The Downtown Deal (3 page)

He's
probably the only cop I've ever known whom I can completely trust. Because,
like me, he considers rules to be bendable.

Plus,
he's not a bad poker player. We both made the switch from seven-card stud to
hold'em a couple of months back, after a guy named Moneymaker came out of
nowhere to win the 2003 World Series of Poker. Right away, the game exploded into
the national consciousness. The casinos started spreading no-limit hold'em, just
like what was on TV, a lot of bad players flooded the games, so Frank and I
jumped over. We've both done pretty well since then.

"Read
the papers," he replied. "You'll learn everything I know."

"Look,
this means a lot to me, Frank. I stand to make a lot of money if I can impact
this case. And I promise — I
promise
I won't get in your
way." I could tell he was not impressed, so I rolled out the heavy
artillery. "Look, I tell you what. Work with me on this — I mean,
you don't have to give up state secrets or anything — just give me a
broad outline, and I'll give you a tell on Manny the Mexican."

I knew
that would grab his attention. Manny the Mexican routinely kicked Frank's ass
in the hold'em game. I heard him say, as he leaned away from the phone,
"Nick, go get the car and pick me up out front." Then he spoke back
into the phone in his confidential voice. "You got a tell on Manny? What
kind of tell?"

"The
reliable kind. The kind that lets you know when he's bluffing and when he's got
the goods. Now, how about it? One hand washes the other?"

There
was a moment of silence while he worked the count. Then: "All right. But
just so you know, we're swamped with cases. I'm on my way to a drive-by scene
right now. Last night, there was a murder-suicide up on Washington Avenue. And
in case you don't read the papers, there's a serial killer on the loose. The
Blake case is stalling and might cool down. If you can turn up anything, it'll
be a load off. But I want everything you get."

I
spoke in my most empathetic voice. "I understand, Frank. You'll get it.
And anything you can tell me here will be appreciated."

He
said, "There was no sign of forced entry. We think she knew the
perpetrator. There's a peephole in her front door. Otherwise, why would she let
him in at that hour of the night? That rules out psycho tradesmen and random
crimes of opportunity."

"Motive?"

"Burglary's
out. So's home invasion. Nothing was taken. Jewelry still in her bedroom, money
and plastic still in her purse. No ransacking anywhere. The ballistics report
says the bullet was a .38 caliber. Shot at very close range." He paused,
then said, "She was executed."

"Any
forensic stuff? Fibers, hairs? That kind of thing?"

"The
crime scene geeks were in there yesterday for about seven or eight hours. I was
looking over their shoulder the whole time. They found a few things, but we
won't get their report for awhile."

"Any
witnesses? Neighbors? Passers-by?"

"We
canvassed the neighborhood. One neighbor said she thought she heard a loud
report around ten, but wasn't sure. She didn't go to the window, didn't see
anything. Nobody else saw or heard a thing."

"Anything
else? Anything at all?"

"We
looked her ex-husband over pretty closely. Being her ex, he probably had a
motive, but he also has a solid alibi."

"Do
you know if she went out that night?"

He
said, "She did. Had dinner with a girlfriend at Pasta Mia. It was the only
entry in her datebook for that day."

"Pasta
Mia?"

"It's
a little Italian place on Flamingo, right near the Palms Casino. We checked it
out. The waiter remembers them. They ate together, then left around
eight-thirty, quarter of nine. Separate cars, we think, because the girlfriend
went straight to a ten-after-nine movie at the Palms. She's still got the stub
with the date and time on it."

At
that moment, I was driving down Flamingo with the Palms in sight up ahead. I
caught a glimpse of Pasta Mia tucked away in a small strip center on the right.
It looked like someplace I might want to try sometime.

"What
movie did the girlfriend see?"

"Something
called
American Wedding
," he said.

"And
what's her name?"

"Martine
Devereaux."

"When
did you talk to her?"

"We
tried to get her yesterday afternoon, after we shut down the crime scene, but
she wasn't home. We finally got to her last night."

"Where
can I find her?"

