The Masseuse

by Dubrinsky, Violette

  Making his way into the house, he placed the containers into the refrigerator and walked upstairs. Delilah was spending the weekend and still outside. She’d close up when she came in. He’d stripped out of his shirt and was about to get under the covers with Jezebel when his phone beeped.

  Vince.

  Stepping into the bathroom, he closed the door and answered. “Yes?”

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  Obviously. Vince didn’t call him unless there was a problem or he was reporting on an assignment. Since he’d had no assignments for the past month, it could only be a problem.

  “What?”

  “Pigs.”

  Ramsey frowned. Pigs, rats, they were all the same. At the end of the day, they still squealed. “How many?”

  “Could be one, could be many.”

  “On our side?”

  “Can’t tell right now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” He heard the sound of a keyboard clacking the distance. “Everything’s too perfect. Numbers don’t lie and these add up too well. Plus, everything’s been very quiet…abroad.”

  If Vince thought they were pigs, they’re likely were. Vince was hardly wrong about these things, and even when he was wrong, it was because something legitimate set him off.

  “Find them.”

  “On it.”

  Ramsey hung up, and stared down at the phone in his hand. Turning on the faucet, he held it under the water until the light dimmed and it went out, before tossing it into the trash. If they had a squealer, they likely were being trailed, which meant phones were bugged, houses, apartments…

  He looked around Jezebel’s bathroom, stepped out and looked around the bedroom. Everything seemed in order, but they were good, and had gotten better. It was impossible for them to touch his apartment—it was too secure and they knew it—but Jezebel’s house was fair game. There were no cameras and her security system was weak at best.

  Ramsey went to the bag he kept in her closet, and reached in, pushing past clothes to the box at the bottom. Retrieving it, he removed a new cellular phone and charger before replacing the box, and closing the closet door. He attached the charger and plugged the phone in to charge, memorizing the number at the back, before lifting up to survey the room again.

  “Ramsey?” He looked to the bed, where Jezebel now sat up, red-eyed and staring at him curiously. “Is everything okay?”

  He made his way over, sliding under the covers and allowing her to make herself comfortable against his chest.

  “Everything’s fine, baby.” It wasn’t but it would be.

  “Sure?” she asked in a scratchy, sleepy voice.

  He kissed her forehead and nodded. “Yes. Just fine.”

  ***

  Jezebel awoke screaming. She was having a nightmare, but she’d awoken, and the nightmare still continued. Bright lights were shining in her face. She could see nothing but bright lights, and hear the sounds of men and women screaming, telling her to keep her hands above her head.

  “What’s going on?” she cried, doing as they said but turning to her side. Where was she?

  Someone grabbed her hands and then she was being pushed down, face first onto the bed. Her wrists were yanked cruelly behind her back and through her terrified and painful cries, she heard Ramsey…yelling. Lifting her head, she saw through the bright lights that they had him against the far wall, and he was looking at her. His face was a cold mask of rage.

  “Ramsey, what—?”

  Something was suddenly around her wrists—cold steel, handcuffs. She’d been handcuffed!

  “You don’t have to say or do anything, Jezebel,” he told her in a calm, but hard voice. “This is harassment and they’ll be paying for it.”

  “What?” she cried out. Harassment? Money? Why the hell were there cops in her house?

  She was yanked up and for the first time, Jezebel got a glimpse of who was in her house. She’d thought cops, New York’s finest, but she was wrong. Walking around her bedroom with flashlights, guns, and dark blue shirts emblazoned with three yellow letters was the branch of the US government she’d never wanted to encounter.

  What the hell was the FBI doing in her house?

  Jezebel turned back to Ramsey, who stood against the wall being patted down, and looking like the calm before the storm.

  “Come on, ma’am.” She was nudged forward, through her bedroom door, and down stairs. Swarming her house where similarly dressed people, and they were uncorking light bulbs, removing the back of her television set, pulling down her ceiling fan

  “What’s going on here?” she demanded, finding her voice. No one answered and she was escorted barefoot and in her negligee into the night. Many black caravans were now parked on her block and she could see some of her neighbors outside.

  “You can’t arrest me without telling me what I’m being arrested for!” she snapped, angry and embarrassed.

  The agent pushed her towards one of the trucks. A door opened.

  “I’m not getting in there until you tell me what I did wrong! I’m an American citizen and my constitution—“

  Dani pushed her head out and gave her an encouraging smile. “Get in, Jezebel.”

  Jezebel noticed that she too was wearing a shirt with the inscription F.B.I. “What’s going on? Is this a dream? I’m dreaming?”

  She shook her head. “Sadly, no. This is a nightmare, I’d imagine, but you’re wide awake.”

  “Why is this happening?”

  “Take off the cuffs, Tom,” Dani told the agent holding her.

  “Agent Daniels?”

  “I’ve got this, Tom. Trust me.”

  Her arms were suddenly free, and Jezebel instantly rubbed her reddened wrists.

  “Get in the car, Jezebel.”

  “You’re FBI?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “And your name isn’t Dani?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Get in the car, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  She smiled. “I’m giving you this choice, but your other choice is to be escorted to federal prison by Agent Riley behind you, where you’ll sit in a holding cell for 24 hours.”

