Читать книгу Undercover Connection - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 11
ОглавлениеJacob could remember coming to South Beach with his parents as a child. Back then, the gentrification of the area was already underway.
His mom liked to tell him about the way it had been when she had been young, when the world had yet to realize the beauty and architectural value of the art deco hotels—and when the young and beautiful had headed north on South Beach to the fabulous Fontainebleau and other such hotels where the likes of Sinatra and others had performed. In her day, there had been tons of bagel shops, and high school kids had all come to hang out by the water with their surfboards—despite a lack of anything that resembled real surf.
It was where his parents had met. His father had once told him, not without some humor, that he’d fallen in love over a twenty-five-cent bagel.
The beach was beautiful. Jacob had opted for a little boutique hotel right on the water. Fisher House had been built in the early 1920s when a great deal around it had been nothing but scrub, brush and palms. It had been completely renovated and revamped about a decade ago and was charming, intimate and historic, filled with framed pictures of long ago. The back door opened to a vast porch—half filled with dining tables—and then a tiled path led to the pool and beyond down to the ocean.
Jacob started the morning early, out on the sand, watching the sun come up, feeling the ocean breeze and listening to the seagulls cry. The rising sun was shining down on the water, creating a sparkling scene with diamond-like bits of brilliance all around him.
It was a piece of heaven. Sand between his toes, and then a quick dip in the water—cool and yet temperate in the early-morning hour. He loved it. Home for him in the last few years had been Washington, D.C., or New York City. There were beaches to be found, yes, but nothing like this. So, for the first hour of the day, he let himself just love the feel of salt air around him, hear the lulling rush of waves and look out over the endless water.
There was nothing like seeing it like a native. By 9:00 a.m., he was heading along Ocean Drive. The city was coming alive by then; roller skaters whizzed by him and traffic was heavy. Art galleries and shops were beginning to open, and tourists were flocking out in all manner of beach apparel, some wearing scanty clothing and some not. While most American men were fond of surf shorts for dipping in the water, Europeans tended to Speedos and as little on their bodies as possible. It was a generalization; he didn’t like generalizations, but in this case, he was pretty sure he was right.
A fellow with a belly that surely hid his toes from his own sight—and his Speedo—walked on by and greeted Jacob with a cheerful “good morning” that was spoken with a heavy foreign accent.
Jacob smiled. The man was happy with himself and within the legal bounds of propriety for this section of the beach. And that was what mattered.
He stopped into the News Café. It was a great place to see...and be seen. Before he’d been murdered, the famous designer Gianni Versace had lived in one of South Beach’s grand old mansions. He had also dined many a morning at the News Café. Tourists flocked there. So did locals.
Jacob picked up a newspaper, ordered an egg dish and sat back and watched—and listened.
The conversation was all about the shooting of Josef Smirnoff at what should have been one of the brightest moments in the pseudo-plastic environment of the beach.
“You can bring in all the stars you want—but with those people—”
“I heard it was a mob hit!”
“Did you know that earlier, like in the morning, three bodies were found in oil drums out in the Everglades?”
“Yeah. I don’t think anyone had even reported them missing. No ID’s as of yet, but hey...like we don’t have enough problems down here.”
People were talking. Naturally.
“Told you we shouldn’t have come to Miami.”
“Hey, mobsters kill mobsters. No one else was injured. Bunch of shots, from what I read, but only the mobster was killed.”
Someone who was apparently a local spoke up.
“Actually, honestly, we’re not that bad a city. I mean, my dad says that most of our bad crimes are committed by out-of-towners and not our population.”
Bad crimes... Sure, like most people in the world, locals here wanted to fall in love, buy houses, raise children and seek the best lives possible.
But it was true, too, that South Florida was one massive melting pot—perhaps like New York City in the last decade. People came from all the Caribbean islands, Central and South America, the countries that had once comprised the Soviet Union, and from all over the world.
Most came in pursuit of a new life and freedom. Some came because a melting pot was simply a good place for criminal activity.
While he people-watched, Jacob replayed everything he had seen the day before in his mind. He remembered what he had heard.
Witnesses hadn’t been lying or overly rattled when they had reported that it seemed the shots had come from all over. From the bar, he’d had a good place to observe the whole room. And then, as Ivan had muttered that they could go closer and see, they had done so.
The shooter hadn’t been close to Josef Smirnoff—Jacob had been near him and if someone had shot him from up close, he’d have known.