"She
works at the Bootlegger Bistro. Plays piano and sings there three nights a
week."

"How
about —"

"How
about that tell, Jack. I've already given you a lot more than I should
have."

I took
a breath. "When Manny's bluffing, he casually lifts his chips up a few
inches off the table as he's putting them out in front of him to bet. When he's
holding a real hand, he kind of slides them out, or lifts them just barely off
the table."

Frank
chuckled. "I'm going in there tonight. I'll let you know if you're
right."

"I'm
right. You can bet on it."

"Don't
worry. I will."

I
f ever there was an “Old Vegas” strip hotel, it's the
Stardust. Built and originally operated by gangsters, it acquired a certain
tradition that somehow stuck with it from the get-go.

I’m
told the personal service you encounter there today used to be routine at all
the old hotels. Everyone is made to feel important there, in distinct contrast
to the assembly-line treatment you might receive at the newer, fancier resorts.

Now, I
have to say I’ve only moved to town a couple of years ago, so I don't have any
first-hand experience with the old days. I just have to go by what I’ve heard.

And
what I’ve heard is, when the doors opened in 1958, the Stardust was called “the
world’s largest resort hotel”, even though it stood just two stories high. It
really didn’t look much different from then on, even after the mob was forced
out in the 1980s.

Today,
in the fall of 2003, it still appears pretty much the same as it always has,
casino and all. Oh, they added a big, high-falutin’ thirty-story hotel some
years ago, and the gigantic roadside neon sign has been spruced up some, but
the original two-story motel is still standing, still going full swing. In
addition, the casino has kept pretty much the same layout for decades.

I
could go on forever about this place, but take my word for it, you walk into
the Stardust and you step back in time.

≈≈≈

I pulled into the auto
entrance, stopping under the vast neon umbrella that covered the valet parking
area. Josh opened the door for me. I stepped out and felt the refreshing light
breeze, typical for this late in October.

“Good
morning, Mr Barnett,” he said, as he handed me the valet stub. I’ve only been
coming to the Stardust for a couple of weeks now, mainly for lunch in their
coffee shop. Josh started calling me by name after three days, even though my
car screams "low-roller". I take care of him, though. He needs to be
encouraged.

Shirley
greeted me as I approached her hostess stand at the coffee shop.

“By
yourself today, Jack?” she asked with a smile that had been tried on thousands
of customers.

The
coffee shop may have been modernized somewhat over the years, but many of the
people who work there are thirty- and forty-year veterans, overflowing with
tales of mobsters, movie stars, and magical Vegas moments.

Evenly-set
teeth gleamed white against cocoa-colored skin. She didn’t wait for an answer,
as she said, “You don’t need a menu, do you, honey?”

“Actually,
Shirley, I’m meeting someone today."

I
looked past her into the crowded room. Most of the booths and tables were
occupied, while waitresses scurried around, taking orders and carrying wide,
round trays filled with meals and drinks.

Then
in a booth along the wall to the left, I saw him nursing a cup of coffee.

Shirley
motioned me in. I stepped carefully around a busboy, as he refilled coffee cups
and water glasses for a roisterous party of eight at a large nearby table.

Eventually,
I arrived at the booth, where I took a seat opposite John Brendan Blake.

He
stood as I approached. We greeted each other around a handshake, while a trace
of a smile briefly dashed across his tanned face. His bluish-green eyes came
alive, as though he were suddenly awakening from a daydream. As usual, he was
decked in expensive clothing, wearing a close-fitting, single-breasted designer
suit, midnight blue, with a cream-colored shirt and a garish orange tie that
clashed with everything, nearly ruining the whole look. A silk handkerchief of
muted grays and yellows peeked out of his breast pocket.
 

I put
him in his early forties, but he had an energetic presence, cutting the figure
of a young entrepreneur. That was understandable, since he built the Blake
Enterprises behemoth out of nothing more than the fine silken threads of his
imagination and dreams. That kind of effort takes a dedication and an energy
which I definitely do not possess.

