The Downtown Deal by Mike Dennis Page A

two months ago."
    "What
happened?"
    She
threw me a you-know-how-it-goes shrug but never took her eyes from mine, and
said, "What always happens. Wrong guy."
    Our
hands still touched. I gripped hers a little tighter. Then she said, "There's
been no one since then."
    Until
me. That was how it started.
    That
night, she took me home. And made me forget about Lyla.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
11

 
    T he next day, after I got back to my apartment, I did a little
checking around. I found out Colby Farrow lived in a condo at Turnberry Place,
a slick high-rise behind the Strip, over by the Las Vegas Hilton. It was the kind
of place Silverstone wanted to be: big, imposing, lavish, screaming money,
filled with people who didn't want the hassle of keeping up a big house.
    According
to what I was told, Turnberry had been up and running for a couple of years or
so, serving your basic filthy-rich clientele. I assumed it was gated, probably
with a twenty-four-hour guard, so I'd have to make prior arrangements. That
meant calling Colby first, something I didn’t really want to do.
    Then I
remembered he and his brother had gone to Sandra Blake's house the day after
the cops moved out. It would be entirely possible he'd be at his brother's
house, clearing out inventory there as well. I got in the car, pointing it
toward Summerlin.
    On the
way out there, I called Martine, asking her if she wanted to get some dinner
later on. She agreed, and I said I'd pick her up around seven. Knowing she was
waiting for me at the end of the day put me in a much more agreeable frame of
mind to talk to Colby Farrow.
    Upon
arriving at Ryan Farrow's home, I saw a midnight blue Jaguar parked in his driveway,
right next to Ryan's BMW. I left my car out front and stepped up to the front
door of the house. Colby answered almost right away.
    "Good
afternoon, Colby. I figured I'd find you here."
    "Listen,
Barnett, in case you don't know, my brother —"
    I put
my palm facing toward him, showing no threat. "I know what happened, and,
even though you may not believe me, I'm truly sorry for your loss."
    His
eyes lowered. "Well … thank you for that."
    "Now,
may I come in. I think I might be of some help."
    He
ushered me in. We went into the den. All those books gazed down on us from
their secure shelves, as he led me over to the big leather couch, where we both
took a seat. The bar had been put back together, wine bottles were back in
their horizontal slots, the broken ones were picked up. No attempt had been
made to get the stains up from the wine that spilled out of them. I wondered if
Colby planned to clean up those stains.
    I
opened. "I want to know who did this, Colby. You can help me. Do you want
to? Do you want to help me find out who killed your brother?"
    The
muscles beneath his wan face tightened, and he grit his teeth around a light
jawline. "I know who did it. It was Blake. That bastard Blake!"
    "I
have to disagree with you there," I said. "I know you and your
brother had differences with Blake, maybe big differences, but I don't think he
did this. I think whoever killed your brother may also have killed Sandra. And
I definitely don't believe Blake would've killed his ex-wife. Or had her
killed."
    "You
don't know him," Colby snarled. "He's a real piece of shit!"
    "I
know, I know." I gave him another palms-forward gesture. "Believe me,
I've seen his ruthless side firsthand. But I have to say, I don't think he
killed your brother."
    I let
that sink in for a minute. Once I felt he absorbed it, I went on. "Colby, I
want to know what the story is between you and Hector Olivera?"
    "What
does he have to do with this?"
    "Come
on, now. Don't get all naïve on me. I know he owns that little strip of land
Blake needs for the stadium deal. What's the connection between the two of
you?"
    "Barnett,
this is all very confidential. Nobody knows about any of it. You're not supposed to know. All of this
Olivera stuff is —"
    "I
know, I know, it's confidential. And as a