He was pretty sure that the shooters had been stationed in the alcoves on the balcony that surrounded the ground floor, just outside the offices and private rooms on the second floor. The space allowed for customers to enjoy a band from upstairs, without being in the crowd below.
When he’d looked up at the balconies earlier, he hadn’t seen anyone on them. The stairs might have been blocked.
Would Jasmine have known that detail? Or would they have shared that information with a new girl?
Jasmine had, beyond a doubt, drawn attention last night. She had been captivatingly beautiful, and she had played the runway perfectly, austere and yet with a sense of fun. She was perfect for the role she was playing.
The band, the models, the excitement... It had all been perfect for the setup. It was really a miracle that no one else had been hit.
He had thought that Jasmine was going after Josef Smirnoff when he had seen her lunge at him—getting close to see that the deed was done, that he was finished off if the bullets hadn’t done their work. He’d never forget her surprise when he had tackled her...
Nor his own shock when she had thrown him off.
He was surprised to find himself smiling—he wasn’t often taken unaware. Then again, while he’d known that MDPD had police officers working undercover, he hadn’t been informed that one of them was working the runway.
A dangerous place.
But she worked it well. She had an in he could never have.
He pictured it all in his mind again. There had been multiple shooters but only one target—Josef Smirnoff. Create panic, and it might well have appeared that Smirnoff had been killed in a rain of bullets that could have been meant for anyone.
Jacob paid his bill and headed out, walking toward Dolphin Galleries. He felt the burner phone in his left pocket vibrate and he quickly pulled it out. Dean Jenkins, his Miami office counterpart, was calling.
“You alone?”
The street was busy, but as Jacob walked, he was well aware that by “alone,” Dean was asking if he was far from those involved with the Deco Gang.
“I am,” he said.
“They’re doing the autopsy now. Someone apparently had a bead on the bastard’s heart. It’s amazing that no one else was hurt. Oh, beyond cuts and bruises, I mean. People trampled people. But the bullets that didn’t hit Smirnoff hit the walls.”
“They only wanted Smirnoff dead. Kill a mobster, and the police might not look so hard. Kill a pretty ingenue, a pop star or a music icon, and the heat never ends.”
“Yep. I wanted to let you know that I’m on the ground with the detective from the City of Miami Beach and another guy from Miami-Dade PD. Figured if I was around asking questions I’d be in close contact, and you could act annoyed and harassed.”
“Good.”
“You met the undercover Miami-Dade cops, right?” Dean asked.
“I did. We’ve talked.”
“Good. The powers that be are stressing communication. They don’t want any of you ending up in the swamp.”
“Good to hear. I don’t think I’d fit into an oil drum. Don’t worry, we’ve got each other’s backs.”
“Have you been asked to move any money for the organization yet?”
“On my way in to the gallery now,” Jacob said. “I expect I’ll see someone soon enough.”
“It may take some time, with that murder at the club last night, you know.”
“A murder that I think they planned. I’d bet they’ll contact me today.”
“You’re on. Keep up with MDPD, all right? Word from the top. Both the cops and our agency are accustomed to undercover operations, but this one is more than dicey.”
“At least I get to bathe for this one,” Jacob told him.
“There’s a bright spot to everything, huh?”
“You bet.”
He ended the call, slid the phone back in his pocket and headed toward the gallery.
The sun was shining overhead. People were out on the beach, playing, soaking up the heat. The shadow of last night’s murder couldn’t ruin a vacation for the visitors who had planned for an entire year.
Besides, it was a shady rich man, a mobster, who had been killed.
He who lives by the sword...
Jacob turned the corner. Ivan Petrov was standing in front of the gallery, studying a piece of modern art.
* * *
MOE, CURLY AND LARRY—or, rather Alejandro Suarez, Antonio Garibaldi and Sasha Antonovich—were upstairs when Jasmine arrived with Jorge at precisely 10:00 a.m. the next day.
Alejandro was at the top of the stairs. Sasha was at the door to what had once been Josef Smirnoff’s office and was now the throne room for Victor Kozak.
Jasmine had made a point of greeting both Alejandro and Sasha. She presumed that Antonio was in the room with Victor, which he was. She saw him when the door to that inner sanctum opened and Natasha Volkov walked out.
The door immediately shut behind her, but not before Jasmine could see that Victor Kozak was seated at what had been Josef Smirnoff’s desk.
