by Mike Dennis
"Calm down, Jack," Madden said. "I mean it. You too, Nick."
His hard gaze told me he wasn't kidding. I nodded at him. Bolino backed off as well.
Madden said, "Can we link these two to Olivera?"
"Maybe, but I doubt it," I replied. "He's pretty well insulated. But if you'll check their DNA against that hair you found in Ryan Farrow's bedroom, you'll probably get a match from one of them. Also, I would imagine one of their weapons will match up in a ballistics test against the bullet that killed Farrow."
Madden was writing things down in his notebook, and I continued. "In my opinion, Olivera was definitely behind the Ryan Farrow hit. You'll probably never tie him to it, though. He was upset over Farrow's failure to 'rescue' the wine from Sandra Blake's house. But what I think really set him off, was learning that Sandra had gone over to helping Blake in their deal for that downtown land. Olivera really wants all that land, the whole sixty acres, but when he learned that Sandra had switched to Blake's team, he likely figured Ryan would follow, taking the forty-three million dollar loan with him. Killing him sent the message to Colby, and Colby got it. He went ahead and nailed down the loan for Olivera. He was the one who had developed the connection to the money people anyway, not Ryan."
Madden turned to Bolino. "Call headquarters, Nick. Get the Crime Scene Analysts over here on the double." Bolino pulled out his cell phone to make the call. Through my curtain, I could make out the synchronized flashing of red lights approaching outside. Madden then said to me: "Here comes the ambulance now. Let's get you to a hospital and get you patched up."
As Bolino rang headquarters on his cell phone, Madden leaned into me and whispered, "Good work, Jack."
31
They pulled the slug out of my shoulder in the emergency room of Sunrise Hospital, and I was released from the hospital the next day with my arm in a sling and painkillers in my system. I didn't have any insurance, so I had them call Blake. He drove down and guaranteed payment for their services. He gave them a credit card, or filled out paperwork or something, I didn't really see. That seemed to satisfy them, though, so he and I left at around five in the afternoon. He gave me a lift home.
On the way, he said, "Were either of those two thugs the one who killed Sandra?"
"I don't think so. I could be wrong, but I don't believe so."
"Well, who did?"
"I can't say right now, but I'll know more tomorrow."
"That's good. Because Olivera's coming back to town tomorrow or the next day. If the World Series ends tonight, he's getting on a plane for Las Vegas tomorrow morning. I want to meet him at your apartment."
"My apartment? What the hell for?"
"We're going to resolve this whole question of the land, as well as the wine. I've faxed him some papers, he signed them, and faxed them back. And I want you there, in case you have to produce the wine, which I'm pretty sure you will have to do. I don't want this meeting to take place in my office."
"Isn't this kind of … unorthodox?"
He looked at me. "Jack, there hasn't been anything about this whole affair that you could call 'orthodox'. This will just be the final chapter of this long, drawn-out nightmare. So how about it? Your apartment, tomorrow, say around four o'clock?"
I thought for a moment. I put it all together in my mind, then said, "Four o'clock sharp. I'll be there."
Pretty soon, he dropped me off. I rushed into my bloodstained apartment and turned on the TV to game six of the World Series. While the game was on, I picked up the overturned furniture and cleaned the place up as best I could with one hand. I didn't get far. It was obvious I was going to need more reliable help for this job.
I eventually gave up on it, poured myself a Dalmore, which I could easily do with one hand, and settled in to watch the game.
I sat there, staring in complete disbelief, as the Marlins handled the Yankees with ease, 2-0, winning the World Series, four games to two, becoming the champions of all baseball.
≈≈≈
The next day, Sunday, I slept late. It took me a long time to take a shower and get dressed. Just try doing all that with one arm out of commission and while pain is shooting through your entire body.
Hours later, when I was finally together, I called Martine. I gave her a brief version of the events, emphasizing the fact that I was basically all right, but that my arm was in a sling. She came rushing over immediately. It was about two o'clock when she arrived.
