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Undercover Connection
Heather Graham
Danger is hiding in the hot Miami night…Much to their mutual annoyance, FBI agent Jacob Wolff and Miami detective Jasmine Adair discover they’re both undercover to bust a notorious organized crime group. But amid a glamorous South Beach nightclub opening, their key informant is killed, leaving Jacob and Jasmine the dangerous job of infiltrating the ring. With desire igniting between them, can they set aside their distrust and work together to bring down the brutal mobsters


Danger is hiding in the hot Miami night...
Much to their mutual annoyance, FBI agent Jacob Wolff and Miami detective Jasmine Adair discover they’re both undercover to bust a notorious organized crime group. But amid a glamorous South Beach nightclub opening, their key informant is killed, leaving Jacob and Jasmine the dangerous job of infiltrating the ring. With desire igniting between them, can they set aside their distrust and work together to bring down the brutal mobsters?
New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author HEATHER GRAHAM has written more than a hundred novels. She’s a winner of the Romance Writers of America’s Lifetime Achievement Award, a Thriller Writers’ Silver Bullet and in 2016, the Thriller Master Award from ITS. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America, and is the founder of The Slush Pile Players, an author band and theatrical group. An avid scuba diver, ballroom dancer and mother of five, she still enjoys her South Florida home, but also loves to travel.
For more information, check out her website, theoriginalheathergraham.com (http://theoriginalheathergraham.com), or find Heather on Facebook.
Also by Heather Graham (#u572d0887-8df4-5438-af8f-26ac52ec6294)
Law and Disorder
Shadows in the Night
Out of the Darkness
Echoes of Evil
Pale as Death
Fade to Black
A Dangerous Game
Wicked Deeds
Dark Rites
Dying Breath
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Undercover Connection
Heather Graham


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07954-9
UNDERCOVER CONNECTION
© 2018 Heather Graham Pozzessere
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Lorna Broussard—with love and thanks for all
the help and support for…well, many years!
Contents
Cover (#u33a4fe26-42b7-5f6a-959f-7f2bdd125634)
Back Cover Text (#ufcd0b651-2d16-5478-ad05-38ade8e117ce)
About the Author (#ub8bb1cfb-1bf1-527c-89f9-0c3d237fb363)
Booklist (#u5562182e-837b-55a2-9e07-fb98d116bad0)
Title Page (#u5c49ca39-7dcd-59de-a046-b199a1464b5c)
Copyright (#u92123a26-0b8f-544b-bab1-3ce36606c9c1)
Dedication (#ue3639f61-de4e-5abf-8f84-8393b6ee01c3)
Chapter One (#ueadccf51-3c26-5059-9519-c9c9b1f676c3)
Chapter Two (#u6fbd950d-7651-5abd-b2bf-826360b6cec9)
Chapter Three (#u536a54b7-2c5f-532b-a665-b6879cf54564)
Chapter Four (#ue36f6e38-535f-51a3-afc5-2d0165c14793)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u572d0887-8df4-5438-af8f-26ac52ec6294)
The woman on the runway was truly one of the most stunning creatures Jacob Wolff had ever seen. Her skin was pure bronze, as sleek and as dazzling as the deepest sun ray.
When she turned, he could see—even from his distance at the club’s bar—that her eyes were light. Green, he thought, and a sharp contrast to her skin. She had amazing hair, long and so shimmering that it was as close to pure black as it was possible to be; so dark it almost had a gleam of violet. She was long-legged, lean and yet exquisitely shaped as she moved in the creation she modeled—a mix of pastel colors that was perfectly enhanced by her skin—the dress was bare at the shoulder and throat with a plunging neckline, and back, and then swept to the floor.
She moved like a woman accustomed to such a haughty strut: proud, confident, arrogant and perhaps even amused by the awe of the onlookers.
“That one—she will rule the place one day.”
Jacob turned.
Ivan Petrov leaned on one elbow across the bar from Jacob. Ivan bartended and—so Jacob believed thus far—ran all things that had to do with the on-the-ground-management of the Gold Sun Club. The burning-hot new establishment was having its grand opening tonight.
“I’d imagine,” Jacob said. He leaned closer over the bar and smiled. “And I imagine that she might perhaps be...available?”
Ivan smiled, clearly glad that Jacob had asked him; Ivan was a proud man, appreciative that Jacob had noted his position of power within the club.
“Not...immediately,” Ivan said. “She is fairly new. But all things come in good time, my friend, eh? Now you,” he said, pouring a shot of vodka for Jacob, “you are fairly new, too. New to Miami Beach—new to our ways. We have our...social...rules, you know.”
Jacob knew all too well.
And he knew what happened to those who didn’t follow the rules—or who dared to make their own. He’d been south of I-75 that morning, off part of the highway still known as Alligator Alley, and for good reason. He’d been deep in the Everglades where a Seminole ranger had recently discovered a bizarre cache of oil drums, inside of which had been several bodies in various stages of decomposition.
“I have my reputation,” Jacob said softly.
