“A search warrant might turn up the rope he used, for example. Or the gun.”
“Absolutely. But you know as well as I do that I have to have sufficient evidence in order to get the warrant.”
And there I was again. Not enough concrete evidence to justify the invasion of a citizen’s privacy. “You’ll want to contact Detective David Wells in Palm Beach,” I said. I pulled out my phone and read her the number. “I think there’s going to be a connection to the death of a Russian-American real estate attorney from Sunny Isles Beach named Alexei Verenich. The method of death is the same in both cases, and maybe the ballistics from both murders will match.”
“You’re making this into a very interesting case, Agent Green,” she said.
“I do my best.”
30.
Take it Slow
By the time I left the Fort Lauderdale police department, the day had turned hot and sunny and my car burned like a furnace. I opened the windows and turned the air conditioning on high as I made my way back to the highway.
My brain buzzed with what I’d learned that day. Both Alexei Verenich and Dorje Brewer had been killed by gunshots to the back of the head. From the same gun? I’d have to wait for the ballistics results to know.
Who was at the intersection of those two individuals? The easy answer was Frank Cardone. He worked for Verenich, or at least Verenich wrote him periodic checks. And Cardone knew Dorje. But was Cardone the kind of stone-cold killer who could shoot two men in the back of the head?
I couldn’t come up with anymore connections between the two victims. When I got to Miramar, I wrote up yet another FD302 about my conversations with Maria Fleitas and Ana Cespedes. I reviewed everything I knew, and it was frustrating to have so much information and yet still not enough.
After I made it home, I went for a long, sweaty run around my neighborhood, then took a shower to cool off. I began to feel better, and a call from Lester helped.
“I went over to Lazarus Place this afternoon,” he said. “Those kids are way tougher than I expected. Even the really femmy ones already know how to take care of themselves.”
“They have to be, to survive on the street,” I said. “What did you do with them?”
“I showed them holds I use when I have to drag guys out of the bar, and then they practiced how they could get out of them if someone used one on them. It was fun.”
“You going back?”
“I think so. They need some good role models, you know?”
That was Lester in a nutshell. Big and tough and able to toss jerks out of the bar, but with a sweet heart beating in his chest.
“So what’s up with you and that Shane guy?” he asked.
My heart skipped a beat or two. “What do you mean?”
“He kept asking me questions about how I knew you, were we friends or dating. You fool around with him?”
“Nothing more than a kiss and a hug,” I said. “Honestly? He’s got some baggage.”
“Baggage? Honey, he’s got a matched set of luggage to carry around everything that’s wrong with him.”
Lester had pitched his voice an octave higher than normal, and I had to laugh, even though I knew he was right. “How can you tell?”
“Working in a bar you get a keen insight into human nature,” he said. “But you know that already. How many years did you say you tended bar? All through college?”
“I started as a server, but I was able to get behind the bar about a year later because I worked in a restaurant and the rules in Pennsylvania were you only had to be eighteen.” It struck me that our common experience in nightlife was another connection that Lester and I shared, though I hadn’t seen that before.
“Anyway, I made it clear that you and I are back together,” Lester said. “That’s what we are, right?”
“We are as together as peanut butter and jelly,” I said. “And sometimes just as sticky.”
He laughed. “I dig you, G-Man.”
“I dig you too,” I said.
We compared our schedules, and for the next couple of days he was starting at Eclipse as I was ending my day at the Bureau. “I might be able to get Saturday night off,” he said. “You think you’d be free?”
“I will make it my business to be.”
After I hung up, I sat back in my chair and thought about the men in my life. First, of course, was my brother Danny. I was tied to him by blood and by our shared upbringing. I knew that no matter what happened, I’d have his back, and he’d have mine. That was a good feeling.
Then there was Jonas. Nothing romantic between us, and I wasn’t going to have even the most casual sex with him while I was dating Lester. Not the way I rolled.