She stepped into my apartment. As soon as she saw me, she gasped, then gave me an extra-gentle hug. Looking around in horror, noticing the general disorder, along with the remaining bloodstains on the carpet and on the furniture, she wanted to know everything that happened. I gave myself permission to pour a double Dalmore, then I returned to the living room. We took a seat on the couch. I gave her the same detailed story I gave Madden, including the fact that I didn't know who my saviors were.
"So these guys just happened along?" she said. "They just happened along and happened to be carrying guns?"
"That's right."
"Were they connected with the Cubans in any way?"
"Not that I know of. They weren't Cuban, I know that much." I finally took a good look at her. She wore a loose, white Mirage sweatshirt and tight jeans. The white of the sweatshirt combined with her pale complexion to set off a extra-dramatic contrast with her dark hair and eyes. The look was perfect for her.
She said, "So that's why you weren't home when I tried to call you the last couple of nights? I was pretty worried, you know."
"That's why, Martine." I paused for a long taste of the Dalmore, then said, "Or should I call you Netty?"
"What?" Her hand slipped off my good shoulder into her lap.
"Netty. Just like Blake used to call you when you dated him, right?"
"H-how — how do you —"
"How do I know about it? The other night, when you got broken into, I got a look at your driver's license after you showed it to Madden. Your middle name is Annette. That and a couple of other things pointed to it. But the real question is, why did you not tell me you used to date him? Got an answer?"
"I — I just didn't think it —"
"You didn't think it mattered? Am I right?"
She nodded once, not looking me in the eye.
I said, "You still love him, don't you."
She couldn't bring herself to nod. That would be like saying it out loud, something she got very good at not doing. Instead, the corners of her mouth started to slide downward. I knew the tears weren't far behind.
Then I said, "But it was a one-way street, wasn't it?" I didn't give her time to answer. "Blake already knew you from before his divorce. You were attractive, convenient, there was never any thought of commitment on his part, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't make him love you. After a few months of his late night visits and gooey text messaging, your one-way street became a dead end."
"He loved me. In his own way, he loved me." The first tears found their way out of her beautiful brown eyes, beginning their long tumble down her face.
"In his own way, he loved you. Right. Women have been clinging to that fantasy ever since apes jumped out of trees and stood up straight." Her head turned quickly as she started to look away, toward the window. "So you changed your cell phone number without telling him, hoping that if he tried to call you and got the 'no longer in service' recording, he might come out to the Bootlegger to see if you were all right. But that didn't happen."
I softly put my hand on her sculpted cheek and turned it back toward me. I said, "And then there was your 'friendship' with Sandra. If you can call it that."
"We were friends! Good friends!" She pulled a small pack of Kleenex out of her purse, and started drying her eyes, but the tears kept coming.
"Good friends? You really think so? Do good friends let phone calls go unreturned? Her call directory showed you phoning her a number of times in the weeks before her murder. But there were no calls from her to you. You force
d yourself on her, pestering her to go out with you, so every couple of months, she caved in. She figured that was easier than giving you another bullshit excuse why she couldn't see you."
Her face reddened as I spoke. It was the first time I'd ever seen blood rush to her cheeks. Rather than bring her porcelain face to life, though, it cast an eerie, pinkish glow. Scary, kind of.
She said, "Sandra liked me. She did!"
"You think so? I don't. I think she thought you weren't of 'her standing', as you said she liked to put it. I saw her house. It's a multimillion-dollar palace. She drove a new Mercedes! She had original art hanging in her living room. She sold high-ticket condos, and made big money doing it. Her electric bill in an off-month is probably more than two months rent for your one-bedroom apartment on West Flamingo."
"Stop it! Stop it!" Her head went straight into her hands, as her words struggled to slice through the sobbing.
I wouldn't let up. "Her friends hang out at the Las Vegas Country Club, not the Bootlegger. When she went to dinner with her real friends, they went to a five-star restaurant in the Venetian, not to Pasta Mia. You knew all this, and you resented it."