Ivan caught Jacob’s meaning. Yes, Jacob would follow the rules. But he was his own man—very much a made man from the underbelly of New York City. Now, he’d bought a gallery on South Beach; but he’d been doing his other business for years.
At least, that was the information that had been fed to what had become known as the Deco Gang—so called because of the beautifully preserved architecture on South Beach.
Jacob was for all intents and purposes a new major player in the area. And it was important, of course, that he appear to be a team player—but a very powerful team player who respected another man’s turf while also keeping a strict hold on his own.
“A man’s reputation must be upheld,” Ivan said, nodding approvingly.
“While, of course, he gives heed to all that belongs to another man, as well,” Jacob assured him.
A loud clash of drums drew Jacob’s attention for a moment. The Dissidents were playing that night; they were supposedly one of the hottest up-and-coming bands, not just in the state, but worldwide.
The grand opening to the Gold Sun Club had been invitation only; tomorrow night, others would flow in, awed by the publicity generated by this celebrity-studded evening. The rich and the beautiful—and the not-so-rich but very beautiful—were all on the ground floor, listening to the popular new band and watching the fashion show.
Jacob took in the place as a whole, noting a balcony level that ran the perimeter, with a bar above the stage. But that night all the guests were downstairs, and Ivan Petrov was manning the main bar himself.
The elegant model on the runway swirled with perfect timing, walking toward the crowd again, pausing to seductively steal a delicious-looking apple from the hands of a pretty boy—a young male model, dressed as Adonis—standing like a statue at the bottom of the steps to the runway.
“I believe,” Jacob told Ivan, turning to look at him gravely again, “that my business will be an asset to your business, and that we will work in perfect harmony together.”
“Yes,” Ivan said. “Mr. Smirnoff invited you, right?”
Jacob nodded. “Josef brought me in.”
Ivan said, “He is an important man.”
“Yes, I know,” Jacob assured him.
If Ivan only knew how.
* * *
JASMINE ADAIR—JASMINE ALAMEIN, as far as this group was concerned—was glad that she had managed to learn the art of walking a runway, without tripping, and observing at the same time. It wasn’t as if she’d had training or gone to cotillion classes—did they still have cotillion classes?—but she’d been graced with the most wonderful parents in the world.
Her mother had been with the Peace Corps—maybe a natural course for her, having somewhat global roots. Her mom’s parents had come from Jordan and Kenya, met and married in Morocco and moved to the United States. Jasmine’s mom, Liliana, had been born and grown up in Miami, but had traveled the world to help people before she’d finally settled down. Liliana had been a great mom, always all about kindness to others and passionate that everyone must be careful with others. She had believed that words could make or break a person’s day, and truly seeing people was one of the most important talents anyone could have in life.
Declan Adair, Jasmine’s dad, was mostly Irish-American. He’d been a cop and had taught Jasmine what that meant to him—serving his community.
They had both taught her about absolute equality for every color, race, creed, sex and sexual orientation, and they had both taught her that good people were good people and, all in all, most of the people in the world were good, longing for the same things, especially in America—life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
They sounded like a sweet pair of hippies; they had been anything but. Her father had also taught her that those who appeared to be the nicest people in the world often were not—and that lip service didn’t mean a hell of a lot and could hide an ocean of lies and misdeeds.
“Judging people—hardest call you’ll ever make,” he’d told her once. “Especially when you have to do so quickly.”
He’d shaken his head in disgust over the result of a trial often enough, and her mother had always reminded him, “There are things that just aren’t allowed before a jury, Declan. Things that the jury just doesn’t see and doesn’t know.”
“Not to worry—we’ll get them next time,” he would assure her.
Jasmine scanned the crowd. Members of this group, the so-called Deco Gang, hadn’t been gotten yet. And they needed to be—no one really knew the full extent of their crimes because they were good. Damned good at knowing how to game the justice system.
Fanatics came in all kinds—and fanatics were dangerous. Just as criminals came in all kinds, and they ruined the lives of those who wanted to live in peace, raising their children, working...enjoying their liberty and pursuing their happiness.
That’s why cops were so important—something she had learned when sometimes her dad, the detective, hadn’t made it to a birthday party.
Because of him, she’d always wanted to be a cop. And she was a damned good one, if she did say so herself.
At the moment, it was her mother’s training that was paying off. As a child, Jasmine had accompanied her mom to all kinds of fund-raisers—and once she was a teenager, she’d started modeling at fashion shows in order to attract large donations for her mom’s various charities. She had worked with a few top designers who were equally passionate about feeding children or raising awareness when natural disasters devastated various regions in the States and around the world.
So as Jasmine strutted and played it up for the audience, she also watched.
The event had attracted the who’s who of the city. She could see two television stars who were acting in current hit series. Alphonse Mangiulli—renowned Italian artist—was there, along with Cam Li, the Chinese businessman who had just built two of the largest hotels in the world, one in Dubai and one on Miami Beach. Mathilda Glen—old, old Miami society and money—had made it, along with the famed English film director, Eric Summer.
