The Downtown Deal Read online

  THE DOWNTOWN DEAL

  by

  MIKE DENNIS

  THE JACK BARNETT / LAS VEGAS SERIES

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Links to other books by Mike Dennis

  Preview of Temptation Town

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright page

  Bought by Maraya21

  kickass.so / 1337x.org / h33t.to / thepiratebay.se

  For my beautiful wife, Yleana, who gave me the greatest night of my life by marrying me on a rooftop in the heart of old Havana. I hope you will never stop believing in me.

  1

  Her eyes were probably once tinged with blue, but now they were the color of stone, as they stared lifeless up at the fluorescent ceiling. She was dead, all right, just like Blake had said, but what he didn’t tell me was how beautiful she was. Even with the bullet hole in her forehead, I could see she was stunning in life.

  If I’d stopped to think about it, I’d’ve probably pegged her as a real looker from the get-go. I mean, she was Blake’s ex-wife, and that meant a long ride on the top rung: the big house, the Benz, the jewelry, it all went with the territory. Nothing was out of reach for John Brendan Blake, real estate big shot, and that included the most desirable women.

  I nodded at the morgue attendant. He covered her lovely face with the sheet, then motioned me toward the door. As we exited the chilly portable storage cabinet that held her and about twenty other bodies, he doused the light, leaving them in their cold, quiet blackness. I thanked him, slipped him a hundred, and got the hell out of there.

  Outside, I took a deep breath, calling the crisp night air into my lungs, but I couldn’t exhale the death vibe that had fouled my insides. Morgues do that to me. It would take a couple of Scotches to cleanse that away. That’s one good thing about living in Las Vegas. You can get a drink any time you want it. Or need it.

  And right now, I needed it.

  ≈≈≈

  I aimed my car toward the Four Queens Hotel and Casino. They have a place in there called Hugo’s. It’s a fancy restaurant, actually, located below street level, away from the racket of the casino floor. People in suits and dresses buzz around the place, but the bar is one of my favorites. It’s cozy, friendly, and most important of all, they serve Dalmore, my brand of single-malt Scotch. I ordered one, as I took the last empty stool, while Dean greeted me with a wide smile from behind the bar.

  He brought my drink, asked how my poker was coming along, and some other small talk under the dim lighting. Then it was my turn.

  "Dean, you ever see the corpse of a gorgeous woman?" I watched his reaction, as I put the single-malt Scotch to my lips. It serviced all the right spots, sliding down down smooth and easy. I started to relax.

  "No, but I’ve seen a lot of live ones." His round, dark eyes sprang to life. I could tell he was thinking of one in particular.

  "I’m serious. I just saw one."

  The grin flew off his face. "What? Where?"

  Right away, I regretted bringing it up. I wasn’t sure how far I wanted to get into this with him. We were friendly, but apart from sitting at the same poker table on a few occasions, I never really saw him outside Hugo’s. He was a pretty good guy, though, plus I felt like I needed to get the whole dead-body thing out of my system, so I dropped my reluctance.

  I said, "Down at the morgue. She was murdered last night."

  "What?" He leaned over the bar, a little closer to me. "Did you know her?"

  I shook my head. "She was the ex-wife of a guy I know."

  Suddenly, the sixtyish man on the stool to my left spoke up. "It’s always the ex-husband who did it." I made his accent to be from the Great Lakes, maybe Chicago or Milwaukee. He sounded pretty sure of himself.

  Turning his bulk around in the stool to face me, he looked me over with watery eyes of an indeterminate color, somewhere between green and gray, with a splash of yellow. Jowls hung well below jaw level, and they shook when his large mouth opened to speak. Right now, it opened wide, revealing uneven teeth.

  He said, "Jealousy, betrayal, lust … ahh, motives like that’ll drive a guy to just about anything. Including murder."

  He returned to his drink, which had a carbonated mixer in it along with lots of ice.

  I didn't appreciate his intrusion. I wanted to tell him to mind his own business, but instead, I said, "Well, I don’t think it’s the ex-husband this time."

  "And why is that?" He scanned me up and down again, searching for the source of this opposite opinion.

  "He’s the one who hired me to find whoever did it." Right away I realized I shouldn't've said that, but hey, I'm not licensed anymore. I can say whatever the fuck I want.

  Mr Great Lakes said, "He did? Would you be a private detective, sir?"

  I was not wild about the drift of this conversation, but since I started it, I couldn't really back out just yet. After another slow taste of the Dalmore, I said, "Not exactly. I used to be."

  That was all he was getting out of me. I damn sure wasn’t going to get into how I lost my license over in LA, or how I split town in the middle of the night to come here, just so I could squeeze out a living playing low-limit poker over at Binion’s, all the while trying to stay a couple of steps ahead of the California law.

  "Well, let me shake your hand. I've never met a real private eye before. The name's Travis. Travis Haynes."

  "Jack Barnett."

  He gave me, oddly, a European single-stroke handshake. His large, pale hand was a good deal whiter than his flaccid face, which was red, but not from blushing.

  "Tell me, Jack, what does this guy, the ex-husband, do for a living?"

