Nobody Rides For Free

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “Could he have been involved in Verenich’s death?” I asked.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  I heard a car pull up outside. “Hold that thought.” I walked out and saw Wagon getting out of one of the Bureau vans. He was a dark-haired guy in his early thirties in jeans and an FBI polo shirt, with a white lab coat over his arm.

  He was towing a hard-sided suitcase I knew was full of his specialized equipment. “Hey, Angus. What have you got?”

  I led him inside and showed him the photo equipment and the computer console beside it. “I’m looking for any evidence of the production and distribution of pornographic materials involving underage individuals.”

  “Looks like I’ve got some work to do,” he said. I introduced him to Colin Hendricks, who had completed his search by then, and Wagon offered to share any fingerprints he found in the area with the DEA.

  Colin left and Katya and I began our search, looking for evidence that the porn videos were made at the house as well as information on how they were produced and distributed. I also hoped we’d find something that would tie the house further into Katya’s case, like business records of money laundering.

  We began with the living room, going over everything. In a cabinet near the front door, I found what looked like a purple and white jockey’s uniform—what Ozzy had been wearing in the racetrack video. We also found a lot of sex toys, and bagged and tagged each one.

  We skirted around the area where Wagon had spread black fingerprint powder over all the video and computer equipment. “You have any prints I’ll need to match to these?” Wagon asked.

  “I’ll get you a list,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “That many?”

  “There’s an older man who was living here and was in the videos himself,” I said. “I don’t know if someone else was working the camera while he was performing, and I don’t know if he’s the one who did all the video work as well. Two teenagers were living here. One of them is at a shelter in Fort Lauderdale, so I can get his prints for comparison and elimination. Then there are a number of other characters who’ve been floating around the periphery of the case, and I’d like to see if any of them have had their fingers on the equipment.”

  Katya and I went into the kitchen to continue our search. “You think Nicky Geier was involved here?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Right now we know that he has been on Verenich’s boat, though he told Detective Wells that he’d been on it before Verenich was killed, and that he was in New York that weekend.”

  I hesitated, then asked, “Does Nicky have a scar on his chin?”

  She traced a line across hers. “Like this. Why?”

  “I think he’s taken over as the manager of The XXX Factor from Frank Cardone.”

  Katya shook her head. “Nicky, Nicky.”

  We worked our way around the kitchen and found nothing useful. Dimetrie had cleared out the bedroom where he’d been staying, and the one where Frank and Ozzy had been sleeping was equally empty. There were a couple of bottles of lube in the bathroom but nothing else worth taking in. Disappointingly, there weren’t any business records in the house at all. I hoped there would be some spreadsheets or other material on the computer attached to the video equipment.

  By the time we were done, Wagon had packed up all the hardware to take back to the lab for further evaluation. Katya and I helped him carry it all out to the Bureau van he’d arrived in. By then it was after six o’clock. We put a padlock on the front door and crisscrossed it with crime scene tape.

  When we were finished, Katya said, “I should tell you more about New York.”

  “Sounds like a conversation we should have over dinner.” I took all the evidence bags and arranged to meet her at a French restaurant on US 1 that would be quiet enough for our talk.

  We met in the parking lot outside the restaurant. The sun had already gone down but it was still hot and humid, and Katya said, “I don’t know if I can ever get accustomed to this weather.”

  “It’s growing on me,” I said. “Particularly this time of year when I look at how cold it is up north. My brother has been complaining that even his leather gloves don’t keep his hands warm enough.”

  We went into the restaurant and each ordered a glass of wine. Katya dithered over the menu and I got the sense she was stalling, but she finally ordered a chicken crepe, and I got the mussels in garlic and white wine. When the server left, I said, “So…New York.”

  “Like I told you, I was able to get into a regular poker game in Brighton Beach. Then one of the men I played poker with introduced me to Nicky. He’s very handsome—very sexy—in a bad boy way. Leather jacket, motorcycle, too much product in his hair. He was a personal trainer at a Russian gym.”

  “A hard to resist combination,” I said.

  “You got it. I fell for him hard. It took a long time for me to realize we were both lying to each other.”

  Our food arrived, the rich scent of garlic, wine, and ocean rose up in waves from my overflowing bowl of glistening black mussel shells. Katya’s crepe took up the whole dinner plate, a creamy mix of chicken, mushrooms, and cream oozing out the far end.

  We told the server that everything looked delicious, and we started to eat.

  “How long did you and Nicky date?” I asked.

  “About a year,” she said. “But it only took me a month to discover that the job at the gym was a cover for his real job, as an enforcer for the Organizatsya.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Wow. I should have broken up with him as soon as I found out, but then, you know, I became a valuable asset. The Bureau wanted all the details of our pillow talk. Who did I meet through Nicky? What did I learn?”

  “That must have been incredibly stressful,” I said.

  “It got worse and worse. Everyday I was worried Nicky would find out about me and I’d be in big trouble. The Bureau was collecting evidence and preparing subpoenas and warrants, and I had to hold on until they were ready to pounce.”

  She finished her wine and signaled the server for another glass. I declined a refill myself.

