until just now. So I left it there, with the rest of Sandra Blake's belongings. For that matter, Blake might have it at his house. It did belong to him, you know. Or maybe the police took it as some sort of evidence or something." I didn't like having the tables turned on me like this, so I shot back, "And speaking of Sandra Blake, did she know about all of this? Did you happen to tell her that the wine was so valuable?"
A knock at the door signaled the arrival of their lunch. Calzado rose and opened the door. The white-jacketed room service guy wheeled the cart over to a table across the room, which he began to set up as a dining table. This took a few minutes, during which time, Olivera remained silent. When it was all done, Calzado signed for it, and the guy left. Olivera sprang up from the couch.
"Jack, I am afraid we must end our meeting. Our lunch has arrived, and I must meet with the mayor in less than two hours."
He held out his hand. What could I do but reluctantly shake it and leave?
20
I went back home and researched the wine on the Internet. It was just like Olivera had said, extremely rare and coveted by collectors, who had no trouble calling it the top wine of the twentieth century, if not of all time. One website actually had a photo of a 1945 bottle. The standard label was there, but above it was a smaller, added label with a "V", presumably for victory, in its center, along with some French words. That thin piece of printed paper, not even original art, was part of what got Olivera and so many others all worked up over this stuff. I didn't get it at all.
I put it all aside, took a nap, then left around nine-thirty for the Bootlegger to see Martine. When she finished, I followed her to her apartment, where we relaxed over a couple of drinks in the dim light of her living room. Irma Thomas music drifted around softly in the background. My sip of Dalmore warmed my insides as it slid down my throat. Martine nestled into the crook of my arm around her shoulder. At long last, the world was as it was supposed to be.
After a lot of quiet talk about how well we were getting along, as well as how we might spend tomorrow afternoon, she eventually said, without looking up at me, "So, honey, have you figured out who killed Sandra yet?"
I don't know about you, but when a girl starts calling me "honey" early in a relationship, I get nervous. This wasn't the first time the word had slipped her lips, but it made me think of what I was getting into here. You know, those kinds of cutesy names are always a sign that the relationship is heading straight into more serious, and often uncharted, territory.
Not that I didn't want it to go there, mind you, it's just that I wasn't altogether used to this kind of affection from a woman, especially one who appeared to have her shit so together. I think I liked it, but I just needed more time with it.
"Not yet," I replied. "But tell me, are you sure you don't remember anything about Sandra having a case of fancy French wine lying around?"
"I remember you asking me that before. No, I don't think she ever mentioned it. Why do you keep asking about it?"
"It's somehow involved in this whole thing. People want it and it looks like they may be willing to do anything to get their hands on it."
Finally, she lifted her head up to look at me. Brushing away hair from her eyes, she said, "You don't think she was killed over that wine, do you?"
"Probably not. If she was, the killer would've taken it right after he shot her. It was still there two days later. The Farrows were trying to remove it from her house, did you know that?"
"They were? No, I didn't know. They were actually in her house the next day?"
"No, not the next day. The police were there then. But the day after, when the police had cleared out." I heard the wind picking up outside over Irma Thomas' soulful crooning.
"I never cared for either of those Farrow brothers," she said, sipping her wine and settling back into cuddling position. "I told her I didn't think Ryan was right for her. He was … I don't know … just not right."
"What do you mean, 'not right'?"
"Oh, he used to like to flaunt all of his money all over town, you know? Sandra had money, too. Well, when she was married to John, of course, but even afterwards. She made a lot of money selling those condos at Silverstone. You know how big real estate is in this town."
I nodded.
She continued, "Sandra and John, neither one of them ever tried to impress anyone with how much they had. Especially John. He never talked about his wealth around other people. But Ryan was always trying to do that."
"Like how?"
"Like she and Ryan would go out someplace, to one of his friends' fancy parties or somewhere, and Ryan would start talking about how he made two million at this or three million at that. Sandra told me he did that kind of stuff all the time. It was just disgusting."
"Did you ever try to get her to break up with him?"
She chuckled a couple of times. "Only every chance I could. I thought if she left him, she could find a decent guy who would be right for her."
"But she didn't pay you any mind?"
"Not really. She liked Ryan. Thought he was a little brash at times, but he was of 'her standing', as she put it."
"Her standing?"
"Yeah, you know, rich, like her. John was rich, too, only a lot nicer guy than Ryan. Much more real. He really knew how to treat a woman."
"Why did she and John split up?"
"She caught him cheating on her."
My eyebrows lifted for a moment. "Really? With whom?"
