I WAS GROGGY the next morning as I pulled over by the park in Hallandale Beach, right next to the county line. It was so early that the presence of police cars and a crime scene still hadn’t attracted many onlookers.
Hallandale’s South City Beach Park used to be referred to as “Needle Junction” and “Body Drop Park.” It had been cleaned up a lot since then, but there was still room to do shit without anyone seeing you.
The phone call from Anthony Chilleo at 5:15 that morning had startled me out of a sound sleep. I’d raced over here from my house, twenty-five miles to the northwest.
I held up my badge to the young patrol officer who was maintaining security around the perimeter of the crime scene. She seemed like a kid to me even though she was probably in her midtwenties. That’s what six years of police work in Miami can do to you.
I followed her directions and carefully walked along the path marked by tiny flags. Crime scene people were busy combing the area on both sides of the path, and I could see Chill talking with a Broward County Sheriff’s Office homicide detective.
Chill made the introductions, and the homicide detective reminded me that we’d met once in a class on money laundering.
After the small talk, I asked, “So did you think I needed to come down to the beach so early?” I said it with a smile, even though I was confused.
Chill said, “I told you about the rumors of Roman Rostoff being involved in everything, including human trafficking.”
“I remember.”
“I think he’s showing his displeasure with how we interrupted his shipment of kids being smuggled into Miami International.” He pointed to a set of screens hiding something that a crime scene technician was photographing.
I stepped over to the screens and looked behind them. I knew there was going to be a body. There wouldn’t be this much commotion over cocaine that washed up on the beach or some recovered stolen property. But the image shocked me, and I knew it would haunt me for a long time.
The young woman, a teenager, lay sprawled on the sand, naked. She had blond hair and a beautiful girl-next-door face. Her blue eyes were still open and staring straight up at the sky.
There was a neat slit in her throat with dried blood on both sides leading to the sandy ground. I squatted down to make it look like I was getting a better view, but in fact the scene disturbed me. I needed to wrap my head around this nasty business. She reminded me of some of the girls I’d rescued from the Miami airport.
Chill squatted down next to me and held up a plastic evidence bag.
I struggled to see past the spatters of blood on the inside of the bag. “What am I looking at, Chill?”
“Someone stuck her Florida driver’s license as well as her ID from Serbia into the wound on her throat. We’ve already done some quick background on her. She was a dancer at one of Roman Rostoff’s clubs. The two IDs and a talk with a coworker indicate that she was smuggled into the United States. Rostoff wants us to know that if we screw with his business, someone is going to get hurt.”
I looked down at her pretty, lifeless face. Somehow I felt responsible. At the same time, I was pissed. Who did this asshole think he was?
I stood up and backed away from the body. I looked at Chill and said, “How do you feel about doing something the FBI wouldn’t approve of?”
“To tell you the truth, I do that every day. Just on principle.”
I smiled. The ATF agent didn’t say much, but I was getting the idea that he’d be useful in an insurrection. People like that are hard to find.
Chapter 17
A FEW HOURS later, I found myself on Biscayne Boulevard in front of a beautiful skyscraper overlooking the bay. It housed the headquarters of AEI Enterprises, and I cringed when I realized that it also housed the law offices of Robert Gould, the man who was now married to my ex-fiancée.
Chill met me in the lobby. He’d thrown on a sports coat and looked remarkably professional. I was still wearing my 5.11 Tactical pants with my gun on my hip. We were in the city of Miami now. This was my territory.
Chill said, “I worked a case in front of here once.”
“The Che Guevara shirt?”
He smiled. “Exactly. You were on it too?”
I hadn’t been, but I remembered it well. A Cuban immigrant had taken deadly offense to a tourist’s Che Guevara T-shirt. “I had just come on the PD and was working patrol,” I said. “When I heard someone had been shot in this area, I was curious. I guess that hipster from Chicago learned his lesson the hard way; even I knew you didn’t praise Castro or Che in Miami.”