The king is dead; long live the king, she thought.
This had shades of all kinds of Shakespearean tragedy on it. Apparently, Josef Smirnoff had known that someone had been planning to kill him—he just hadn’t known who. Maybe he had suspected Kozak but not known. And he probably hadn’t imagined that he’d be gunned down at the celebrity opening for the club.
She knew that Smirnoff hadn’t exactly been a good man. She had heard, though, that he wasn’t on the truly evil side of bad. He’d preferred strong-arm tactics to murder. He’d rather have his debts paid, and how did a dead man pay a debt?
Jasmine couldn’t defend Smirnoff. However, she believed that Kozak was purely evil. It made her skin crawl to be near him. She had a feeling he’d kill his own mother if he saw it as a good career move.
“Ah, you are here! Such a good girl,” Natasha said, slipping an arm around Jasmine’s shoulder and moving her down the hallway. She turned back to Jorge. “You come, too, pretty boy. You are a good boy, too.”
Jorge smiled.
Natasha opened the door into a giant closet–dressing room combo. There were racks of clothing and rows of tables with mirrors surrounded by bright lights for the girls to use. Before the show the day before, the room had been filled with dressers, stylists and makeup artists.
“So sad. Poor Josef,” Natasha said, admitting them through the door and then closing it. She made a display of bringing her fingers to her eyes, as if she’d been crying. Her face was not, however, tearstained.
“We are all in shock, in mourning today,” Natasha added. “So, let me pay you for last night and we will talk for a minute, yes? Maybe you can help.”
“Definitely,” Jasmine said. “Talking would be good. Mr. Smirnoff was so kind to all of us. It’s so horrible what happened.”
“Terrible,” Jorge agreed.
“So.” Natasha grabbed a large manila envelope off one of the dressers and took out a sizable wad of cash. She counted off the amount for each of their fees. When Natasha casually handed it over, Jasmine saw it was all in large bills. It seemed like a lot of cash to have lying around.
Natasha indicated a grouping of leather love seats and chairs where models and performers waited once their makeup was complete.
Jorge and Jasmine took chairs.
“You—you were very brave,” she said, looking at Jasmine. “I was behind the curtain, but I saw the way you protected Kari and tried to help poor Josef.”
“Oh, no, not so brave,” Jasmine said. “When I was a child... I was with my parents in the Middle East, and my father taught me to get down, and get everyone around me down, anytime I heard gunshots. It was just instinct.”
“I tried to get to Jasmine,” Jorge said, “because she’s my friend.”
“Of course, of course,” Natasha said. “But you two and Kari were the ones who were out on the runway when it all happened. What did you see? Of course, I know that the police talked to everyone last night, but...we’re so upset about Josef! Perhaps you’ve remembered something...something that you might have seen?”
Jasmine shook her head. “Oh, Natasha. This is terrible, but I was only thinking about saving myself at first. I didn’t see anything at all.” Jasmine wished that she wasn’t lying. She could easily be passionate because her words were true. She wished to hell that she had seen something—anything.
She had just heard the bullets flying. And seen Josef Smirnoff go down.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she said. “Of course, I suppose this means that... Well, if you need anything from me in the future, I’d be so happy to work with you again.”
Natasha smiled. “Jasmine, you must not worry. We will always have a need for you. We are a loyal family here! And, Jorge, of course, you, too.”
“Thank you,” Jorge said earnestly.
“But nothing—nothing at all?” Natasha persisted. “Tell me about your night, from the time you stepped out on the runway.”
“It was so wonderful!” Jasmine said. “At first, I could hear the crowd. We were having a great time on the runway, and I heard people laughing and having fun...and then, that sound! I didn’t realize at first that I was hearing bullets. And then...then it was as if I knew instantly. My past, maybe,” she whispered. “And I went for Kari, and when I saw Josef down on the floor, I wanted to help... He’d been good to me, you know? Then that man—a friend of Josef’s, I think—thought that I was trying to hurt Josef, and he...he tackled me.”
“And you were angry, of course,” Natasha murmured.
“Well, at first, of course, but it was okay after. He apologized to me. He told me he thought that I wanted to hurt Josef. He was very sincere. So apologetic.”
“He saw to it that we got back to Jasmine’s place safely. I liked him,” Jorge said.
“And you, Jasmine? Did you like him?” Natasha asked.