"I don't know for sure, but she said it was with some woman from California. LA, I think. He had some deal going over there, and he had to travel there quite often. I guess that's how it got started. Anyway, Sandra found text messages on his cell, so she hired a computer expert to do a forensic check on his email, and she uncovered a bunch of steamy exchanges from California that he thought he had deleted. From there, it was all over."
"Text messages?" My mind went back to the messages I saw on Blake's cell phone. As I remembered it, they were sent to and from "Netty" during this past spri
ng and summer. "When did those take place?"
"You mean, when were they sending them to each other?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, I'd say a little over a year ago. They divorced a year ago this month, and the proceedings took a couple of months, so I'd say the messages were from-m-m … the summer before last. The summer of '02."
So Blake had not one, but two series of hot text messages. One from Netty and one from some babe from LA. I filed it away.
"Do you know who she was? I mean, her name?"
"No. Just that she was from California."
"Sounds like a pretty rough breakup. That's not how Blake remembers it."
"What, did he tell you something different?"
"Well, not exactly. He just said they had a more or less amicable divorce."
"Once the divorce got going, it wasn't too bad. John was heartbroken over it, though. He knew he'd done wrong, made a really stupid mistake, and it cost him the love of his life. He didn't really put up a fight during the proceedings. Also, Sandra didn’t want to crucify him, either. Remember, she loved him, too, and she was just as heartbroken, if not more. They both just kind of wept and signed the agreement without too much fuss."
Irma Thomas finished her set on the CD player. Martine got up and put on Sally Townes. As her soft blues glided out into the living room, Martine poured herself another Merlot. I nodded to another taste of the Dalmore. She brought it and curled back up next to me. Her snuggling figure felt good.
"Did Sandra ever tell you she regretted leaving him?" I asked.
"She never really told me as much, you know, but I don't think she did. There were times when she could've helped him in his business, and other things."
"Helped him in his business? Like how?"
"Oh … um, I don't know exactly. But I remember her telling me she could've done a thing or two for him, but didn't." She put her wineglass on the coffee table, then threw both arms around me. With her lips inches from mine, she drilled her big brown eyes into me and whispered, "But right now, I can do a thing or two for you. How about it?"
And that was the end of that conversation.
21
My cell phone rang at some ungodly hour of the next morning, waking both of us from a very deep, very peaceful sleep. Martine grabbed it from the nightstand, then awkwardly shoved it at me as it kept ringing. Unable to bring the caller ID into focus, I flipped it open, wondering who in the hell would be calling me at this hour on a Saturday morning.
"Mr Barnett," said a somewhat familiar accented voice coming from far away in the universe. "This is Khalil Aziz. From Silverstone Towers."
I shook some cobwebs from my brain, trying to enter the land of the living so I could speak with Sandra Blake's former employer. "Yes. Yes, Mr Aziz. What can I do for you?"
"I am so sorry to disturb you at this early hour, but I have someone coming in to my office in just a little while who wants very much to speak with you."
"Who is it?"
"I could tell you his name, but you would not know it. He is a very important person, however."
"What does he want to see me about?"
"I'm afraid I do not know. But he was most insistent about meeting with you. I would imagine it concerns Sandra's death."
I rolled over onto my back. "What time are we talking about?"
"Shall we say, eight o'clock?"
"You mean this morning?"
He chuckled. "Yes, of course. This morning."
"No, we shall not say eight o'clock. It'll have to be later."
Impatience moved into his voice. "Eight-fifteen. At the latest."
Sounded like that was as good as it was going to get. "All right. Eight-fifteen. At your office?"
"Yes."
"I'll be there."
I finally opened my eyes. Martine rolled over to face me. "Who was that?" she asked.
"The messenger of the No-Sleep God," I mumbled. "What the hell time is it?"
She looked back at the clock. "Quarter of seven."
"Oh, shit." I threw the covers off. "All right, I've got to go down to Silverstone's offices."
I staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, where I took a shower. It didn't go very far toward waking me up. I was still dragging as I stepped out to dry myself. Even after I got dressed, I wasn't fully conscious, but once I put some coffee on, the aroma shoved me into a higher gear.
I skimmed the newspaper as I poured the hot, dark liquid down my throat. During a press conference yesterday afternoon, Mayor Niekamp tried to drop a subtle hint about the new stadium, mentioning during an answer to an unrelated question that an "unprecedented first for Las Vegas" would soon be announced.