"I didn't! She was my friend!"
"That's what you kept telling yourself. And then, somewhere along the way, Olivera entered the picture. You found out she was working with him to get Blake's downtown land." I drank more Scotch. "She probably didn't tell you about it right away. Why should she? You weren't that important to her. My guess is one night when she went out with you, she most likely mentioned it in passing. Maybe you pressed her for a few more details, but you got the overall picture nevertheless. You were probably recently split from Blake by that time, but still carrying the torch. When she told you she was working the other side of the fence, you saw that as betrayal. A stab in the back to the man you loved. The man who once loved her. It was too much for you to take. That's when you killed her."
I hated saying those words. Worse, I hated myself for having to say them. I knew that this moment and those words would echo in my mind until I drew my final breath.
"No, I didn't!"
"You couldn't bring yourself to tell Blake you killed her. I know that because if he had known you did it, he never would've hired me. He would've just taken out his own justice on you."
"No, Jack! You've got it all wrong."
"Do I?"
"Yes! I was at the movies when she was killed. I can prove it! I did prove it to the police."
"Your torn ticket stub, right? To see American Wedding, right?" She nodded. "Except you didn't see it that night. Oh, you went to the Palms and bought the ticket, all right. But you tore it yourself. Then, after tucking the stub into your purse, you left the theater immediately and made the drive back to Sandra's house. She let you through the gate and in the door, never knowing you were coming there to kill her. Then, the next afternoon, when the police were trying to find you, you went back to the Palms, bought another ticket for the one-twenty showing of American Wedding, and actually watched the movie, so you could prove you'd seen it."
Her tears flowed now, uncontrollably. I knew it would be a minute or two till they subsided, so I picked up my cell phone and punched in Madden's private cell number. It was Sunday, he was probably at home.
"Frank, Jack Barnett. I'm at my apartment. You better get over here right away. I've got Sandra Blake's killer sitting on my couch."
I hung up. She put her hands to the sides of my neck, her lips inches from mine. With wet, red eyes and wet, red cheeks, she said gently, "Jack, honey, you can't do this to me. Not after what we mean to each other. Please!"
I didn't pull away. "You might never believe this, but I hate doing this almost as much as you're going hate having it done to you." I placed a soft, brief kiss on her lovely lips. All our good times came back to me in a rush, all that she meant to me. Even so, I knew that would be the final kiss between us.
"We had it all, Martine. You could've been the one for me. You were everything I ever wanted in a woman. Except for the murderer gene, of course. And now, you'll have to face the law for it."
She pulled away, but not by much. Her voice shot up to the next octave, adding urgency. "You don't have to do this. You can tell them it was all a mistake. That you were mistaken!" Her brown eyes were still wet, but pleading.
I shook my head. "And if I did that, I would regret it every day for the rest of my life. Sandra Blake's face, complete with the bullet hole in her forehead, would haunt me all the way to the grave."
Fifteen minutes later, Madden knocked at my door. He'd rounded up Bolino on his way over. The two of them came in. I gave them Martine.
"She's the one you want, Frank." I ran it all down for them. "Check with a kid named Jared who takes tickets at the Palms movie theaters." I gave them the photo of Martine I had shown to Jared. "He works days, and he can put her in the theater watching the same movie the next afternoon. That was supposed to be her cover, in case you asked her to describe the movie. As for the gun, I don't know. Maybe it's still in her apartment. Maybe she threw it in the lake. I don't know. You'll have to get that out of her."
Bolino briefed Martine on her rights, then put the cuffs on her. As he led her out to the car, I stopped Madden before he got out the door.
"I could have fallen in love with her, Frank. I almost did."
My voice cracked. He caught it, then placed his big hand on my good shoulder. He pulled his lips together tight, then nodded twice. Finally, he patted me a couple of times, and went out the door. I closed it behind him.
