Finders Keepers

by Shirl Henke

  “I can’t just sit still while my family is in that man’s clutches.”

  “No other choice,” Matt said gently, taking her icy hand and squeezing it. “Let us work. There’s a slew of hotels around here. Right now we’re going to tuck you in one and you have to swear you’ll stay put. Deal? Remember, Jenny decided a little stroll on the beach wouldn’t hurt anything.”

  Reluctantly, Tess nodded.

  After they checked her into a Holiday Inn on South Le-Jeune in Coral Gables, Matt and Sam returned to the Charger. As she started the car, he said, “Okay, level with me. You’re working with the cops, right?”

  “I’m working for your aunt. I just happen to have friends on the force. I gave seven of my best years to Miami-Dade PD, remember? My sergeant owes me. I can call in a few markers, that’s all,” she equivocated. She let out the clutch, then moved into traffic, making a few more jumps and lurches than she needed to as she shifted. He didn’t look convinced about the cops.

  “You think she’ll stay put?” she asked, worried that Tess might do something foolish. Sam toyed with giving her up to Pat, but decided that was risky, too.

  “Damned if I know, but if Mikhail gets her, she’d dead for sure and so are her sister and nieces. She knows that.”

  “Let’s get cracking. First, I’ll put my phone company contact to work. Then we should look into this Steele woman.”

  “I know a little about Kit Steele from doing background on all Mikhail’s players when I started this investigation. She’s Brit. An ex-pat who’s worked for the old man for five years or so. Rumor has it she’s his money-laundering expert. Lots of trips to the Caymans, that sort of thing, but no hard evidence,” Matt said.

  “I have a feeling when the cops finish sorting all of this out, she might end up in the slammer along with her boss,” Sam replied, dying to ask Pat what was up with Renkov’s “laundress.”

  “She might be a way into the organization,” Matt said thoughtfully. He opened the cell Tess had given him and tried directory assistance, then made a face.

  “Let me guess. Unlisted.” Sam’s grin was smug, as she took the phone from him and dialed Ethan Frobisher.

  Matt listened as she spoke with the guy on the other end of the line, wondering if this Ethan worked a night shift at the phone company. It was after one in the morning and the guy was not only awake but apparently willing to start tracing the call to Alexi Renkov on the 11th. Sam gave him all the pertinent info. She also asked for Kit Steele’s private number and address. That he supplied while she waited on the line.

  “Pretty impressive.”

  “When I said he worked for the phone company I was stretching the truth a bit.”

  “You? Stretch the truth?” he asked rhetorically.

  Sam ignored the jibe. “He’s really a hacker. Bell South canned him a couple of years back for, er, extracurricular activities. Ethan’s a real geeky type, a wizard with anything IT. We went to St. Stanislaus Elementary together. He’s had a crush on me since sixth grade.”

  “Devious woman. You’d use any man to get what you want.” He was only half-joking and they both knew it. “All my background notes on the Russian mob in Miami are at my condo in South Beach. I need them since those goons trashed my place in the Samaritan complex.”

  “Don’t you think someone might just be waiting for us to show there?” she asked.

  “We lost our two pals back in Vegas, remember? They might be tooling down I-40, looking for your van, but I doubt they’re smart enough to admit they lost us even if their boss calls them again.”

  “Yeah. It might get them fired or iced for botching the job,” she agreed, turning onto I-95 north headed for the MacArthur Causeway to the Beach.

  Matt’s condo was in a three-story pale green stucco structure just off Collins Avenue a little north of the Art Deco district. Each unit had lots of windows and a big balcony overlooking the street. Bougainvillea and variegated shiffel-era spilled over one on the second floor. When they neared the front gate, he pulled a small electronic opener from his pocket and the iron fence glided sideways, allowing them to enter before it closed behind them. The parking area was open, beneath the elevated first floor of the building. Volvos, Beamers and other fancy imports were parked alongside an assortment of American cars and SUVs.

  “Pretty upscale on a reporter’s salary,” she said, wondering if he used some of auntie’s loot to pay for it.