She implied that major construction was involved, and that the land package was "virtually complete". The hint landed with a loud boom, and the paper blew it up big. No names were named, but conjecture swirled all through the story as to what this monumental event might be, and what it would mean for Las Vegas. No mention was made of baseball or a stadium. According to the story, the press conference took place at around five in the afternoon, which would likely have put it after her huddle with Olivera. I wondered if some new bombshell was dropped at that meeting. Meanwhile, the mayor's smile in the accompanying photo showed her trademark confidence.
Elsewhere in the paper, the Yankees were heavy favorites over the Marlins in Game One of the World Series, which started tonight in New York. I made a mental note to watch the game on TV.
≈≈≈
I arrived at Aziz's office at eight-twenty, in no mood for any lectures on punctuality. For dragging me out of bed with Martine, he was lucky I came at all at this ridiculous hour. The big glass front door was locked. I knocked, and momentarily, he emerged from somewhere to let me in.
"Mr Barnett, thank you so much for coming at what I am sure is a most inconvenient hour. Please be assured I would not have asked you here if it were not in everyone's best interests, including yours."
I never like it when someone tells me what my best interests are. That's something I think I can figure out all by myself, using my own limited powers of reasoning. So when I hear this kind of talk, my guard shoots up, as it did just then.
He escorted me back to a conference room adjacent to his corner office. It was decent-sized, with a large, rectangular, marble-topped table at its center, surrounded by about eight or ten comfortable-looking chairs. The picture window offered a view of the traffic on that end of Las Vegas Boulevard, and a good look at a pornographic bookstore and a small Romanian restaurant across the street. What really got my attention, though, was the very large, very well-dressed black guy sitting at the head of the table.
"Mr Barnett," Aziz said, "this is Mr Black. I will leave you two alone to discuss your business."
"Mr Black" stood up to shake my hand. "Mr Barnett, I'm pleased to meet you." He was around six-four, maybe two-forty, with very broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist. Solid African features dominated his wide, black-brown face. His dark blue suit looked custom-tailored, probably costing around four or five grand. His off-white shirt was probably a custom job, too. The fact was, his size and shape alone made it damn near impossible to get good clothes off the rack.
We shook hands, and his grip engulfed mine completely. I felt he could've broken every bone in my hand just by squeezing it hard enough.
"Mr Black," I said. "The pleasure is mine."
He offered me the first seat to the right of his chairman's position. I took it and he opened.
"Mr Barnett, I understand you are looking into the killing of Sandra Blake, is that true?"
His voice was clear and deep, almost at bass level, and extremely low-key, but I couldn't place his accent. He definitely was educated, not from the streets, maybe not even American. Possibly Caribbean. My ear remained open.
"Yes, I am," I replied.
"I also understand that your investigation has led you into a sort of quicksand involving competitors in the real estate arena, yes?"
&
nbsp; "Right again. But wait a min —"
"And each of these elements are pursuing their own plan for the construction of a new baseball stadium, with the hope of bringing a big league team here?" He spoke quietly, in eerily level tones.
I said, "What business is this of yours? Who are you? Do you work for Aziz?"
He briefly smiled, then said, "You must forgive me for not clarifying my position here, Mr Barnett. No, I do not work for Mr Aziz. I represent local gaming interests."
The accent was definitely Caribbean-formal, but sounded like he'd been in the states for awhile, losing a lot of it.
"Gaming interests?"
"Yes."
He kept his hands folded in front of him the entire time, only occasionally gesturing slightly with his right hand to punctuate a word.
"Like who?" I asked.
"Those who are intimately connected to the gaming industry here in Las Vegas."
"Who? Wynn? Adelson? Kerkorian? Who?"
"Ahh, names. Names are not important. What is important is that you understand what is good for gaming is good for Las Vegas. You do understand that, do you not?"
"You're doing the talking."
"But before I do any more talking," he said, "I must have your assurance that you understand this critical concept."
"Okay, okay, I understand it. Now, what's your point?"
"My point is that there will be no new venue built in Las Vegas to accommodate Major League Baseball, the NFL, or any other big league sporting activity."
"Who says?"
"It would not be good for gaming, Mr Barnett, so therefore, as you have just agreed, not good for Las Vegas."
I said, "Well, that's your opinion."
"Not just my opinion, but the opinion of certain local gaming interests. They have a rather large stake in the well-being of this city. And the presence of a baseball team would definitely … how shall I say it? … cast a negative glow over that well-being." He spread both his hands out as if to draw a picture of a negative glow. I got it.
"Don't you mean that the presence of thirty or forty thousand people sitting in a stadium eighty-one nights a year, rather than gambling their lives away in a casino, would cast a negative glow over the casinos' bottom line?"