  “On what charges?” she hissed.

  “Conspiracy.”

  “Conspiracy to what?”

  “Fraud, embezzlement, racketeering, money-laundering…”

  Jezebel blinked, and blinked again. “What?”

  The woman gave her a little smile. “I think you need this chat more than I do, Jezebel. Get in.”

  Having little other choice, Jezebel stepped up and into the van. She recognized the face of the driver. Eric stared back at her with an unreadable expression. Of course he was FBI too.

  “Are you two even married?”

  “No,” Dani—or whoever she was—answered. “We’re undercover agents.”

  As they moved off, Jezebel leaned against the leather interior and closed her eyes. “Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”

  When there was no response, Jezebel opened her eyes and glared at Dani. “What’s your real name?”

  “Agent Daniels.”

  “First name?” she snapped.

  “Raquel.”

  “And you, Eric Marx? What the hell is your name?”

  “Brandon Erickson,” he replied neutrally.

  “Well, you sure played us all, didn’t you?” She laughed. “Happy couple moves in and turns out to be FBI. Who would have thought?”

  “Aren’t you curious to know why?”

  Jezebel snorted. “Maybe you don’t understand the meaning of ‘can someone tell me what the hell is going on?’”

  “This isn’t about you, Jezebel,” Raquel said.

  “I know it’s not about me because I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “We’re not so sure about that,” Eric—Brandon—called from the driver’s seat.

 
“What he’s saying is that while you might not have done anything wrong, per se, you were involved.”

  “I wasn’t involved in anything!”

  “Prove it,” Brandon called.

  “Sure,” Jezebel snapped. “I’ll prove it in a court of a law. I want a lawyer.”

  “Jezebel”

  “No, fuck both of you!”

  “Jezebel, we’re trying to protect you.”

  “Oh, that’s what you’re doing? Badgering me? Trying to play good-cop bad-cop on me? Sure, you’re trying to protect me.”

  “We are.” Raquel gave her an easy smile. “Brandon, apologize.”

  Brandon sighed. “We’re the good guys here, Jezebel. This isn’t about you. This is about us trying to bring down the bad guys.”

  “Good guys and bad guys, huh? So what am I?”

  Raquel touched her hand lightly. “You’re…undecided, but you get to choose.”

  “I get a choice?”

  “Everyone gets a choice, Jezebel.”

  Jezebel scoffed. “Can someone please just tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Raquel nodded and sighed. “Have you ever heard about the Double Dragon, Jezebel?”

  She blinked. “No.”

  “Kang Jae—Ramsey—has never mentioned that name to you?”

  “No.” She swallowed hard. What did this have to do with Ramsey? “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  From the front of the van, Brandon spoke, “The Double Dragon is the oldest and one of the most ruthless South Korean gangs. In 2006, the gang vanished and intelligence led us to believe a mob war had wiped them out. A few years ago, our intelligence picked up signs that they hadn’t vanished…they’d changed turfs, so to speak. No longer were they raiding the streets of South Korea, but they’d gone international. They were being led by someone smarter, someone more sophisticated than previous bosses.”

  “Okay…”

  “Does any of this ring a bell?” Raquel asked.

  Jezebel frowned at her. “No. This is America. I know about The Godfather, the Capones

  and Mob Wives. I do not know and do not care about your investigation of an international gang that probably doesn’t exist.”

  “It does exist,” Brandon chimed in. “And it’s more powerful than ever.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jezebel inhaled deep and tried to retain her calm. Although she was pretending to be dumb, she’d already started making connections from the moment Raquel had mentioned a South Korean gang called the Double Dragon. She remembered Ramsey’s tattoo, of two dragons curling around each other, she remembered his luxurious apartment, she remembered the month he’d spent in South Korea on business, the fact that he was hesitant to introduce her to his family… She remembered it all, and it all pointed to an answer she didn’t like. “I’d like to speak to a lawyer.”

  “We’re your friends, Jezebel,” Raquel said. “We’re the good guys, remember?”

  She scoffed. “I am the good guy, and you are both lying snakes, so until I speak to my attorney, I will not be saying anything else and everything I just told you is null because no one read me my Miranda rights. As a matter of fact, as soon as I speak to my attorney, this arrest will be probably be voided and I’ll be going home.”

  “Think about what you’re doing, Jezebel.” Brandon was speaking now. “Kang Jae Ramsey Stone is a criminal, the head of the oldest crime family in South Korea. He’s using you…”

  “He is,” Raquel added. “You’re his American plaything. South Koreans are very traditional. You’re a beautiful woman, but you’re black. He could never marry you, no matter what he promised. He’d be laughed at, and your children would be half-caste, and never considered Korean.”

  “Is that what they did to you?” Jezebel narrowed her eyes on Raquel, who smiled and nodded. “Yes. My mother was black, my father Korean. They met in Connecticut at college, got married, and then my father received an assignment in Seoul.” She paused. “I lived there for years where I was picked on, called names, spat on, you name it, I faced it. After some of the children threw bleach on me to lighten my skin, my mother decided enough was enough and brought me back to America. My father stayed, remarried, and now has a beautiful Korean family.”