I honestly doubted I’d continue to see Shane McCoy after the case was over. He was a nice guy, and cute in a hipster way, but the darkness was gnawing away at him, and I saw enough of that kind of personality through my job. On my off time I wanted someone whose heart was lighter—like Lester.
His body rocked—he was a walking anatomy textbook, with bulging pecs and a narrow waist. When he held me I felt safe in his arms, and when we were naked together—well, that was pretty awesome. But beyond the physical, Lester and I clicked somehow. I was a few steps ahead of him when it came to discovering my life’s work—I knew he wasn’t going to be a bouncer forever, and that he was struggling to find something he could do that would engage him. Maybe he’d end up at the Bureau like me. Wouldn’t that be wild—not just a single gay agent in a field office but a married couple?
I was getting ahead of myself, though. Like the sign on the locker room wall in the racetrack video said, I had to take it slow.
31.
Innocence Lost
Wednesday morning I worked out with Jonas, but we didn’t see Eric Morozov. “What if he left town?” Jonas asked. “Just as I was getting to know him.”
“Cool your jets,” I said. “You hardly know the guy. And just because he’s not at the gym at the exact time we’re here, doesn’t mean he’s moved away.”
As I drove to work, I realized that Jonas’ fear wasn’t completely unfounded. I hadn’t told him all the connections I’d found to Eric, so I wouldn’t be surprised if Eric disappeared. After all, he’d worked for Alexei Verenich, who was dead. Had he known Dorje, too? If he had, then Dorje’s death might be a motivator to run as well.
I remembered Eric’s bulging muscles. Had he been involved somehow in the deaths of Dorje and Verenich? Either as killer or security?
Or was he dead, too?
OK, I was starting to fantasize like Jonas. Sure, there was a chance that Eric was dead because he’d associated with some unsavory characters. But until I got some hard evidence, I was assuming he was alive and well and somewhere in Fort Lauderdale.
When I got to the office I called Detective Wells in Palm Beach. “Any progress on Verenich’s death?” I asked.
“The Lauderdale detective who called me is waiting for ballistics reports to see if the same gun was used in both murders. Same caliber, so there’s a good chance they’ll match.”
“I think they might, too.” I looked at my notes. “You said there was another guy whose fingerprints were on Verenich’s boat. Have you been able to track him down yet?”
“Yeah, I had a detective in New York interview him and he swears he was on the boat with Verenich a few days before his death. He says he has an alibi for the last day Verenich left the marina but I haven’t been able to confirm it yet. He has a record that stretches from my office out to the ocean, so I don’t trust anything he says.”
“What’s his name?”
“Nicholas Geier.” He spelled the name for me and I wrote it down on a Post-it note.
Wells said he’d keep me in the loop, and hung up. I was adding that information to my paperwork when Ana Cespedes called.
“The prints we found at the site of Dorje Brewer’s murder match Frank Cardone,” she said. “I’m going to head over to his house and interview him. You want to
join me?”
“I’d love to,” I said.
I was excited. Finally, some progress. I was sure we were going to find video equipment at the house, and hopefully both Ozzy and Dimetrie. Maybe even other boys who were being exploited. I was going to crack the case open and rescue them. And then we’d be able to grill Cardone about the distribution of flakka.
An hour later, I pulled up at the house behind a Fort Lauderdale Police cruiser. Cespedes was standing beside it talking to two uniformed officers. Eric Morozov’s Mustang was in the driveway, but there was no sign of the sedan registered to Frank Cardone.
“You have an arrest warrant for Cardone?” I asked as the four of us walked up to the front door.
“No. I don’t have enough evidence yet for a warrant. I just want to talk to him.”
I stood back with the two uniforms as Cespedes rapped sharply on the front door.
Someone spoke to her from the other side of the door, and she announced her name and rank, and that she wanted to speak with Frank Cardone. Then the door opened and Eric Morozov stepped out. He was wearing a baggy pair of board shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his guns.