“After we talked, of course. He was very apologetic. He told me that he’s new to Miami Beach—new to Miami. He was working up north, but he got tired of snow and ice and had some connections to help him start up in business down here, and so...he was sad that his first time really heading to a fine event ended so tragically.”
“So. He made moves on you,” Natasha said softly. She wasn’t pleased, and Jasmine recognized why.
Jasmine was now a commodity—one controlled by Natasha—even if she wasn’t supposed to really understand that yet. This newcomer needed to go through Natasha—her and Victor Kozak now—if he wanted to have Jasmine as his own special escort.
“Oh, no, he didn’t make moves,” Jasmine said.
“He was a gentleman. Almost as if he was one of your security people. He just saw that we got home safely,” Jorge said. He looked at Jasmine. “I thought maybe he liked me better.”
“Oh?” Natasha said. “Interesting.”
“No, no, Jorge—he didn’t like you better!” Jasmine said. She knew that Jorge was smirking inwardly, and yet he was playing it well. They were both saying the right things in order to be able to stay close with Jacob as they ventured further into the world of Deco Gang.
They needed everyone in on this—Federal and local. Jorge had been right.
“You found him to be a nice man?” Natasha asked.
“Very,” Jorge said before Jasmine could answer.
“Jorge, I am sorry, I don’t think that he’s interested in you,” Natasha said. “He did express interest in Jasmine. But we shall see. Be nice to him, if he should see you or try to contact you. But if he does so, you must let me know right away.”
“Of course,” Jasmine said, eyes wide. “I know that you’ll watch out for me.”
“Yes, of course. We will watch out for you,” Natasha said. She smiled. “We are family here. So, now, come with me. There will be another event soon enough. We will mourn Josef, of course. But so many are dependent on us for a living, we cannot stop. We will have a memorial or something this weekend on the beach. You will be part of it. We are family, yes? We don’t let our people...down. For now, you will give Victor Kozak your...condolences.”
Give him their condolences. If this had been happening just years earlier, they might well have been expected to kneel and kiss Kozak’s ring.
She and Jorge both smiled naively. “Definitely,” Jasmine said.
They rose; Jasmine led them down the hall.
Antonio and Alejandro were by the door to the office. Jasmine knew that Sasha Antonovich had to still be guarding the door.
Natasha tapped on the door to the office. Kozak called out, “Come in,” and they entered.
He was alone, poring over papers that lay on the table before him.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” Jasmine ventured timidly when Kozak didn’t look up.
“The police are still in the club downstairs,” he said, shaking his head. “They want to know about the balconies. I want to help them. I want to find the person who did this to our beloved Josef. But the balconies were closed off. Just with velvet cords, of course, but... Ah, Jasmine! We were all so enchanted with your performance,” he said, looking up. “And you, too, of course. You were the perfect foil for the girls,” he told Jorge.
“Thank you,” Jorge murmured.
“I don’t know who was on the balcony,” Victor went on. “We’d said there would be no one on the balcony.”
“Maybe the police have ways to find out,” Jorge suggested in a hopeful voice.
Victor Kozak waved a hand in the air. “Maybe, maybe not. We’ll keep up our own line of questioning. Anyway...”
He seemed to stop in midthought and gave his attention to them. “Please, I know that you were hired by Josef, but...it is my sincere hope that you will remain with us. We pay our regular models a retainer, which you will receive while we wait for this...for this painful situation to be behind us. That is, if you still wish to be with us.”
“For sure!” Jasmine said.
“Retainer? Me, too?” Jorge asked hopefully.
Kozak glanced over at Natasha. She must have given him her approval with the slightest nod.
“Yes, you were quite the centerpiece for our lovely young girls. We have a reputation for always having beautiful people in our clubs. All you need to do is be around, available to us, and maybe meet some people we’d like to introduce you to. Please, we will be in touch. You may come in tomorrow for your paychecks.”
They both thanked him profusely. Natasha led them down to the street.
As they were going out, Kari Anderson was just arriving. She threw her arms around Jasmine, shaking.
“I don’t think I had a chance to thank you. You saved my life!” Kari told her.
“Kari, I just made you get down,” Jasmine said, flushing and very aware that both Natasha and Sasha were watching the exchange. “Instinct!” she added quickly. “And we’re all just so lucky...except for poor Josef.”
“I know, it’s so terrible,” said the young blonde, her empathy real. Jasmine liked Kari. She was an honest kind person who seemed oblivious to her natural beauty. “Josef was always nice. It’s so sad. Terrible that people do these things today! Terrible that poor Josef was caught in it all.”