32
Blake showed up at quarter to four. No-Sleeve Steve was with him. His Cadillac Escalade was parked in the next spot over from mine, just a few feet from my front door. I spotted Julius holding down the driver's seat.
Even though it was Sunday, supposedly an off day, Blake wore his major-dealmaking power costume: European-cut designer suit, charcoal gray, custom white shirt with French cuffs, and a silk tie. The tie probably cost a hundred bucks, but it was Kelly green and totally hideous. He carried a black leather briefcase, which looked to me like one of the most expensive I'd ever seen. No-Sleeve Steve wore his customary sport coat, this one was navy blue, over a pale blue dress shirt, which was no doubt sleeveless.
I, on the other hand, wore a brown sweatshirt pulled over my sling with wrinkled khaki pants.
I apologized for the disheveled appearance of my apartment, then motioned for them to sit down. Blake took the one easy chair in the room. No-Sleeve Steve took it upon himself to go get one of my dinette chairs, which he brought into the living room. He sat in it, his large hands folded in front of him.
"How're you feeling, Jack?" Blake asked.
"Better. The pain has subsided to a mere throb." I was about to blurt out the news about Martine, but decided to wait until Blake's little show with Olivera had concluded.
Blake said, "What's going to happen here is this. I'm going to sell Olivera my land for the price he offered me. We're going to sign the contracts here today, and he's going to give me earnest money in the amount of ten million dollars. We'll have the actual closing in a couple of weeks. I'm also going to throw in the wine. Can you go and get it when the time comes? I mean, are you able to drive?"
Ronnie's place was less than ten minutes away. Today, with little traffic, I felt confident. "I can get it. But wait a minute. You're selling your land to him? I thought you were using the wine as a hammer to pound him into selling his land to you."
"Things have changed. I'll explain afterward. But you're certain you can get the wine."
"I'm certain." I knew Ronnie would be home at this hour watching movies.
"Want a drink?" I asked. "I've got some good Scotch."
"No, thanks."
I looked at No-Sleeve Steve, with the same offer in my eyes. He shook his head. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a short Dalmore.
Before I got back to the living room, there was a knock at the door. I set the drink down and went to answer it. I saw O
livera and Calzado through the peephole.
"Mr Olivera," I said, as I opened the door widely. "And Mr Calzado. Please come in."
They slowly entered behind tight faces and clenched jaws. Their eyes darted this way and that, not exactly knowing what to expect from this odd meeting where so much was at stake. They both wore expensive dark suits, with appropriate shirts and ties. Calzado carried a briefcase, as though it were a spear. I assumed it belonged to Olivera. Blake and No-Sleeve Steve stood up when the Cubans got inside the room.
Olivera saw the blood on the carpet. "What happened here?" As if he didn't know.
"I was attacked Friday night by two armed men. Fortunately, I was able to successfully defend myself."
"Armed men?" Olivera asked, keeping up the charade of having no idea what went down.
"Yes, it was just terrible," I said, trying to inject mock drama into my voice. I figured he'd swallow it.
He and Calzado took seats on my lumpy couch, a far cry from the soft leather sofa in Olivera's suite at the Venetian. Olivera sat closest to Blake. He and Blake shook hands just as they were sitting down. "Mr Olivera," Blake said, "thank you for coming to this unusual meeting place on a Sunday. In addition, let me congratulate you on the Marlins' stunning victory."
Olivera couldn't hold back the smile that exploded over his face. His eyes ignited with joy as he said, "It was the most important event in Marlins history, and one of the greatest victories in the history of all baseball! This year marks the beginning of a long period of greatness for the Marlins. Maybe even an era of domination!"
Of course, he was swept up in the hype and in the improbable turn of events, but I had to admit, my Yankees were definitely dominated by these outliers from Miami.
I added, "Let me congratulate you too, Mr Olivera. I'm a Yankee fan, and I will say right now that the best team won. Good job."
His smile was radiant, almost infectious. "Thank you, Jack. I appreciate your good will."