  "I can’t talk about it."

  "Does he have a lot of money? You know, is he filthy rich?"

  "I can’t talk about it."

  "Because if he is, he’s almost certainly your man." He paused to swallow the remainder of his drink. There were mostly ice cubes left in his glass, with only a trace of whiskey, and he got one of the cubes in his mouth. He spoke around it as he crunched on it. The sound of his teeth against the ice was driving me crazy and I had to strain to understand him when he said, "If she was beautiful, like you said, there’s another man in there somewhere and she was screwing him for sure. You can bet on it. Then, if her husband is rich, oh brother, watch out! You put jealousy and sex into bed with big money, and man, you’d better get out of the way. Ha! It’s like a bunch of hemophiliacs running loose in a razor factory. Someone is damn sure gonna bleed."

  I didn't want to go any further with this, but the thing was, old Travis made sense. That’s exactly how this kind of thing usually went.

  Only, it couldn’t have been Blake who did it. Not that he wasn’t capable of it, mind you. He’s got goons that’ll do whatever he tells them. I ought to know; they beat the shit out of me one day back in February during my initial encounter with him on another matter.

  No, if he did do it, he had no reason to hire me, especially if he knew the trail would lead right back to him. Besides, he was paying me ten thousand dollars right now, and ten m
ore when I finished the job. For that kind of money, I was going to find the shooter, no matter how long it took, if the cops didn’t find him first. And Blake knew it.

  Dean filled a drink order for a waiter, then turned back to me. "Where’d it happen, Jack?"

  "In her home. She lived in that fancy gated community called Beachview, out on Lake Sahara."

  "Gated? Wait a minute, I saw something about that on TV this afternoon. Yeah-h-hh." I could see his memory coming back. "Is that the one you're working on? How’d he get through the gate?"

  I finished off my drink. Within ten seconds, Dean had the Dalmore bottle in hand, replenishing it. "If she knew him," I said, "she probably let him in. If not, well, I have no idea. And my client, if you can call him that, has an airtight alibi."

  I didn't mind throwing that last part in, since I knew it would be in the papers. Cops always look to the ex first in cases like this, and since the ex was a local heavy hitter, they'd want to make public the fact that he was cleared.

  Travis shrugged and made a grand hand gesture. I wished he would shut the fuck up and go back to chewing his ice, but of course, he didn't. He said, "Well, maybe he paid someone to do it. You've gotta consider that. Or better yet, maybe it was the third member of the triangle. You know, like the other man."

  Irritated, I threw a sidelong glance over at him. "Might be," although I wasn't aware of any other man just yet.

  Blake only approached me about this earlier today. We met briefly in his fancy corner office in the Bank of America building downtown. All he knew was that his ex-wife — Sandra was her name — was found in the living room by her maid early this morning, dead of a gunshot wound to the head, as the maid arrived to clean the house. The coroner tentatively estimated the time of death at sometime between six o'clock and midnight last night.

  Blake told me they were married for eleven years, no children, and that the split came about a year ago, around October of '02. He didn't want to go into the reason for it, so I didn't press the issue, but to hear him tell it, he took it hard. Said she was the only woman he'd ever really love, and all the rest of it. I wasn't sure I believed him, but I leaned in that direction. I had one of those women in my past myself and I'd crossed that bridge. Besides, Blake could be pretty convincing when he put his mind to it.

  I drained the second Dalmore, and with it went the creepy-crawlies from the morgue. All I wanted now was to get back to my apartment and fall into bed.

  Which is exactly what I did.

  2

  I set my alarm for seven the next morning. I don't usually do well at that hour, but I wanted to be at Sandra Blake's house on Lake Sahara by no later than eight, in case the cops were still nosing around. If they were, I might be able to wangle a little information out of them before their coffee brought them to their defensive senses.

  If they were gone, then I could have a look around myself to see what I might pick up in the way of information, with the rest of the day still in front of me.

  Lake Sahara sits on the west side of town, just a few miles from the Las Vegas Strip, nestled among a cluster of gated communities. Its shore is ringed with mostly big, extravagant homes. Apparently, the one where Sandra Blake died was the one she and Blake had occupied when they were married, so it became part of her divorce package.

  On the drive out there, I phoned Blake to get the gate code. He gave it to me, then I said, "When I'm done at the house, I'd like to see you. There's a few more things I need to speak to you about."

  He sounded agitated. "Is it absolutely necessary? I'm looking at a full day here, and I've already told you everything I know about it."

  "Well, of course, it's up to you, Mr Blake. But you're paying me a lot of money. Why not let me earn it? I'm not out to waste your time."

  "All right, all right. Lunch, then. Say around one o'clock?"

  "One it is. Meet me at the Stardust coffee shop."

  "The Stardust? Are you kidding?"

  My voice shifted to a lower, more patient, gear. "Okay, it's not exactly the Las Vegas Country Club, but think about it. It's an ideal place. Friendly, well-lit. You damn sure won't run into anyone you know there." Before he could respond, I added, "One more thing. I'm sure you have a photograph of your ex-wife, one that's a good close-up?"

  "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 e
yes 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 … ?"