But, I
have to say, even though I'm not wild about him personally, it's guys like
Blake who built this city, and every city, for that matter. At a great price to
themselves, I might add. They eventually wind up with wrecked marriages, plenty
of enemies, and no life at all.

So
much money, and so little time to enjoy it.

Right
away, the waitress descended upon us. Her dark brown hair was twisted back up
into a bun, while her lined face and worn name tag told of many years at this
old property, as well as many stories in her memory. She fit right in at the
coffee shop, though, smiling as she brushed a dangling, tired shock of hair
from her eyes, then positioned her pen to take our order.

I
wanted a club sandwich and a beer, Blake ordered an Asian salad. He asked if
they had San Pellegrino. They didn't. He was not pleased. Reluctantly, he
settled for iced tea.

Finally,
he said, “How's it going, Jack. Learn anything out at the house?”

"Maybe.
First of all, do you have the photograph?"

He
nodded, then reached into his breast pocket, behind his silk handkerchief,
sliding out a color photo. It was a three-by-five shot, professionally taken.

"It
was the shot she used for her website and her business cards," he said.

"She
had a website? Of her own?"

"It
wasn't
her
website, actually. She was a realtor. Worked for Silverstone
Towers. The photo appeared on their website."

"What's
Silverstone Towers?"

"One
of those big new high-rise condo buildings going up. Well, it's not really
going up just yet, but it's been announced. They're selling the shit out of
them just from the plans. Mostly out-of-towners, speculators, that kind of
thing."

"Do
you have anything at all to do with its development?" I asked.

"No."

I
looked at her photo closely. Hair the color of dirty straw clung close to her
face, shaping it into a near-work of art. Spirited eyes and a captivating smile
told you this is someone you wanted to get to know. Her lips were medium-full,
a muted shade of red, and looked entirely kissable. I slipped the picture into
my shirt pocket.

I
said, "Like I told you, I was at the house this morning. Are you familiar
with the Farrow brothers?"

"Shit!
Were they there?"

"They
were. Who are they?"

"What
were they doing at the house?"

I held
up before answering. I didn't want to derail our conversation before it got
started. But then, I figured, he's paying me. He's got a right to know.

"They
were just removing some of their items from the house."

"Items?
What items?" His right hand tensed, folding over into a fist.

"Well,
one of them had some … some clothes over there. Then there was this wine. It
was —"

"Don't
tell me. The wine in the wooden box?" I nodded. He said, "Shit, those
god-damned thieves."

The
line around his jaw tightened through clenched teeth. His right hand contracted
again into a hard, tight fist, which he pounded once into his open left hand.

I
said, "I got the distinct impression it didn't belong to them."

"Hell,
no! I got it a little over a year ago. When Sandra and I divorced, I kind of
forgot about it and just left it in the house when I moved my things out. Those
slimy moth —"

I
threw him a reassuring palms-down gesture. "Okay, okay, keep your shirt on,
Mr Blake. The wine is still there. I didn't let them take it."

"You
… you didn't?" His body loosened.

"No.
I didn't. It's safe." I noticed he let out a big breath, releasing lots of
the tension that had gripped him. "Safe for now. But I suggest you get on
over there and recover it, if it's that important to you."

"Can
you do it?" he asked.

"Can
I? You mean, can I go back out there and get that wine?"

"Yes."

"Well
…"

"Come
on, Jack. I've got meetings all the rest of the day, and I'd feel a lot better
if I knew it was secure. I'm no wine expert, but it's probably worth a few
thousand dollars."

"You
paid that much for it? For a case of wine?"

"No,
not really." He moved around a little in the booth, trying for a little
more comfort. He found the sweet spot, then he opened his hands to begin his
explanation.

He
said, "It was given to me. Baron Rothschild — the winery belongs to
his family — was over here from France early last year, and I steered him
into a deal on some condos. He flipped them a few months later, and wound up
making millions. He was extremely grateful to me. So grateful, in fact, that
when he got back to France, he sent me the case of wine as a thank-you. He said
it was among the best wine his family has ever produced."