And amid this gathering of the rich and famous was also a meeting of the loosely organized group of South Beach criminals that the Miami-Dade police called the Deco Gang.
They had come together under the control of a Russian-born kingpin, Josef Smirnoff, and they were an equal-opportunity group of very dangerous criminals. They weren’t connected to the Italian Mafia or Cosa Nostra, and they weren’t the Asian mob or a cartel from any South American or island country. And they were hard to pin down, using legitimate business for money laundering and for their forays into drug smuggling and dealing and prostitution.
Crimes had been committed; the bodies of victims had been found, but for the most part, those who got in the way of the gang were eliminated. Because of their connections with one another, alibis were abundant, evidence disappeared, and pinning anything on any one individual had been an elusive goal for the police.
Jasmine had used every favor she had saved up to get assigned to this case. It helped that her looks gave her a good cover for infiltration.
Her captain—Mac Lorenzo—probably suspected that she had her own motives. But he didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell. She hadn’t let Lorenzo know that her personal determination to bring down the Deco Gang had begun when Mary Ahearn had disappeared. Her old friend had vanished without a trace after working with a nightclub that was most probably a front for a very high-scale prostitution ring.
She could see Josef Smirnoff in the front of the crowd; he was smiling and looking right at her. He seemed to like what he saw. Good. He was the man in charge, and she needed access to him. She needed to be able to count his bodyguards and his henchmen and get close to him.
She wasn’t working alone; Jasmine was blessed with an incredible partner, Jorge Fuentes.
Along with being a dedicated cop, Jorge was also extremely good-looking, and thanks to that, he’d been given leeway when he’d shown up at the Gold Sun Club, supposedly looking for work. Jasmine had told Natasha Volkov—manager of the models who worked these events or sat about various places looking pretty—that she’d worked with Jorge before and that he was wonderfully easygoing. Turned out the show was short a man; Jorge had been hired on for the day easily. They’d cast him as Adonis and given him a very small costume to wear.
Jorge had been trying to get a moment alone with her as preparations for the fashion show had gone on. Jasmine had been undercover for several weeks prior to the club’s opening night, and briefings had been few and far between. The opportunity hadn’t arisen as yet, but they’d be able to connect—as soon as the runway show part of the party was over. She was curious what updates Jorge had, but they were both savvy enough to bide their time. Neither of them dared to blow their covers with this group—such a mistake could result in instant death, with neither of them even aware or able to help the other in any way.
Her cover story was complete. She had a rented room on Miami Beach, which she took for a week before answering the ad for models. She’d been given an effective fake résumé—one that showed she’d worked but never been on the top. And might well be hungry to get there.
After a lightning-quick change of clothes backstage, she made another sweep down the runway. She noted the celebrities in attendance. South Beach clubs were like rolls of toilet paper—people used them up and discarded them without a thought. What was popular today might be deserted within a month.
But she didn’t think that this enterprise would care—the showy opening was just another front for the illegal activities that kept them going.
She noted the men and women surrounding Josef Smirnoff. He was about six feet tall, big and solidly muscled. His head was immaculately bald, which made his sharp jaw even more prominent and his dark eyes stand out.
On his arm was an up-and-coming young starlet. She was in from California, a lovely blue-eyed blonde, clearly hoping that Smirnoff’s connections here would allow her to rub elbows with the right people.
Jasmine hoped that worked out for her—and that she didn’t become involved with the wrong people.
Natasha was with him, as well. She had modeled in her own youth, in Europe. About five-eleven and in her midfifties, Natasha had come up through the ranks. One of the girls had whispered to Jasmine that Natasha had always been smart—she had managed to sleep her way up with the right people. She was an attractive woman, keeping her shoulder-length hair a silvery-white color that enhanced her slim features. She kept tight control of the fashion show and other events, and sharp eyes on everyone and everything.
Rumor had it she was sleeping with Josef. It wasn’t something she proclaimed or denied. But there were signs. Jasmine wondered if she cared for Josef—or if it was a power play.
Jasmine had to wonder how Natasha felt about the beautiful women who were always around. But she understood, for Natasha, life hadn’t been easy. Power probably overrode emotion.
The men by Smirnoff were his immediate bodyguards. Jasmine thought of them as Curly, Moe and Larry. In truth, they were Alejandro Suarez, Antonio Garibaldi and Sasha Antonovich. All three were big men, broad-shouldered and spent their off-hours in the gym. One of the three was always with Smirnoff. On a day like today, they were all close to him.
Victor Kozak was there, as well. Victor was apparently the rising heir to receive control of the action. He was taller and slimmer than Josef, and he had bright blue eyes and perfectly clipped, salt-and-pepper facial hair. He was extremely pleasant to Jasmine—so pleasant that it made her feel uneasy.
She knew about them all somewhat because she had talked to Mary about what she was doing. She had warned Mary that there was suspicion about the group on South Beach that ran so many of the events that called for runway models or beautiful people just to be in a crowd. Beautiful people who, it was rumored, you could engage to spend time with privately. Mary had described many of these players before Jasmine had met them.
Before Mary had disappeared.