Chill nodded. “People who don’t understand shit like that shouldn’t be allowed to leave home. I was surprised the jury even convicted the Cuban shooter.”
“Of manslaughter, not murder. He was a hero in the city when he came home three years later. I heard he never has to pay for a meal on Calle Ocho.”
I glanced around the opulent lobby and said to Chill, “What does AEI stand for?”
“American Entertainment and Investment. It’s Rostoff’s supposedly legitimate business, the one that handles his nightclubs, alcohol-distribution companies, and foreign investments. He’s listed as the president, and there are half a dozen other Russians in the top corporate spots.”
“Hiding in plain sight.”
“Roman Rostoff doesn’t even try to hide. He just donates truckloads of money to the county and city commissions. One of the state senators in the area has stepped in four different times to help him out with business licenses and real estate issues. He’s an old-time gangster who brings in money from a dozen ventures and understands that he needs politicians in his pocket to keep going. They’re giving him some kind of award in Miami Beach soon.”
We rode the elevator up to the forty-first floor. All of the offices here were occupied by AEI Enterprises. A sharp-looking receptionist who wore superthin glasses, probably as a fashion statement, asked if she could help us.
I said, “We’d like to speak with Mr. Rostoff.”
She looked us over, and we clearly didn’t pass the test. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rostoff’s schedule is quite filled today.”
“When does he have some time?”
She glanced at her computer, hit a few keys, then smiled and said, “Unless you have an appointment that he’s agreed to, his next free time is in April of next year.” She smiled again and somehow made it seem sincere.
That was my cue to walk past her. If you’re not making some kind of effort, I don’t have time to deal with you.
Chill let out a low chuckle as he followed me to the giant double doors that I assumed led to Rostoff’s office. I opened both doors to make our entrance seem more spectacular. But our entrance couldn’t compare to the incredible view of Biscayne Bay, South Beach, and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. It might have been the best view I’d ever seen in Miami.
That pissed me off a little bit more.
We walked toward a man in a blue Joseph Abboud suit sitting behind a carved oak desk. He looked to be about fifty-five years old. Before we’d gotten three steps, two other men sprang into action. The tall, muscular one turned to me; an older guy in a suit moved toward Chill.
I held up my ID quickly and said, “This is a police matter.”
The man near Chill said, “I know. It’s called criminal trespass. And you’re going to get arrested for it.”
Chapter 18
I APPRECIATED THE quick comeback by the jerk in the suit.
The tall man closer to me didn’t say anything, which meant he was the one who was going to take action first. He was about an inch taller than me. I’m not used to men with a longer reach than I have, but he didn’t try to punch me. He reached out with both hands to grab me by the shirt. It was like a drill we used to do on the practice fields—someone grabs your jersey, you knock his hands away. In this case, I put my weight into it, and after I knocked his hands away, I gave him an open-handed slap on the back of his head. That is one of the most disorienting blows you can suffer, the good ol
d Gerber slap. It might not cause much damage, but for a couple of seconds you’re knocked stupid.
He stumbled forward, fell onto an expensive Asian carpet, then slid into the decorative baseboard.
I reached for my gun, and the man near Chill started to reach into his suit jacket. This was turning ugly fast.
Just as everyone was about to pull a gun, Roman Rostoff yelled, “Enough!” We all froze. Rostoff said, “Billy, help Tibor up.” He looked at Chill and said, “What can I do for you, Agent Chilleo?”
Chill said, “I’m impressed you know who I am.”
“I always learn the names of people trying to hurt me or my business. But who have you brought with you? He looks more like a professional wrestler than a cop,” Rostoff said. He had almost no Russian accent. I was surprised that he was neither intimidated nor flustered. That was a disappointment. I’d been hoping to scare him a little bit, but mostly I’d just wanted him to know we were watching.