  “I bought it just after hurricane season six years ago. South Florida was a wreck, if you recall. Got it for a song and fixed up my unit myself. It isn’t paid for and my aunt doesn’t make the payments, either. I do.”

  Like he could read her bloody mind! Sam was beginning to get a complex. She must be an open book for Matt and Patowski. What was wrong with her wily Irish wits? “None of my business who makes your rent, Granger. Just a passing comment,” she said as she pulled in next to a jazzy sea-foam-blue Mustang convertible.

  “Don’t scratch the paint,” he said as she put her shoulder into forcing open the crushed door that was too close to the Mustang.

  “Yours?” She raised one eyebrow. “Don’t tell me. You found it at a junkyard and restored it.”

  “I know the dealer. It’s five years old and I bought it used, for crying out loud.”

  Sam snorted as they headed for the stairwell.

  “If you don’t want to climb steps, there’s an elevator. I’m on the second floor.” He was already heading for the elevator.

  Just to spite him, she started up the stairs. “Gotta keep my girlish figure. Meet you at the top.”

  She made it to the second landing when she heard heavy footsteps behind her. Something about the grunt coming from the man made her look back. Vassily Kuzan grinned like an ape as he raised yet another automatic and aimed it at her. Sam ducked and sprinted for the next floor, while reaching into her fanny pack for her “rental” .38. His shot ricocheted off the concrete wall, gouging a nasty hole in the surface. She didn’t take time to examine it, just fired one quick shot in his direction to slow him down.

  If Kuzan was after her, where was Garzenko? “Matt!” she yelled at the top of her lungs as she yanked open the door to the second floor just as the elevator opened.

  Chapter 15

  Sam flattened herself against the wall at the top of the stairs, behind the partially closed stairwell door. She waited for Kuzan to appear while searching desperately for Matt. The elevator was on the opposite side of the hallway. She had a clear view of it when the doors whooshed open. No Matt. She could hear Kuzan huffing his way up the last of the steps after her, but he did not step through the door frame.

  Desperate to know if Garzenko had Matt, she began to slide soundlessly along the wall toward the back of the hallway, gun poised ready to fire. Before she could go back downstairs, she had to deal with Kuzan. The hallway made a sharp turn, revealing a narrow passage to what looked like a janitor’s closet about six yards away. She turned the corner and hid, praying for Kuzan to show himself.

  A faint squeak behind her distracted her. She turned just as the door of the closet opened and Garzenko raised his Glock, aiming at her. She jumped around the corner, caught in a crossfire when Kuzan leaned through the exit door and fired, missing her by an inch. She could hear Garzenko moving toward the corner. No place to hide.

  The best defense was an unexpected offense, Uncle Dec always said. She lowered her head and barreled around the corner toward Garzenko, butting him directly in the stomach. He let out an “oomph” as her head connected solidly with his solar plexus. Before he could lower his gun to fire at her, she shot him in his left side, angling the barrel so the slug went through lung, into his heart.

  He crumpled over her, pulling her down with him as he died. She could hear Kuzan closing in and knew she was in trouble. These guys didn’t exactly possess loyalty enough to hold their fire to save a comrade. Sam tried to untangle herself and free her gun but Garzenko held on stubbornly as the life drained out of him. Her wea
pon was caught beneath his arm. He’s taking me with him.

  When Kuzan neared their tangle of arms and legs, Sam made a desperate lunge for Garzenko’s Glock, which he’d dropped when she shot him. But the gun had fallen a foot out of reach. She was braced for the smashing impact of Kuzan’s shot when suddenly Kuzan went sprawling facedown on the floor. He landed hard.

  Matt tackled him from behind with every pound he could put into it. A lot easier back in college when he’d been a running back. The Russian gasped for breath, trying to roll away from his attacker and get off a shot. Granger wasn’t packing a weapon. He had to move fast. As Kuzan turned over and raised the gun, Matt knocked it aside with his left arm and brought his right fist down on Kuzan’s throat with every bit of strength he had.

  The training he’d received as an Army MP came back easier than the college football. He used his knuckles like a lethal weapon and it worked. The bright purple staining the Russian’s face indicated that he’d crushed his windpipe, but Matt didn’t care.