The club manager was behind the bar; he didn’t often work that kind of labor himself. He usually oversaw what was going on there. He was like the bodyguards—solid, watching, earning his way up the ranks.
Still watching, Jasmine made another of her teasing plays with Jorge—pointing out the next model who was coming down the runway. Kari Anderson was walking along in a black caftan that accented the fairness of her skin and the platinum shimmer of her hair. Jorge stood perfectly still; only his eyes moved, drawing laughter from the crowd.
As Jasmine did her turn around, she noted a man at the bar. She did not know him, or anything about him. He was a newcomer, Kari had told her. A big man in New York City. He was taller and leaner than any of the other men, and yet Jasmine had the feeling that he was steel-muscled beneath the designer suit he was wearing. He hadn’t close-cropped his hair either; it was long, shaggy around his ears, a soft brown.
He was definitely the best looking of the bunch. His face was crafted with sharp clean contours, high defined cheekbones, a nicely squared chin and wide-set, light eyes. He could have been up on the runway, playing “pretty boy” with Jorge.
But of course, newcomer though he might be, he’d be one of “them.” He’d recently come to South Beach, pretending to be some kind of an artist and owning and operating a gallery.
The hair. Maybe he believed that would disguise him as an artist—rather than a murdering criminal.
When she had made another turn, after pausing to do a synchronized turn with Kari, she saw that the new guy had left the bar area, along with the bartender. They were near Josef Smirnoff now.
Allowed into the inner circle.
Just as she noticed them, a loud crack rang out. The sound was almost masked by the music.
People didn’t react.
Instinct and experience told Jasmine that it was indeed a gunshot. She instantly grabbed hold of Kari and dragged her down to the platform, all but lying over her. Another shot sounded; a light exploded in a hail of sparks. Then the rat-tat-tat of bullets exploded throughout the room.
The crowd began to scream and move.
There was nothing orderly about what happened—people panicked. It was hard not to blame them. It was a fearsome world they lived in.
“Stay down!” Jasmine told Kari, rising carefully.
Jorge was already on the floor, trying to help up a woman who had fallen, in danger of being trampled.
Bodyguards and police hired for the night were trying to bring order. Jasmine jumped into the crowd, trying to fathom where the shots had been fired. It was a light at the end of the runway that had exploded; where the other shot had come from was hard to discern.
The band had panicked, as well. A guitar crashed down on the floor.
Josef Smirnoff was on the ground, too. His bodyguards were near, trying to hold off the people who were set to run over him.
It was an absolute melee.
Jasmine helped up a young man, a white-faced rising star in a new television series. He tried to thank her.
“Get out, go—walk quickly,” she said.
There were no more shots. But would they begin again?
She made her way to Smirnoff, ducking beneath the distracted bodyguards. She knelt by him as people raced around her.
“Josef?” she said, reaching for his shoulder, turning him over.
Blood covered his chest. There was no hope for the man; he was already dead, his eyes open in shock. There was blood on her now, blood on the designer gown she’d been wearing, everywhere.
She looked up; Jorge had to be somewhere nearby. Instead she saw a man coming after her, reaching for her as if to attack.
She rolled quickly, avoiding him once. But as she prepared to fight back, she felt as if she had been taken down by a linebacker. She stared up into the eyes of the long-haired newcomer; bright blue eyes, startling against his face and dark hair. She felt his hands on her, felt the strength in his hold.
No. She was going to take him down.
She jackknifed her body, letting him use his own weight against himself, causing him to crash into the floor.
He was obviously surprised. It took him a second—but only a second—to spin himself. He was back on his feet in a hunched position, ready to spring at her.
Where the hell is Jorge?
She feinted as if she would dive down to the left and dived to the right instead. She caught the man with a hard chop to the abdomen that should have stolen his breath.
He didn’t give. She was suddenly tackled again, down on the ground, feeling the full power of the man’s strength atop her. She stared up into his blue eyes, glistening like ice at the moment.
She realized the crowd was gone; she could hear the bustle at the doorway, hear the police as they poured in at the entrance.
But right there, at that moment, Josef Smirnoff lay dead in an ungodly pool of blood—blood she wore—just feet away.
And there was this man.
And herself.
“Hey!” Thank God, Jorge had found her. He dived down beside them, as if joining the fight. But he didn’t help Jasmine; he made no move against the man. He lay next to her, as if he’d just also been taken down himself.
“Stop! FBI, meet MDPD. Jasmine, he’s undercover. Jacob... Jasmine is a cop. My partner,” Jorge whispered urgently.
The man couldn’t have looked more surprised. Then, he made a play of socking Jorge, and Jorge lay still. The man stood and dragged Jasmine to her feet. For a long moment he looked into her eyes, and then he wrenched her elbow behind her back.
“Play it out,” he said, “nothing else to do.”
“Sure,” Jasmine told him.
And as he led her out—toward Victor Kozak, who now stood in the front, ready to take charge, Jasmine managed to twist and deliver a hard right to his jaw.
He stared at her, rubbing his jaw with his free hand.
