The Downtown Deal (2 page)

"Yes,
but —"

"Bring
it. Oh, and don't worry. They have valet parking there. Even I use it."

He
sighed. "The Stardust at one."

≈≈≈

I entered the code into
the keypad and the big gate swung open, admitting me into Beachview Estates.

I have
to admit, it felt kind of strange, my being allowed to enter these hallowed,
exclusive grounds. Back in LA, when I had my license and when the money was
coming in pretty regularly, life was good, but nothing like this. I mean, I had
a nice two-bedroom in a four-plex down in Redondo Beach. I had a decent car,
too, before I had to sell it. But this — this was another world
altogether.

Lake
Sahara came right up to meet the access road just inside the gate, lapping at
the shore. The view was enchanting, the sharp blue of the clear October sky
hovering overhead. Mountains rose dramatically in the distance, backdropping
the homes across the lake. A few ducks and geese provided the only visible
motion on the otherwise placid water.

On
land, there were no moving cars or people anywhere in sight. There were plenty
of million-dollar homes, though, each one garnished with a carefully-designed
array of vegetation. These very large houses were clearly populated by people
with even larger bank accounts, who would no doubt regard me with deep
suspicion if they ever noticed me traipsing around in their
perfectly-manicured, walled-off world.

In
fact, just the sight of my eleven-year-old car contaminating their immaculate
streets might well have sent some of them running for their phones.

After
taking a wrong turn inside the gate, I finally found the Blake house. The crime
scene tape was down, there was no lockout cover on the doorknob, and no cops
anywhere. A big maroon BMW sedan sat in the driveway. I parked on the street,
making the short walk to the house.

The
house itself was about average size for Beachview, which is to say, enormous.
Peach-colored stucco three stories tall, with high, draped windows all along
the front of the ground floor. Overstated bay windows graced the corners of the
second floor. A four-car garage sat to the left, and even that rose two
stories. It was the kind of house that would stand out as garish in a lesser
neighborhood, but here hardly raised an eyebrow. On the expanse of the deep
green lawn, a line of tall desert palms swayed gently in the morning breeze
moving in off the water.

Before
approaching the front door, I walked around the perimeter of the house, looking
for evidence of forced entry. No broken windows, no jimmied doors, nothing at
all out of the ordinary. With all its furniture undisturbed, the rear patio lay
still before the shimmering lake.

Back
around front, I knocked, and the arched door opened almost immediately. A guy
about my age stood silently in the doorway, his gaze demanding to know who I
was, as well as my reason for being there. A quick look at his clothing and his
haircut told me he probably belonged in a house just like this one.

"My
name's Jack Barnett," I said. "I'm a private investigator."

I
flashed my ID just long enough for him to glance at it, but not long enough to
absorb any of its details. It was a duplicate license I got before my trouble
in California. I kept it, surrendering the original when they yanked it from
me.

It was
his move. While I waited for his response, I noticed another man in the
background, standing in the large foyer. Both men were in their
early-to-mid-thirties, slender and well-groomed, with short, nondescript brown
hair. They wore high-end dark suits and looked like they could have been, in
their younger years, prototypes for the original Starbuck's-slurping yuppies.

The
one who answered the door stood tentatively in front of me, uncertainty all
over his pallid face. My arrival was evidently causing them some inconvenience.
The one in the background looked at me through hard eyes and tight features.

Finally,
Mr Doorway demanded, "What do you want?"

"I'm
investigating the murder of Sandra Blake. I was under the impression this was
her house."

"It
is — was."

"Then,
who might you be?"

"The
police have already concluded their investigation at this house, Mr — Mr
Barnett. I don't think there's anything for you here." He started to close
the door.

I put
up an arm, blocking it. "Well, you just never know what they might have
overlooked, so I'd like to come in and have a look around, if that's okay with
you."

"It's
not okay. You may not come in." He tried for some authority in his voice,
but missed by a wide margin. My arm still blocked the door.