“Frank Cardone?” Cespedes asked, before I could say anything.
Eric shook his head. “He’s gone.” He saw me and said, “Hey, I know you. Jonas’s roommate. What’s going on?”
“Does Frank Cardone live here?” I asked.
“He used to. He took off yesterday with Ozzy and I got stuck keeping an eye on things. As if I didn’t have enough to do already.”
“Do you mind if I come in and check the premises, to verify that Mr. Cardone isn’t here?” Cespedes asked.
“You don’t want to,” Eric said. “At least not until I get Felix under control.”
Was he another one of the boys being filmed? Maybe Felix was on a webcam at that very moment. I might be able to stop this whole operation.
“Who is Felix?” Cespedes asked.
“A cat,” Eric said. “But not an ordinary house cat. He’s a cheetah.”
As soon as he said it, I made the connection. He was cat-sitting for the car dealer. “Antonio Cruz is in jail,” I said.
Eric nodded. “He was denied bail.”
“Slow down,” Cespedes said. “You’re saying there’s a wild animal in the house?”
“He’s not exactly wild,” Eric said. “He isn’t comfortable around strangers. I have to get his leash and collar on him before I can let you inside.”
Cespedes looked at me.
“Antonio Cruz owns Exotic Imports, the car dealership,” I said. “Maybe you’ve seen his ads on TV? He walks his pet cheetah on a leash. He was arrested at an illegal poker game on Saturday night.”
She glared at me. “You might have mentioned that before.”
“Didn’t know it was relevant.”
“Fine. Get the cat on a leash,” she said to Eric, who went back inside and shut the door. Then she turned to me. “You know that guy?”
“His name is Eric Morozov. He does odd jobs for a couple of different people, including Antonio Cruz. And he used to work for the victim you spoke to Detective Wells about, Alexei Verenich.”
She shook her head. Then she directed the two officers to go around the back of the house to watch any rear exits. “Are all your cases this crazy?” she asked me.
Since I’d only been responsible for one big case before, I had to say yes.
It took a couple of minutes for Eric to come back to the front door, this time walking the cheetah on a very short leash. It was a magnificent animal, the size of a German shepherd, with a tan coat and black spots. Its short ears were erect and its expression wary.
“It’s OK, Felix,” Eric said, stroking the cheetah’s head.
“Is anyone else in the building?” Cespedes asked. “Any other humans or wildlife?”
“Only Dimetrie,” he said. “And he’s pretty harmless.”
Cespedes looked at me.
“Runaway teenager,” I said. “I’ve never met him but I’ve seen his work.”
Eric laughed. “If you can call it that.” He skirted around us, holding on tight to Felix’s leash. “Try to make it quick, will you? I don’t know how long I can keep him outside.”
Cespedes handed me a pair of rubber gloves. “Observe, don’t touch,” she said. “Remember, we don’t have a warrant to search the premises. We’re just verifying that Cardone isn’t here.”
We walked in the house, and my first reaction was how ordinary it was. The living room looked a lot like the one Jonas and I shared, with beat-up armchairs around an old coffee table and chairs, a worn terrazzo floor, a nearly empty bookcase, and a tall floor lamp in the corner. Sliding glass doors like the ones I’d seen in the screenshot of Ozzy from the webcam led out to an empty patio.
I walked over to the bookcase, where I saw a stack of DVDs in plastic cases on the top shelf. Beside them was a clear container like the kind we stored rice in at my house, with a small pile of whitish rocks in it. They looked like the rock candy I ate as a kid, but this was something more deadly. It was the flakka I’d been looking for.
I called her over and pointed it out to her. “Holy shit,” she said. “That’s a lot of gravel.” There was also a stack of small, plastic zipper bags beside the box, along with a small electronic scale.
“I’m going to call my contact at the DEA, who’s been looking for the supplier of this stuff. You OK with that?”
“I have my hands full with a murder case,” she said. “You want to pass this on to the DEA, be my guest.”