“Play it out,” she said softly.
The Feds always thought they knew more than the locals, whether they were team people or not. He’d probably be furious. He’d want to call the shots.
But at least his presence meant that the Feds had been aware of this place. They had listened to the police, and they had sent someone in. It was probably what Jorge had been trying to tell her.
Jacob was still staring at her. Well, she did have a damned good right hook.
To her surprise, he almost seemed to smile. “Play it out,” he said. And to her continued surprise, he added, “You are one hell of a player!”
Chapter Two (#u572d0887-8df4-5438-af8f-26ac52ec6294)
“Someone knew,” Jorge said. “Someone knew that Smirnoff came in—that he was selling them all out.”
“Maybe,” Jacob Wolff said. He was sitting on the sofa in Jasmine’s South Beach apartment.
She didn’t know why, but it bothered her that he was there. So comfortable. So thoughtful. But it hadn’t been until now, with him in her apartment, that she really understood what was going on.
Two weeks ago, Josef Smirnoff had made contact with Dean Jenkins, a special agent assigned to the Miami office. Jenkins had gone to his superiors, and from there, Jacob Wolff had been called in. Among his other talents, he was a linguist, speaking Russian, Ukrainian, Spanish, Portuguese and French, including Cajun and Haitian Creole. He also knew a smattering of Czech and Polish. And German, enough to get by.
Maybe that’s why she was resenting him. No one should be that accomplished.
No, it was simply because he had taken her by surprise.
“Maybe someone knew,” Wolff said. He added, “And maybe not.”
“If not, why—?” Jorge asked.
Wolff leaned forward. “Because,” he said softly, “I believe that Kozak set up that hit. Not because he knew about anything that Smirnoff had done, but because he’s been planning on taking over. Perhaps for some time.
“Smirnoff came in to us because he was afraid—he’d been the boss forever, but he knew how that could end if a power play went down. He was afraid. He wanted out. Kozak was the one who wanted Smirnoff out. And he figured out how to do it—and make it look as if he was as pure as the driven snow in the whole thing himself. He was visible to dozens of people when Smirnoff was killed. He played his cards right. There were plenty of cops there today, in uniform. What better time to plan an execution, when he wouldn’t look the least guilty? In this crime ring, he was definitely the next man up—vice president, if you will.”
“The thing is, if Kozak figures out something is up, we’re all in grave danger,” Jorge pointed out. “Undercover may not work.”
“Jorge, undercover work is the only thing that might bring them down,” Jasmine protested.
She was leaning against the archway between the living-dining area of the apartment and the kitchen. It was late; she was tired. But it had been the first chance for the three of them to talk.
After the chaos, everyone had been interviewed by the police. Stars—the glittering rich and famous and especially the almost-famous—had done endless interviews with the press, as well. Thankfully, there had been plenty of celebrities to garner attention. Jasmine, Jorge and Jacob Wolff had all managed to avoid being seen on television, but still, maintaining their cover had meant they were there for hours.
She’d been desperate to shower, and her blood-soaked gown had gone to the evidence locker.
In the end, they’d been seen leaving together, but that had been all right. Everyone knew that Jorge was Jasmine’s friend—she’d brought him into the show, after all.
And as for Jacob Wolff...
“You shouldn’t have made that show of going off with us in front of Victor Kozak,” she said, glaring at Wolff. She realized her tone was harsh. Too harsh. But this was her apartment—or, at least, her cover persona’s apartment—and she felt like a cat on a hot tin roof while he relaxed comfortably on her rented couch.
She needed to take a deep breath; start over with the agent.
He didn’t look her way, just shrugged. “I told Ivan, the bartender, I wanted to get to know you. They believe I’m an important player out of New York. Right now, they’re observing me. And they believe if they respect me, I’ll respect them, play by their rules. I’m supposed to be a money launderer—I’m not into many of their criminal activities, including prostitution or any form of modern slavery. My cover is that of an art dealer with dozens of foreign ties.
“Before all this went down tonight, I was trying to befriend Ivan, who apparently manages the girls. I’m trying to figure out how the women are entangled in their web. Apparently, they move slowly. Most probably, with drugs. Before all this went down tonight, I’d asked about you, Jasmine, as if taking advantage of the ‘friendship’ they’ll offer me. He said you weren’t available yet, but that all good things come in time, or something to that effect. He’ll think I took advantage of the situation instead—and that I’m offering you all the comfort a man in my position can offer.”
“Really?” Jasmine asked. “But I was with Jorge.”
Wolff finally looked at her, waving a hand in the air. “Yes, and they all know you two are friends, and that it’s normal you would have left with Jorge. But Jorge is gay.”
“That’s what you told them?” Jasmine asked.
“I am gay,” Jorge said, shrugging.
Jasmine turned to him. “You are? You never told me.”
“You never asked. Hey, we’re great partners. I never asked who you were dating. Oh, wait, you never do seem to date.”