"You
know, I didn't catch your name. What was it again?"

"I
didn't say."

I shot
him a smile. "Hey, if we're going to be friends, we have to know each
other's name, at the very least. Now, I've told you mine." Then my voice
lowered, just to let him know I meant business. "What's yours?"

At
that point, the guy in the foyer spoke up. "Get rid of him, Colby."

The
door started to close in my face again. Again, I wouldn't let it. I shoved it
back at him hard, so that it flew open, out of his grip, banging against the
doorstop down by the baseboard.

"Now,
Colby, we're not off to a very good start here," I said. "Either you
be nice to me and let me in, or things are going to get ugly in a hurry."

With
that, the guy in the foyer moved quickly to Colby's side.

"Listen,
pal, there are two of us and one of you. It's going to get a lot uglier for you
—"

My
fist shot straight into his solar plexus, doubling him forward, leaving him
sucking for breath. I nudged him aside, and elbowed my way around Colby into
the house. He followed me in.

"You
can't do that!" cried Colby. "That's assault!"

"Actually,
it's battery. But if you want to call the cops, go ahead." As I shut the
door, he swallowed, always a sign of weakness. "Now, let's start all over
again. I'm Jack Barnett, private investigator, looking into Sandra Blake's
murder. And you are … ?"

"Colby
Farrow." His eyes tumbled downward, staring at the patterned marble floor.

"And
who's Superman over there." He was still gasping, but now leaning against
the wide spiral staircase, one arm on the bannister, one arm across his gut.

Colby
said, "That's my brother, Ryan."

"How
did you get into the house?"

"Ryan
has a key."

"Oh,
he does? Very interesting. And what brings you boys here on this fine day?"

"We
came to … to pick up some of Ryan's things."

"His
things? What kind of things?"

Colby
said, "This is really none of your business, Barnett. We're —"

I
slapped him. Hard. His hand flew up to his cheek.

"When
I'm hired to investigate a murder, and there's two guys at the scene who don't
belong there, believe me, buddy, it's my business. Now, what kind of things are
you taking out of here? Or should I call the cops myself? Maybe they'd like to
know why you're here early in the morning, one day after Sandra Blake was found
with a bullet in her head. Maybe they'd like to know why you're removing items
from this house, which house, I might add, does not belong to you."

He
rubbed his reddening face. "Ryan had a few clothes over here, as well as
some Château Mouton."

"Sha-toe
what?"

Disdain
crept onto his face. He looked at me like I was a hunk of shit on a white
carpet. "It's wine. Very expensive wine. I doubt you would know of it."

I
shrugged off the insult. "Tell me, why did your brother have his stuff
over here? Was he seeing Sandra Blake?"

Colby
nodded. "He'd been seeing her for about a year."

"And
that's why he happens to have a key?"

"Yes."

I
walked over to Superman, just now getting his breath back.

"So,
were you living here with the late Mrs Blake?"

He
finally stood up, still clutching his midsection. "No."

"Just
staying here on occasion, right? Kind of cozy-like."

"I
stayed here sometimes. Listen, you'll regret this, Barnett." His voice was
returning, but still on the raspy side.

"Yeah,"
I said, "I'm sure I will. Let's go get your clothes."

I
herded the both of them up the staircase. Ryan led the way, moving us swiftly
into the master bedroom and into the walk-in closet, which was by itself nearly
as big as my apartment. Mostly women's clothing lined the racks and shelves,
and about as many shoes as there are in the state of Rhode Island. I watched
while he gathered his stuff, after which we all moved back downstairs.

I
turned to Colby. "Show me the living room."

He
escorted me into the living room, and what a room it was! One of those you see
featured in oversized, glossy, wouldn't-you-love-to-live-here magazines.