Naive—just like Mary, Jasmine thought. Not lacking confidence but unaware of just how much they had to offer.
“Come on up. We will straighten all out with you, Kari,” Natasha said. “We will be all right. Victor will see to it,” she added. “Now, you two run along and try to enjoy some downtime. Kari, come with me. We will have work for all of you—you needn’t stress.”
“See you, Kari,” Jorge said, waving.
He and Jasmine started down the street while Natasha led Kari past Sasha and up the stairs.
“I worry about her,” Jasmine said.
“I worry about all of us,” Jorge said. “I was worried about the two of us unarmed during the show. We were taking a major chance.”
“We knew there would be cops all over.”
“Right. And Josef Smirnoff is dead and bullets were flying everywhere.”
She couldn’t argue that.
“So, tomorrow, we go back for our checks. Our retainer checks,” she murmured.
“And you know we’re going to be asked to do something for those checks.”
“At least I don’t think they’re remotely suspicious of us,” Jasmine told him.
“Not yet. We’re still new.”
“Kari came in just ahead of me,” Jasmine said. “She...she was a replacement for Mary, I think.”
“Here’s the thing—what do we do when they want something from us that we don’t want to do?” Jorge asked. “We haven’t gotten anyone to admit to any criminal activity. If they ask you to be an escort, that’s actually legal. So, you go off with someone they set you up with—and that guy wants sex. What do you do? Arrest the guy? That won’t get us anywhere. And you sure as hell aren’t going to compromise yourself.”
“You may be asked first.”
“I’m pretty—but not as pretty as you are.”
Jasmine laughed. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, you know.”
“Trust me on this. You’ll be first. They’ll tread a little more lightly with me.”
Jasmine shook her head. “We have to get in more tightly, hear things and find something on them. You’re right. They’ll deny they have anything to do with illegally selling sex—I’m sure they’ve got that all worked out.” She sighed. “I guess that our FBI connection will do a better job—he’ll find out what they’re doing with the money.”
“How do we prove murder?” Jorge asked softly.
Jasmine lowered her head.
Jorge took her shoulders and spun her around to look at him. “We don’t know that Mary is dead.”
“I know,” she whispered.
She was startled when her phone started to ring; it was a pay-as-you-go phone, one purchased in her cover name, Jasmine Alamein.
She looked at Jorge. “It’s Natasha.”
“Answer it!”
“Ah, Jasmine, my darling,” Natasha said. “I’m so glad to reach you so quickly.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Jasmine said.
“We have a favor to ask of you. It includes a bonus, naturally.”
“What is it?” Jasmine asked. Jorge was staring at her, wary.
“That friend of Josef’s—Mr. Marensky. He is new in town. He has asked if you would be so good as to show him around. We’d be happy if you could do so—he came to us, instead of trying to twist our arm for a phone number. You will take him around town, yes? I said that wrong. He wishes to take you to dinner and perhaps you could show him some of the beach. And report to me, of course.”
“Yes, for sure. Where do you want me to be when?” Jasmine asked.
“He will call for you at your apartment. Please, make sure your friend is not there when he arrives.”
“What time?”
“Eight o’clock tonight.”
“Thank you, Natasha. I will be ready.”
“Wear something very pretty.” Natasha didn’t mean pretty. She meant sexy.
“I will. Thank you. Thank you!”
“My pleasure. Tomorrow morning you will come back in here.”
“Yes, Natasha.” Jasmine hung up. Jorge was staring at her. “My first date.”
“I was afraid of this.”
“She doesn’t want you hanging around when my date comes for me.”
“Like hell!”
“It’s Jacob—Marensky.”
“Oh.” Jorge breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m just a little worried,” Jasmine said.
“About Jacob?”
Jasmine laughed. “Not on that account—I’m not sure he’s particularly fond of me.”
“You were acting badly.”
“I was not—”
“You were.”
“Never mind. I’m just wondering what good it’s going to do if we just wind up watching one another.”
“Trust me. That man has a plan in mind.”
“I hope you’re right. I’m so worried.”
“Jasmine, we just went undercover. You know as well as I do that often cops and agents have to lead a double life for months to get what they’re after. Years.”
“This can’t take that long,” she said softly. She didn’t add the rest of what she was thinking.
If it did...they might well end up dead themselves.