  “Ah, poor Raquel.” Jezebel nodded, giving her a faux-sympathetic look. “And all along I thought you were half-Chinese.”

  Raquel’s face closed up, and Jezebel smirked. “I’d like to speak my attorney as soon as possible.” She closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat, thoughts of Ramsey Stone and the chaos that had just descended into her life swarming her head. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 13

  “Where is she?”

  Ramsey Stone walked out of the federal court house on Monday morning after being formally charged with every and anything the prosecutor could throw at him, and posting two million dollars in bail. The US Attorney argued that he was the epitome of a flight risk, and to ensure that he wasn’t, the judge had ordered bail be high enough to deter him from running. Two million might be high, but Ramsey had been willing to post much more to ensure his freedom. As it stood, he didn’t intend to run. He’d never been a runner. He had too many businesses in America, too many assets that were currently frozen by the US government. If the US Attorney knew anything of him or his businesses, he’d know that.

  “With her mother and sister,” Vince answered, keeping pace with Ramsey’s long-legged and purposeful strides. He hadn’t seen Jezebel since the FBI had swarmed her house and arrested them both. He could only imagine the lies they’d told her in the time she’d been in their custody.

  “Address?”

  He rattled off an address in Brooklyn.

  “Who’s watching her?”

  “Will and Sam.”

  He nodded. Good. They were young, but after shadowing Vince for long months, they were skilled enough for that task. As he turned the corner that would take them out into the main street, Ramsey paused briefly at the flock of journalists and reporters waiting for him. Who’d called the press?

  “Let me handle this, Mr. Stone,” Richard Fente, his lawyer, told him. Ramsey nodded. That was why he paid him after all.

  As the reporters swarmed them, Ramsey kept a frustrated smile on his face. Someone asked him why he believed he was being targeted; he answered that the FBI were stalking him because of the embarrassment he’d caused the agency in 2007. They’d brought unfounded charges against him then and he’d launched the internal inquest which had led to numerous agency heads losing their jobs. Although he didn’t say it, he implied that this year was going to be similar and if he had any say, more than agency heads would be losing jobs.

  “And your grandfather, Mr. Stone?” The question came from Angela Prasad, a New York Times journalist who’d been “in his pocket” for years. Ramsey wasn’t stupid enough to pay her off, but Angela wasn’t one of his staunch supporters for nothing. After his arrest in 2007, he’d given her the exclusive interview that had launched her career, and every year, he was sure that she received ‘samples’ to his spas, and invites to exclusive events that he attended. Angela was a hustler, and with the doors he opened for her, she turned a profit.

  “I am not my grandfather, Ms. Prasad, but the agency seems intent on tying the crimes of a dead man to me.” He looked into the cameras. “I came to this country to live the American dream, and I’ve been doing exactly that. I took out loans and went to college, I went to graduate school, I worked hard, I opened a small business, and as the years passed, I made it bigger. I am not a thug nor I am a gangster. I am simply a hardworking man trying to live his life without being harassed by an agency who seems intent on doing just that.”

  Angela nodded and Fente began fielding the questions once more.

  “Will you be filing a countersuit against the agency again, Mr. Stone?” Someone else called out.

  “We hope that the agency realizes its error yet again before we are forced to take such measures,” Fente answered. “Thank you.�
��

  In the next moments, Ramsey was in his new black truck—the old one had been sold in case it too was bugged. Vince was seated next to him.

  “Did you find the pig?” That was the question that had plagued him as he sat in his tiny concrete cell. He was clean, whistle-clean, so the only way the FBI and the US Attorney could bring federal charges against him was if they had someone with inside knowledge.

  “Not yet.” Vince scowled. “I hacked into Daniel’s and Erickson’s email accounts and I’ve got a lead.”

  He’d been surprised to learn that “Dani” and “Eric” were actually Agents Raquel Daniels and Brandon Erickson. Ramsey couldn’t say there was any love lost between him and Erickson, but he’d felt anger at Dani was on Jezebel’s behalf, because she’d thought of her as a friend.

  “One of ours?”

  Vince nodded. “I’ve intercepted some of the conversations. Person knows too many things an outsider wouldn’t. Looks like one of ours, someone in your inner circle.”

  Ramsey ground his teeth. His own family. He didn’t suspect Vince because he was Vince. Bastian…it was possible, but Ramsey didn’t think his brother was smart, stupid, or brave enough to do it. Of his inner circle, that left about seven more people, mostly uncles and cousins…

  “Where to, sir?” the driver called.

  Although he wanted nothing more than to go to Jezebel, he couldn’t chance it. Although most of the reporters would stay with Fente, some would tail him and he wasn’t putting that type of spotlight on Jezebel. Not yet. As it stood, she probably had a few more days before the media dug up her entire history. He’d give her a few days to calm down, and then he’d go to her. He wished he could give her a week, but Ramsey couldn’t stay away that long.

  He rattled off the address for The Osiris and turned to Vince. “Cell phone?”