At
least twenty feet high, it was dominated by dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows
all along the front, covered by thick, deep blue drapes that blocked out every
last snippet of sunlight. Top-drawer designer furniture and plush carpeting
covered the floor, while high-ticket artwork, or what looked like it anyway,
hung here and there on the walls. A jumbo fireplace, almost big enough to walk
into, sat squarely in the middle of the far wall. A large mirror hung above it,
while a gleaming white grand piano controlled the right side of the room. A
graceful, modernist chandelier, dangling over the center of everything,
provided the only light. The touch of the professional decorator was
everywhere.

Except
for the blood.

And it
was all over the soft, exquisite yellow carpet in front of the matching chairs,
as well as on the wall behind them. It was all that was left of Sandra Blake. I
stared at it for a few moments, visualizing her death. And wondering why.

I
turned to Colby. "Where's the wine?"

He led
me to the kitchen. Next to the big Sub-Zero refrigerator was a narrow door. He
gestured toward it and I opened it.

It revealed
a small pantry-like area no more than two feet wide, shelves rising about four feet
off the floor. It had been converted to a miniature wine fridge. The coolish
air immediately drifted out of it into my eyes and my nostrils, giving me an
odd little temporary pick-me-up. The shelves, each containing semicircular
slats, held the wine bottles. There were about a dozen of them, lounging lazily
on their sides, corks wet and waiting.

"Which
one's the big one?" I asked.

"There."
He pointed to the floor. There was a wooden case, unopened. It looked pretty
old. It also looked like it belonged to Sandra Blake, not to either of these
jokers.

"The
whole case? How many bottles are in it?"

"Six."

Something
didn't smell right. Coming over here for your own clothes is one thing, but
this wine sitting there in a big wooden box? I let them take this, then what
was next? Sandra Blake's jewelry?

"The
wine stays," I said.

His
eyebrows came together in a frown, causing prominent lines to surge upward on
his forehead. They were so prominent, in fact, I could tell he'd made that move
many, many times in his life. "You can't do that! It belongs to my
brother."

"And
a broken rib is going to belong to you if you give me any more shit about this.
The wine stays. Now let's go get you and your brother out of here."

I
turned to Ryan. "Give me your key to the house."

"Hold
on, Barnett," Ryan said.
 
"You can't do this."

"I
am
doing it, junior. Now, put down the clothes, reach into your pocket
for the key, and place it in my hand. This minute. And give me your driver's
license, while you're at it."

"My
driver's li —"

His stomach
still hurt, I could tell. He didn't want a repeat blow to it, but my eyes told
him there would be one if he resisted. I slapped him for good measure.

He did
as he was told.

Putting
the license in my pocket, I escorted them out, then locked the door behind us
with Ryan's key. As we walked over to their BMW, I told them, "If anyone
comes back here for that wine, or for anything else in this house, Ryan, I know
where you live." I pulled out his license and held it up to his face. "And
believe me, you will not enjoy the consequences."

I
opened the driver's side door to the big sedan and shoved him in.

"Now, both of you
get the fuck out of here."

I
still had plenty of time before my lunch meeting with Blake,
so I called Frank Madden on my cell as I wound my way out of Beachview. His
phone rang once and he answered.

"Frank.
Jack Barnett."

"I'm
just leaving the office, Jack. On my way to a crime scene. What's up?"

"Are
you working the Sandra Blake murder?"

"Shit,
Jack," he sighed, "don't tell me you're involved with that."

"I
just need to know what you've got so far. Can you sketch it out for me?"

"I
don't think so. Not this time. This is high-profile stuff. I can't afford to
have you muddying the waters." As he spoke, an ambulance roared up the street
from the opposite direction, drowning him out. I asked him to repeat it.

He
did, and I said, "Come on, Frank. I'm asking as a friend."

And I
did consider him a friend. He drops into Binion's two or three nights a week
after work for a few hours of poker. Often times, we sit next to each other,
and on several occasions, we've gone for coffee and sandwiches afterward. We've
gotten along very well, exchanging little confidences between us along the way.