I said, “My name is Tom Moon. I’m a detective with the Miami PD working on an FBI task force.”
“What kind of task force, Detective?”
“International crime. Right now we’re looking into human trafficking.”
Rostoff clucked his tongue and said, “Is there such a thing as human trafficking? There are so many people that wish to come to America, how could there be human trafficking here?”
I knew his smile was designed to annoy me. It worked. I took a moment to size up the other men. The one named Billy looked like he was in good shape. He had dark, thinning hair and a goatee with a blue tinge to it. I guessed he was trying to look younger, but no hipster I’d ever met wore a thousand-dollar Brooks Brothers suit or had hands that looked like they could crush granite.
The other guy was standing now and trying to look tough even though I had just smacked his ass onto the floor. He was younger than the other one and had long hair tied in a ponytail and the sides of his head shaved. A tattoo of a blossoming branch came from under his collar up his neck to the right side of his face. It looked a little like the van Gogh painting of almond branches. I was willing to bet each white blossom represented something, like a person he’d killed. None of these ass-wipes had tattoos for the hell of it.
I said, “Wasn’t the girl found murdered on Hallandale Beach trafficked? Poor Serbian girl was brought to the U.S., thinking she was going to live the dream. Instead, she ends up working at one of your shitty clubs.”
Rostoff kept his smile. “Who are you talking about?”
“Valentina Cerdic.”
He shrugged and said, “Don’t know her.”
Chill said, “She worked at Club Wild.” He looked at the man with the dyed goatee. “That’s one of the places you run, right, Billy? You’re the guy people call Billy the Blade.”
Billy gave him a smile and then looked over to his boss.
Rostoff turned his attention to the ATF agent. “Did you enjoy watching this dead girl dance?”
Chill was far too cool and collected to let a comment like that get to him. Cops who bite at that kind of bait never get much done.
Rostoff said, “Now, why did you gentlemen really come up here? Was it just for the view? Perhaps to practice your martial arts on my associates?”
I said, “I wanted to get a look at what kind of shit-heel murders a girl and stuffs her ID into a hole in her neck.”
“Then I suggest you start searching for the killer.”
“We already are.” I looked at the well-dressed, fit man who had confronted Chill. I said, “Billy, is it? What kind of Russian name is Billy?”
The man lost his smile and said, “One you should remember.”
“No need to worry about that. I remember almost everything. Plus we’ll be keeping a close watch on you.”
Rostoff clapped his hands together. “Excellent. You can never be too safe. Tell me, Detective Moon, do you think you’re safe? Being a police officer is a terribly dangerous job.”
I stepped a little closer and said, “You think you’re smart. Beyond our reach. Let me assure you that you’re wrong. This isn’t a seventies NYPD movie. No one is untouchable. Especially if the FBI is after your ass. You should have learned that from Al Capone. Another Miami resident.”
“We shall see.”
I turned to leave. “We’ll be in touch.”
As we stepped through the door, I heard Billy mumble, “So will we.”
Chapter 19
I SPENT A long, tiring day making sure everything was in order to take the kids back to Amsterdam.
Virtually everything in the police world ran on favors. The more help you gave, the more help you got. So even though I was crazy-busy, when a homicide detective asked me to swing by the PD to help him interview a witness, I couldn’t refuse.
The witness, Hazel Branch, was an elderly woman who lived off Miami Avenue and had known me since my first days on patrol. She was an eyewitness to a drive-by shooting and she said she’d only talk to me.
I had to help, but it wasn’t because of the detective’s request. It was because Miss Hazel had helped me out once. When I was on patrol as a rookie, she’d warned me about a gang-initiation ambush. Two beefy young men with baseball bats were planning to break my legs when I walked through the apartment complex. Thanks to Miss Hazel, I changed my route and walked up behind those two young men while they were waiting for me. I said, “Can I help you fellas?”
They both jumped and turned quickly. One of the men inadvertently whacked the other in the arm with the bat. That started an argument between them, which led to some good swings, and each man took some lumps.