I called Colin Hendricks and told him what I’d found. “You want me to confiscate the drugs? We don’t have a search warrant, but the person in charge of the house let us in, and the flakka is in plain sight, so I can bag them up for you.”
“No, I’m coming over. This situation is complicated and I want to check the scene myself.”
When I hung up the phone, I realized that the case I was officially investigating was over. By finding the flakka on the bookcase, I’d followed the thread from Brian Garcia’s e-mail chain with Ozzy Perez. I wasn’t responsible for the murders of Alexei Verenich or Dorje Brewer.
I couldn’t walk away knowing that Ozzy was out there with the man who’d been forcing him to have sex on camera. To my right was a sophisticated video setup—a couple of cameras on tripods and some studio lights. All the equipment was shut down.
Could I take on shutting down the porn operation as my case? I knew that both Ozzy and Dimetrie were under the age of consent, so the FBI had jurisdiction under the Innocence Lost National Initiative. The program had been operating for twelve years, with seventy-three dedicated task forces and working groups involving federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies working in tandem with U.S. Attorney’s Offices.
We did not have an active group working those cases in our office, so if I could convince Roly to let me follow the evidence, I could jump in and use my investigation to find Ozzy.
I was excited. The Bureau had rescued nearly five thousand children and convicted more than two thousand pimps, madams, and their associates, resulting in lengthy sentences and the seizure of real property, vehicles, and monetary assets. It was a thrill to be able to add to that list.
If Roly would only agree.
32.
What Love Is
I stood next to the equipment as I called Roly and brought him up to date. “I have all the evidence right here,” I said. “I’ve turned the flakka investigation over to Colin Hendricks so I want to run with this. Find this missing kid and make sure that this operation gets shut down completely.”
Roly was silent for a moment, and I worried he was going to turn me down. He’d already told me a couple of times that the porn operation wasn’t my case.
“I knew you wouldn’t give up on this missing boy,” Roly said eventually. “Once you get your teeth into something, you don’t let go. But you’ve got to do this by the book. Get a search warrant, log all the eviden
ce. If the boy is with this man who you believe is making the movies, then you’ll find him. But keep your focus on the business operation.”
My pulse raced as I realized that I was finally able to investigate the case I had wanted to all along. “Will do,” I said.
I ended the call and looked at the equipment. Without a warrant, I couldn’t start snooping into footage in the camera or look on the computer’s hard drive. If I could get Dimetrie to confirm what was going on, I’d have no problem getting the warrant I needed from even the most conservative judge.
“Dimetrie?” I called. “You here?”
The lithe teenager I’d seen in the video with Ozzy walked out wearing only a bright red thong. His skin shimmered and I wondered if he’d been oiled up for an online session. “Who are you?” he asked.
Cespedes introduced herself and me.
“Can you and I have a chat?” I asked Dimetrie.
He shrugged. Cespedes continued to look through the rest of the house to verify that Cardone wasn’t there, and I followed Dimetrie to his bedroom. The only furniture was a narrow twin bed and a small dresser, and the floor was littered with books, magazines, and computer equipment. He’d hung posters of male dancers on the walls, and as he sat on the bed, I walked over to one of the posters—a dancer in flight. “Beautiful,” I said. “Can you do this kind of thing?”
“I wish,” he said. “So what’s the FBI doing here? You going to arrest me?”
He lounged on the bed, his long legs splayed out and his hand resting beside the tiny red pouch that did little to conceal his erection.
“Tell me what’s been going on,” I said. “I saw you coming home from dance class, so I’m assuming you aren’t a prisoner.”
“You’ve been stalking me?” He stroked his dick through the pouch. “That could be kind of sexy.”
“Cut the crap, Dimetrie.” I’d had the idea I was there to rescue him, but it didn’t look like he was interested in that. So plan B. “You get paid for your work?”
Nobody Rides For Free Page 20