Jasmine could have kicked him. “Hey!” she protested. Great. She felt like an idiot. She and Jorge were close, but...it was true. They’d been working together for a while, they were friends. Just friends. And because of that, she hadn’t thought to ask—
It didn’t matter. They’d both tacitly known from the beginning as partners they’d never date each other, and neither had ever thought to ask the other about their love life.
She had to draw some dignity out of this situation.
“At least we did the expected,” she said. “I guarantee we were watched. Oh, and by the way, Ivan Petrov controls the venue. But Natasha really runs the models. She gives the assignments, and she’s the one who hands out the paychecks.”
Wolff looked at her. “You’re going to have to be very careful. From all that I’ve been told, she’s been with this enterprise from the beginning. She may be almost as powerful as Kozak himself. When Natasha got into it, she wasn’t manipulated into sex work. She used sex as an investment. She came into it as a model, slept with whomever they wanted—and worked her way up to Kozak.”
“I am careful,” Jasmine told him. “I’m a good cop—determined, but not suicidal.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So, this is all as good as it can be,” Wolff said, shaking his head. “What matters most here tonight is that we’ve lost Smirnoff, our informant. And we’ve still got to somehow get into this and take them all down. We have to take Kozak down, with all the budding lieutenants, too. My position with this group is pretty solid—the Bureau does an amazing job when it comes to inventing a history. But the fashion show is over. The opening is over. The club will be closed down for a few days.”
“I’ll have an in, don’t worry. The last words from Natasha this evening had to do with us all reporting in tomorrow—for one, to return the clothing. For another, to find out where we go from here.” Jasmine hesitated.
“They haven’t asked you to entertain anyone yet?” Wolff asked.
“New girls get a chance to believe they’re just models. After that, they’re asked to escort at certain times, and, of course, from there...”
“We’ll have this wrapped up before then,” Jorge assured her.
“And if not, you’ll just get the hell out of it,” Wolff said.
“You don’t have to be protective. I’ve been with the Special Investigations Division for three years now, and I’ve dealt with some pretty heinous people,” Jasmine told him.
“I’ve dealt with them, too,” Wolff said quietly. “And I spent this afternoon up in the Everglades, a plot of godforsaken swamp with a bunch of oil drums filled with bodies. And I’ve been FBI for almost a decade. That didn’t make today any better.”
“I’m not saying anything makes it better. I’m just saying I can take care of myself,” Jasmine said.
She really hadn’t meant to be argumentative. But she did know what she was doing, and throughout her career, she’d learned it was usually the people who felt the need to emphasize their competency who were the ones who weren’t so sure of their competency after all. She was confident in her abilities—or, at least she had thought she was.
With this Fed, she was becoming defensive. She hated the feeling.
“Guys, guys! Time-out,” Jorge said.
Wolff stood, apparently all but dismissing her. “I’m heading back to my place. Most days, I’ll be hanging around a real art shop that’s supposedly mine. Dolphin Galleries.”
He handed Jorge a card, then turned to look at Jasmine. “Feel free to watch out for me. In my mind, no one cop can beat everything out there. We all need people watching our backs. I’m more than happy to know I have MDPD in deep with me.”
His words didn’t help in the least; Jasmine still felt like a chastised toddler. What made it worse was the fact he was right. They did need to look out for one another.
She wanted to apologize. They had met awkwardly. She wasn’t brash, she wasn’t an idiot—she was a team player. But despite his words, she had the sense that he was already doubting her.
“I’ll be hanging as close as I can,” he said. “The woman managing the shop, Katrina Partridge, is with us. If you need me and I’m not there, just ask her. I trust her with my life.”
He didn’t look back. If he had done so, Jasmine was certain, it would have been to look at Jorge with pity for having been paired with her.
When Jacob was gone, she strode to the door and slid the bolts. She had three.
“Jerk!” she said. She turned back into the room and flounced down on the sofa.
“Not really. Just bad circumstances,” Jorge said, taking a seat beside her. “I, uh, actually like the guy.”
She looked at him. “I don’t dislike him. I don’t really know him.”
“Could have fooled me.”
She ignored that. “Jorge, how did it happen? We were all there. The place was spilling over with cops. And someone shot and killed Smirnoff—with all of us there—and we don’t know who or how.”
“They were counting on the place being filled with cops, Jasmine. Detectives will be on the case and our crime scene techs will find a trajectory for the bullet that killed him. We do our part, they do theirs. Thing is, whoever killed him, they were just the working part of the bigger machine. We have to get to the major players—Kozak, whoever else. Not that the man or woman who was pulling the trigger shouldn’t serve life, but...it won’t matter.”
“No, it won’t matter,” she agreed. What they needed to do was find Mary. She nodded.
He took her hand and squeezed it. “You’re just thrown. We weren’t expecting to take them all down tonight.”
“We weren’t expecting Smirnoff to get killed tonight. I—I didn’t even know he’d gone to the FBI!”
“I knew but couldn’t tell you. And I didn’t know that Smirnoff would be killed before I had a chance to loop you in. I’m sorry—I put you and Wolff both in a bad position. At least you didn’t shoot each other. You know you’re resenting him because he had you down.”
