the community, does charity work. They love him down there. And he's
got an alibi, ironclad, for both killings."
"Well,
of course he's got an alibi. He didn't pull the trigger. But you can be sure he
knows someone who will, for the right price." Another opening developed in the lane to
my right. I eased over into it, and immediately came braking to a halt, while
all the cars in the lane I just left breezed blissfully past me.
"Doesn't
look that way, Jack."
"How
about if he used two different shooters. I mean, maybe his first choice was
uneasy about killing a beautiful young woman. You know, the Latino worship of
beauty."
"That's
stretching it. Besides, Olivera had no motive to kill either one of them."
"None
that we know of at present."
"By
all accounts, Farrow was helping him get financing for something connected to
that downtown stadium land you were telling me about. And, according to what
you told me yourself, Sandra Blake
was working on something with him. Maybe she was involved in that deal, too.
Maybe they were lovers. Who knows?"
"Any
worthwhile forensic evidence at either scene?"
"Very
little. They found a couple of hairs on the floor in Farrow's bedroom that
clearly weren't his. Preliminary indications show the hairs were black, and
belonged to a male. We may know more later on."
"Okay,
Frank. Thanks for the update. You coming to Binion's tonight?"
"Maybe.
It depends on how much we get done on this today."
I was
going to tell him what Colby Farrow revealed to me about Olivera's scheme to
tie up the land, the stadium, and the Marlins all in one neatly-wrapped bundle,
with a pretty little ribbon around it. But I flinched. Madden had a point.
Olivera had no clear motive. Killing Ryan Farrow would be a blow to his own
efforts to put together the stadium deal, even though Colby had indicated he
could carry on by himself and see it through to completion. As for Sandra, if
she was helping Olivera in any way, doing her in would obviously be against his
own best interests.
But it
wouldn't require too much imagination to see how John Brendan Blake might want
them both dead.
All
this, plus the never-ending drive on the freeway, along with my lack of sleep,
was wearing me out. After about another twenty minutes of battling the traffic,
I finally arrived home. Inside, I turned up the heat and went straight to bed.
Within thirty seconds, I was out.
14
I woke up at the brink of nightfall. After a little puttering
around in my apartment, I decided to head down to Binion's. It had been awhile
since I'd played poker, and I was itching to get back into action.
Walking
into the poker room, I could see that the game I wanted, a small no-limit
hold'em game, was in progress. Some of the usual suspects were in their seats,
along with assorted tourists I'd never seen, as well as an Asian or two to stir
up the action. One of the regulars had just gotten up from the game, so the
floorman gave me his seat. I bought in for two hundred, and as I got myself
situated, with my chips properly arranged in front of me, I started to focus on
players and cards and tells, trying to purge my mind of shady land deals and
murder.
Twenty
minutes in, I beat Manny the Mexican out of a three hundred dollar pot, picking
off his bluff with ace-queen high, when the seat on my right became vacant.
Before I knew what was happening, Frank Madden was sitting in it.
"Looks
like you're having a good night," he murmured, eyeing my skyline of
five-dollar chips.
I held
back a smile. "Could be worse."
And on
the very next hand, it got worse. Much worse. I fell victim to a major-league
bluff by Fong, one of the Asian players at the table. He took over half my
chips and had completely outplayed me. It pissed me off.
I
muttered under my breath, something to the effect of, "I've had it",
as I got up from my chair to take a needed break, leaving my remaining chips on
the table in front of my seat. I walked out of
got an alibi, ironclad, for both killings."
"Well,
of course he's got an alibi. He didn't pull the trigger. But you can be sure he
knows someone who will, for the right price." Another opening developed in the lane to
my right. I eased over into it, and immediately came braking to a halt, while
all the cars in the lane I just left breezed blissfully past me.
"Doesn't
look that way, Jack."
"How
about if he used two different shooters. I mean, maybe his first choice was
uneasy about killing a beautiful young woman. You know, the Latino worship of
beauty."
"That's
stretching it. Besides, Olivera had no motive to kill either one of them."
"None
that we know of at present."
"By
all accounts, Farrow was helping him get financing for something connected to
that downtown stadium land you were telling me about. And, according to what
you told me yourself, Sandra Blake
was working on something with him. Maybe she was involved in that deal, too.
Maybe they were lovers. Who knows?"
"Any
worthwhile forensic evidence at either scene?"
"Very
little. They found a couple of hairs on the floor in Farrow's bedroom that
clearly weren't his. Preliminary indications show the hairs were black, and
belonged to a male. We may know more later on."
"Okay,
Frank. Thanks for the update. You coming to Binion's tonight?"
"Maybe.
It depends on how much we get done on this today."
I was
going to tell him what Colby Farrow revealed to me about Olivera's scheme to
tie up the land, the stadium, and the Marlins all in one neatly-wrapped bundle,
with a pretty little ribbon around it. But I flinched. Madden had a point.
Olivera had no clear motive. Killing Ryan Farrow would be a blow to his own
efforts to put together the stadium deal, even though Colby had indicated he
could carry on by himself and see it through to completion. As for Sandra, if
she was helping Olivera in any way, doing her in would obviously be against his
own best interests.
But it
wouldn't require too much imagination to see how John Brendan Blake might want
them both dead.
All
this, plus the never-ending drive on the freeway, along with my lack of sleep,
was wearing me out. After about another twenty minutes of battling the traffic,
I finally arrived home. Inside, I turned up the heat and went straight to bed.
Within thirty seconds, I was out.
14
I woke up at the brink of nightfall. After a little puttering
around in my apartment, I decided to head down to Binion's. It had been awhile
since I'd played poker, and I was itching to get back into action.
Walking
into the poker room, I could see that the game I wanted, a small no-limit
hold'em game, was in progress. Some of the usual suspects were in their seats,
along with assorted tourists I'd never seen, as well as an Asian or two to stir
up the action. One of the regulars had just gotten up from the game, so the
floorman gave me his seat. I bought in for two hundred, and as I got myself
situated, with my chips properly arranged in front of me, I started to focus on
players and cards and tells, trying to purge my mind of shady land deals and
murder.
Twenty
minutes in, I beat Manny the Mexican out of a three hundred dollar pot, picking
off his bluff with ace-queen high, when the seat on my right became vacant.
Before I knew what was happening, Frank Madden was sitting in it.
"Looks
like you're having a good night," he murmured, eyeing my skyline of
five-dollar chips.
I held
back a smile. "Could be worse."
And on
the very next hand, it got worse. Much worse. I fell victim to a major-league
bluff by Fong, one of the Asian players at the table. He took over half my
chips and had completely outplayed me. It pissed me off.
I
muttered under my breath, something to the effect of, "I've had it",
as I got up from my chair to take a needed break, leaving my remaining chips on
the table in front of my seat. I walked out of
Similar Books