  “Samantha, baby, are you all right?” He turned desperately toward the tangle of Sam and Garzenko’s bodies and saw blood reddening the pale gray carpet beneath them. “Shit,” he muttered, afraid to breathe as he seized Garzenko’s body and shoved it against the wall, trying to free Sam.

  “Did he hit you?” he asked, examining her for wounds. She was smeared with blood but it appeared to be the Russian’s, not hers. Garzenko looked dead as Friday night’s mackerel. Before she could get her breath back to answer him, he was on his knees between the two dead men, cradling her in his arms, rocking back and forth, never so happy to hear her heart beating solidly against his own, which was pounding frantically.

  Sam turned her face up to him and he framed it with his big hands as they knelt. He leaned down to kiss her as a lopsided smile strained to break out on his face. “You iced him.”

  “Did a head butt first. Not much choice when you’re caught in a crossfire,” she said, still winded and a little more shaken than she wanted him to see. She looked down at the two dead men. “How’d you know they were here?” she asked, pleased with his fear for her but afraid to admit just how much that meant to her. Still, her arms remained tightly wrapped around his waist.

  “Just as the elevator door opened downstairs, I noticed a big, black Town Car parked illegally on the condo lot across the street. I know everybody who lives there and none of them drive a boat like that.”

  “So you sent the elevator up empty and followed Kuzan up the steps,” she said, admiring his guts. “Without a gun, it was a risky chance to take. Some tackle, too.”

  “I’m getting too old for football. Kuzan was a lot tougher than any of the linemen I played against in college,” he replied, pulling her to her feet. He fished in his pocket and pulled out the gate opener. “Get the Charger ready to roll while I retrieve what I need from my place. I don’t think we want to stick around and field questions about these stiffs when the Beach PD gets here. Lucky most of my neighbors are party animals, but someone’s bound to call 911.”

  She nodded, knowing if the cops caught them here, it would mess everything up. She tiptoed up and planted a quick kiss on his lips. “I’ll be outside waiting. Hurry up.”

  “Right behind you.”

  They could see the flashing lights of police cars coming down Collins through the heavy pedestrian and club traffic as they pulled out. Matt carried his laptop and a briefcase shoved full of documents he’d obviously grabbed in a hurry. Sam calmly turned in the opposite direction and proceeded around the block before the police got near enough to spot her.

  “Just in case anyone got a look at the plates, I’ll need to change them first chance we have to pull over,” she said casually.

  He grinned at her. “How many illegal plates do you carry with you?”

  Sam shrugged. “None. But I can make a switch with a car parked in a public deck in two minutes, tops.” She could still feel the imprint of his lips on hers and the desperate sound in his voice when he yanked Garzenko’s body off hers and checked her for injuries. Maybe he might forgive her…did she dare hope?

  “How the hell did those thugs get back here and find us?” he asked in frustration.

  “Sure as hell didn’t drive like we hoped. They may not know who hired them, but I bet they had some kind of emergency number to call,” she said.

  “And whoever it was wired them plane tickets back here, figuring we’d turn up and they could take us out of the equation. Probably provided the automatics, too. Good thing they didn’t have time to get into my condo and destroy my research first.” He riffled through the papers in his open briefcase as she drove across the MacArthur Causeway and pulled into the Bayside parking deck.

  Carefully picking a spot where none of the security cameras could see her, she made the license plate switch with the dexterity of someone used to the drill. Matt watched in anxious admiration. I’m going to have to break her of a lot of bad habits.

  The little Boston Irishwoman was beginning to get under his skin. Damn if he didn’t admire her in spite of some maddening quirks in her personality. He remembered how the breath had been squeezed from his lungs when he saw her body, entangled with Garzenko’s, and his unimaginable relief when she got up unscathed.

  Sammie, where is this leading?

  Before he could think of an answer, she climbed back into the Charger and pulled out, heading west toward Little Havana.

  “I have a Cubano friend who’ll hide us until morning. I think we could use some sleep and time to regroup.”

  “Fine by me,” he replied. “As long as he has someplace you can wash up. Riding with a blood-covered woman might just get me arrested.”