“He did not have me down.”
“Almost had you down.”
“I almost had him down.”
“Ouch. Take a breath,” Jorge warned.
She did, and she shook her head. “I worked with a Fed once.”
“And he was okay, right? Come on, we’re all going in the same direction.”
“He was great. Old dude—kept telling me he had a granddaughter my age. Made me feel like I should have been in bed by ten,” Jasmine said and smiled.
Jorge arched his brow at her.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “I resent the fact he almost had me down. But really, I almost had him, too.” She squeezed his hand in return. “How come we never have discussed our love lives and this stranger knew more about you than I did?”
“’Cause neither of us cares what our preferences are, and we work well together—and we enjoy what we’re doing. And Wolff for sure had all of us checked out before agreeing to work with us. He’d need to know our backgrounds and that we’re clean cops. Also, you’re a workaholic and even when we’re grabbing quick food or popping into a bookstore, we’re still working.”
“Not really,” she told him. “Honestly, not until this operation.”
He nodded. “Mary,” he said softly.
“Jorge, I’m so afraid she’s dead.” She paused. “Even more now. Do you have any details about the oil drums they found today? All I’ve seen is what has been on the news. Captain Lorenzo was even with the cops doing the interviews at the show, but I didn’t get to ask him anything. Obviously, I did my best to be a near hysterical model.”
“You were terrific.”
She laughed. “So were you.” Jasmine tried to smile, but she was searching out his eyes.
“Mary wasn’t in one of the oil drums,” he said.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. The bodies discovered were all men.”
“Oh, thank God. I mean... I’m not glad that anyone was dead, but—”
“It’s all right,” Jorge assured her. “I understand. So, tomorrow will be tense. I’m going to get out of here. Let you get some sleep.” He started to rise, and then he didn’t. “Never mind.”
“Never mind?”
“I’m going to stay here.”
“I don’t need to be protected,” she said. “Bolts on the door, gun next to the bed.”
“You don’t need to be protected?” Jorge said. “I do! Safety in numbers. Bolt the door and let’s get some sleep.”
She rose. “Okay, I lied, and you’re right—anyone can be taken by surprise. And I have been a jerk and I don’t know why.”
“I do,” Jorge said softly. “You really shouldn’t be working this case. You have a personal involvement. And in a way, so do I. I’ve met Mary.”
Jasmine nodded. “I don’t feel that I’m really up to speed yet, despite what we learned from Wolff. I’ll get you some pillows and bedding,” she told him.
“What time are we supposed to be where?” he asked her as she laid out sheets on the sofa.
“Ten o’clock, back at the club.”
“I’m willing to bet half of it will still be shut down.”
“We won’t be going to the floor. We’ll be picking up our pay in the offices, using the VIP entrance on the side to the green room and staging areas.”
“You know that we can get in?”
She nodded. “I wound up with Natasha and the other girls in a little group when the police were herding people for interviews. Natasha asked the lead detective—Detective Greenberg is in charge for the City of Miami Beach—and he told her that they’d cordon off the club area until they finished with the investigation. Owners and operators were free to use the building where the police weren’t investigating.”
“Then go to bed. We’ll begin again in the morning.”
Jorge was clearly thinking something but not saying it.
“What?” she pressed.
“I didn’t know until today that the FBI was in on this case—the briefing was why I arrived late. MDPD found the group operating the Gold Sun Club to be shady, as did the cops with the City of Miami Beach. But there’s been no hard evidence against them and nothing that anyone could do. I know you’ve been talking to Captain Lorenzo about them for a while, but...we just found out today that Smirnoff was about to give evidence against the whole shebang. I’m just—”
“Just what?”
He grimaced. “I like the Feds. They have more resources than we do. They have more reach across state lines. Across international lines. And I don’t know how long I’ll get to be one of the models—if the big show ended in disaster, I could be out fast. And then I won’t be around to help you.”
“I’m willing to bet the Deco Gang will keep planning. Kozak will say that all the people who had been hired for jobs at the club will still need work. He’ll go forward in Smirnoff’s name—Smirnoff would not want to have been frightened off Miami Beach. We’ll be in.”
“You will be. I may not. So, I’m just glad that...well, that there’s another law enforcement agent undercover on this case. Speaking of undercover...” Jorge grabbed his blanket and turned around, smiling as he feigned sleep.
Jasmine opened her mouth to speak. She shook her head and went to the bedroom. Ready for bed and curled up, she admitted to herself that she just might be glad for Jacob Wolff’s involvement, too.
She had assumed the group was trading in prostitution, turning models into drug addicts and then trafficking them.
She hadn’t known about the bodies in the barrels. And she hadn’t suspected that Smirnoff was going to die.
So she was glad she would have backup if she had to continue getting close to these dangerous players. Otherwise she probably should back right out of the case.
Except she just couldn’t. They had Mary. They had her somewhere.
And Jasmine had to pray her friend was still alive.
Chapter Three (#u572d0887-8df4-5438-af8f-26ac52ec6294)
Jacob 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.