I didn’t make an arrest. I couldn’t risk tipping them off to Miss Hazel. Besides, it was fun watching those two punish each other more than any judge would have. And I never forgot what I owed her. I always came when she called.
I stepped into the comfortable interview room. Miss Hazel, who wore a simple, dignified dress, as she always did, looked up and said, “Hello, Thomas. Would you explain to this young man that I don’t need trouble with any of the local gangs?”
I sat down in the chair across from the elderly woman. “Miss Hazel, he’s just trying to figure out who killed that young man in front of your apartment. I know you said you heard the gunfire, but do you know what time? Did you happen to glance at the clock?”
“Thomas, if I looked at the clock every time I heard gunfire in my neighborhood, I’d never get any sleep.”
I tried not to laugh—I didn’t even know if she was trying to be funny—but I couldn’t help it; the detective and I both broke up. After some casual chatting, I finally got something worthwhile from Miss Hazel. I asked, “Do you have any idea who shot him?”
She smiled slyly. “Now, that’s a good question. The youngest Gratny boy shot him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I heard him tell Bean Pole, who lives in the apartment next to me.”
I glanced up at the detective to see if he knew who Bean Pole was. He nodded, looked at Miss Hazel, and said, “Why didn’t you say that at the beginning of our interview?”
She said, “I don’t know you from the pope. But I know Thomas. He won’t tell anyone what I told you. And he wouldn’t have asked the question in front of you if he thought you’d tell anyone.”
Now the homicide detective owed me a big favor.
Chapter 20
THAT EVENING, LILA slipped out again with some friends, this time to go dancing in Fort Lauderdale. Looking after both my mom and the kids that day had sapped my last bit of strength.
Which was why I was sleeping so hard when Lila called in the middle of the night.
“Hey, are you okay?” I asked.
“I am great, big brother,” she slurred. “Come down to the beach and join me. That way you can give me a ride home when I’m done.”
“It sounds like you’re already done. How much have you had to drink?”
“Just a few vodka-and-cranberries and some champagne.”
>
I heard someone say something behind her and caught snatches of music. I figured she was in the ladies’ room or maybe outside one of the clubs.
Lila added, “Oh, and we had a few shots too.”
Ever since men started realizing my little sister was a beauty, I’d told her that if she had too much to drink she should call me and I’d come pick her up, no questions asked. I didn’t mind missing a little sleep if it meant my sister didn’t accept a ride from a stranger.
I said, “Where are you?”
“Beach Rockets, between Sunrise Boulevard and Las Olas.”
“Isn’t that the new place for spring-breakers? I thought it had a young crowd.”
“I’m only twenty-four! Just because I act like an old person around you and Mom doesn’t mean I’m not young. It’s a fun dance club and tonight was ladies’ night.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I slipped through the house quietly. There were kids sleeping on couches and air mattresses everywhere. At least, that’s how it felt. I checked to make sure my mom was asleep.
I was a little nervous about leaving, but I had no choice. I didn’t want to wake up six kids and drive them twenty minutes to wait outside a bar. Everyone had my phone number, and they all knew how to use the house phone. Kids in the U.S. might not know what a landline was, but these kids did.
When I pulled up to trendy Beach Rockets, I could feel the music pulsing through the walls even from my car. The bright colors and decorative rockets near the door covered up the fact that the place had been a dive bar six months ago. Of course Lila wasn’t waiting outside for me, and she wasn’t answering her phone. I could hear the beat of the bass through the thick concrete walls, so there was no way she could hear her phone inside the club.
It’d been a while since I’d had to pass a bouncer and a uniformed cop working the door to get into a dance club in Fort Lauderdale. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
The place wasn’t all that big, but I didn’t see Lila. I stood there for a few minutes, hoping she’d walk by. Then someone said, “Are you waiting for your sister?”
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