  Sam looked in her side-view mirror and wiped a smudge of blood off her nose. “Look who’s talking. Your pant legs are soaked, too.” She drove the speed limit, keeping a careful eye out for police.

  When they reached Roberto Clemente’s shop on Calle Ocho, it was three in the morning and he was just closing up. Although no relation to the baseball hero of the same name, he ran a combination Santeria, tourist tchotchke and collectibles shop, and sold Cuban sandwiches, pastries and coffee on the side.

  “Samantha, hijita, what has happened to you?” a chubby little man with a round, grizzled face asked, pulling her into the shop. The place was crowded with everything from baseball cards and T-shirts to black candles and odd-smelling jars with murky contents that Matt figured he’d rather not know about. Religious paraphernalia and Cuban cigars lay side by side.

  In the front of the store, the window from which he sold food and coffee had been rolled down for the night, but the spicy rich aromas of fried pork and sweet coffee still lingered. Roberto gave her a quick hug, then examined her to make certain she was not hurt, although in a far more fatherly way than Matt had earlier.

  The little man had a receding hairline framed by kinky gray hair that he wore in dreadlocks. He said the hair assured his customers that he was an authentic believer in the Caribbean voodoo blend of mystic religion. Around his neck hung several heavy gold crucifixes and assorted charms enclosed in pouches decorated with chicken feathers. Gris-gris. Powerful stuff, he’d assured her on numerous occasions.

  Feeling the way she did, Sam didn’t think she’d turn down any talisman he offered them for protection—provided it worked against the Russian mob. “Roberto, this is my friend Matt Granger.”

  The little man looked up at her tall companion and offered his hand. “You are welcome to my humble home,” he said graciously.

  “We need a place to hide out until morning,” Sam said. “But first I have to tell you we’re in trouble with Mikhail Renkov and his guys, maybe some other bad actors from Little Odessa in New York, too. And the Miami Beach PD wants to question us about killing two Russian goons who tried to take us out.” She ticked off the damning list matter-of-factly.

  “Sam never sugarcoats the medicine, does she?” Matt asked Roberto.

  The rotund little man grinned, no
dding. “She has always been honest with me.” He turned to her. “But making enemies of the Russians, that is bad, very bad. So, did you hide your car behind the shop?” he asked, getting straight to business.

  “I won’t stay unless you say it’s okay,” she replied.

  “Do not be foolish. You will stay as long as you need. What you did for my brother Rodrigo’s daughter, I can never repay. Come, you need to clean up,” he said, picking out clean T-shirts emblazoned with Little Havana logos in their sizes along with shorts from bins lining one wall. No one would pick Sam and Matt out of a crowd when they were dressed like tourists.

  “I will lay out towels. You can decide who will get the first shower,” he said as he led them up a dark, narrow flight of wooden stairs to the second floor where he lived.

  Matt snorted. “As if I had a choice. Ladies first.”

  Sam turned to look at him.

  “What? Did I suggest we should share? Even if it would save water,” he whispered as Roberto puttered around digging out clean towels and other toiletry items from his bedroom while they stood in the hall.

  “I know you were thinking it,” she replied, not all that displeased at the notion. But not while Roberto was in the next room. She knew she was a screamer.

  They cleaned up, one at a time, while their host prepared a feast of spicy pork and cheese pressed into sandwiches, an assortment of fresh fruits and, at Matt’s request, lots of hot strong coffee. They had to stay awake to work on the leads Tess Renkov had given them.

  Roberto left them alone in the small apartment’s one spare bedroom, which had bunk beds—for his grandchildren, he explained. He was a widower and they visited their grandpa every weekend. Matt would’ve sworn the old man was wearing a hint of a grin as he bid them good-night.

  Sam excused herself when Matt plugged in his laptop and got on the Internet to dig some more on Alexi’s golf schedule on his most recent European tours. He’d already sent an e-mail to his friend in Tallahassee about the insurance policy on Alexi Renkov’s life. “I’ll wait for Frobisher’s call downstairs,” she said, turning off the ringer on the phone in the hallway.