Chapter Four (#u572d0887-8df4-5438-af8f-26ac52ec6294)
Jacob arrived at Jasmine’s apartment at precisely 8:00 p.m. She was ready, dressed in a halter dress and wickedly high heels. The assessment he gave her was coolly objective. And his words were even more so.
“You know how to play the part.”
“Hey, I’m just a naive young model willing to let a rich guy take me out for an expensive dinner,” she told him.
“Jorge?”
“They told me not to have him here.”
“What is he doing tonight?”
“Catching up on his favorite cable show,” Jasmine said. “Playing it all low.”
“At his studio?”
Jasmine nodded and turned away.
Her captain had gone along with this at her say-so. But the FBI seemed to know way more than the police. She was certain that Jacob Wolff knew all about her fake dossier and Jorge’s fake dossier, and she felt woefully late to the party.
“Hey.” To her surprise, he caught her by the shoulders and spun her around. “This isn’t a jurisdictional pissing match, you know. The FBI started planning the minute we heard from Smirnoff. You didn’t know because we didn’t inform the cops until it was absolutely necessary they knew we were in town. We had no idea you were in the middle of an undercover operation—we’ve had an eye on these guys for a while. Smirnoff coming in was the opening we needed.”
He was right; they’d both had separate operations going on. And she’d wanted this case. She’d talked her captain into it being important. The bodies in the oil drums had proved she was right. Provided they could link them back to the Deco Gang.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“I worked something like this in New York not that long ago,” he told her. “The Bureau crew I wound up working with hadn’t known about me. It’s always like that. A need-to-know basis. Fewer people to say things that might get you killed.”
“Yes, but now—”
“Now, we’re in it together. And now we need to head out. Where would you like to have dinner?”
“Wherever.”
He grinned. “I’m supposed to be a very rich guy, you know. Oh, and with the power to push ahead at any given restaurant.”
“How rude!”
“Yes, absolutely. But we’re playing parts. And we need to play those parts well.”
“How have your people gotten to so many restaurants?” Jasmine asked.
“They haven’t,” he said. “No one will say it, but everyone is afraid of the Deco Gang.”
“Ah,” Jasmine said. “Well, then, we’re in the middle of stone crab season. I say we go for the most popular.”
“Sure.”
As they left her apartment, he slipped his arm through hers. Jasmine stiffened.
“Play along,” he murmured.
“You think they’re watching?”
“I think they could be at any given time.”
She didn’t argue that.
“I didn’t bring a car. Taxi or an Uber?” he asked.
“I’m fine walking.”
“In those shoes?”
She shrugged. “Not my favorite, but we’re going about seven blocks. Over a mile in these? I’d say taxi or Uber!”
They walked past T-shirt shops and other restaurants with tables that spilled out on the sidewalk. It was a beautiful night. Balmy. It had to be in the midseventies. Jasmine could smell the salt on the air, and, over the music that escaped from many an establishment, she could hear the water—or at least she could imagine she heard the waves crashing softly up on the shore. Here where they walked, the sand and water were across busy Collins Avenue; the traffic was almost always bumper-to-bumper. She knew young people often came just to cruise the streets, showing off their souped-up cars.
She didn’t get it; never had cared for fancy cars.
People in all styles of dress thronged the sidewalks. Some were decked out to the hilt, planning to visit one of the clubs or see a show. Others were casual, out just to shop or dine in a more casual fashion. While the South Beach neighborhood of Miami Beach was trendy and filled with great deco places, boutiques and more, heading farther north, one crossed Lincoln Road, a pedestrian mall and beyond that, a lot of the more staid grande dame hotels from the heyday era when Al Capone and his mobsters had ruled, and later the fabled Rat Pack had entertained, along with other greats.
The beach was like a chameleon, ready to change for every new decade.
At an old and ever-popular restaurant, known for its stone crabs while in season, they did find they were welcomed by a hostess and discreetly—but far too quickly—shown to a table. Jacob had managed, even with the lines outside wrapping around the building, to get them a private table in a little alcove.
Jacob made a pretense of studying the wine menu. He had known, she was certain, exactly what he wanted from the beginning. He wound up ordering champagne—and club soda, as well. She knew as the evening progressed, the champagne would disappear into leftover club soda.
The waitress was gone—they had both ordered the stone crab claws—and he leaned toward her, taking her hand from across the table, rubbing his thumb lightly over her flesh.
“You talked to your people?” he asked softly.
She nodded. “This afternoon. The three men in the oil drums...one has been there, they estimate, about three years. One several months...and one maybe two weeks or so.”
Jacob smiled lightly, his expression expertly at odds with their conversation. “Do you know who they might be? They’ll be testing, checking dental records. But so far, they don’t match anyone reported missing down here.” He hesitated. “We’re a land of promise, but...people take advantage of that. I recently worked a case in New York... Here’s the thing, and the cause of half the world’s problems. When you have nothing at all, you have nothing to lose. People from war-torn countries might be desperate and can be drawn in and then forced to do just about anything.” He was quiet for a minute. “Some wind up in oil drums.”

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