  “Then one day Nicky disappeared. None of his friends knew where he’d gone. One of them told me that he quit the job at the gym and rode off on his motorcycle. Of course I didn’t believe him. I thought someone had killed Nicky and I was going to be next.”

  I could see why talking about the incident made Katya so nervous. “What happened?”

  “The Bureau triggered the warrants and subpoenas and pulled in a lot of big guys from the Organizatsya. A couple of the agents were suspicious that I had warned Nicky, and that’s why he had disappeared. It made for a tough working relationship, let me tell you.”

  The server returned with Katya’s second glass of wine, and she took a long gulp. “By the time I finished all my depositions I was ready for a nervous breakdown. The department shrink advised me to take a long vacation. I took some time off, but I kept looking for Nicky. I was sure he was dead and that I owed it to him to find out what had happened.”

  “But obviously he didn’t die.”

  “No, he didn’t. I didn’t know that, though, until I saw him at Krasotka. You probably noticed that I freaked—I hadn’t seen him since the day he walked out.”

  “But he must have surfaced at some point. Detective Wells from Palm Beach spoke to him.”

  “I didn’t know. But after I saw his name on the Post-it note in your office, I called a couple of people in New York. The word on the street was that he said he’d taken off for a few weeks to clear his head, and he’s back at the gym.”

  “He was never arrested in your investigation?”

  “There was no direct evidence against him.”

  I considered that statement as the server removed our plates. Had Katya deliberately covered up evidence that might have incriminated her boyfriend? Or was he smart enough to keep a low profile? Even if I asked, there was no guarantee Katya would tell me the truth.
/>   “It seems pretty likely that Nicky’s managing the porn shop. You think he’s doing it for Vadim Kurov?” I asked.

  “It’s possible. There isn’t much action in Brighton Beach while the prosecution goes forward.”

  “Can you get in touch with him?”

  I could see in her face that she knew this moment was going to arrive. “I’ll have to, won’t I?” she asked. “If he killed Verenich then he deserves to go to jail.”

  “And it’s possible he killed Dorje Brewer, too,” I said. “And that right now he’s on the hunt for Frank Cardone, like we are.”

  She nodded. “Make no mistake, he’s a predator.”

  Like the cheetah. I hoped I wouldn’t have to shoot Nicky Geier, too.

  35.

  Russian Dude

  I spent Thursday morning cataloging the physical evidence I had collected at the house the day before. I took screen captures from the video that showed each toy and made sure that each item was properly tagged with where and when I’d found it, and how it connected to the photos from the videos. Then I checked it all into the evidence locker. Brian Garcia’s tumbler and his laptop were still there, and I wondered when they’d get turned over to whichever agency would prosecute him for his attack on that innocent woman.

  Wagon called me down to the lab late in the morning. I found him in his white coat standing at the fingerprint screen. “These are the prints I was able to lift from the video camera,” he said, pointing at one set. “And these are Frank Cardone’s.” He pointed out the loops, whorls, and arches that matched.

  “How about the prints from Alexei Verenich’s boat? Any of those come up on the equipment?”

  He shook his head. So Nicholas Geier probably wasn’t involved in making the porn movies. The scar on his chin, which the porn store clerk mentioned and Katya verified, made it likely that Geier was the Russian guy that had taken over from Cardone, but I’d have to go over there and show him a photo array to confirm.

  Wagon had the computer from the house set up in a corner of his lab, and I pulled up a bar-height stool and started reviewing the contents of the hard drive. In a folder called “Contracts” I found a PDF of a simple employment agreement. It stated that “Employer” (Gay Guys LLC) desired to obtain the services of “Employee” (Frank Cardone). Frank’s position title was “Executive Producer” and his duties included hiring and supervising staff as well as producing films for distribution.

  Nothing about the type of film, though. His compensation of $1,500 per week matched the paychecks I had found. Everything else was boilerplate—vacation, health benefits, and so on. I skimmed to the end where I found Cardone’s name and signature. Beneath it were lines for Employer Rep and Employer Rep’s signature.

  The rep’s signature was an unreadable scrawl, but his name was clear: Antonio Cruz.

  It was the link I needed. Either Cruz was the owner of the LLC, or he could lead us to that person. Vadim Kurov? Perhaps.

  I spent a couple of hours looking through the contents of the hard drive, but I didn’t find anything else that connected Cruz to the LLC, or the names of any other individuals who might be involved.

  Lester texted me that he had to switch shifts with another bouncer, so he was free that night for dinner. Was I? I texted back that I was, and that I’d confirm time and place later in the day.

  Then Ana Cespedes called. “A couple of uniforms picked up Eric Morozov early this morning,” she said. “I met with him and he’s willing to talk about what was going on at that porn house, though he insists he didn’t do anything illegal.”

  I agreed to meet her at the Broward County Jail in downtown Fort Lauderdale. “I’m going to need some caffeine for this,” I said. “Can I get you something on my way?”

  “You must have already sampled the coffee at the jail,” she said. “Sure, I’d love a green tea latte.”

  “And in return…” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “You must have Morozov’s prints by now, right? Can you get them sent over to our lab so my tech can compare them to ones from the video equipment?”

  I gave her Wagon’s e-mail address and she said she’d get the prints to him. Before I left the office I put together a photo array including a head shot of Nicholas Geier that I could show to the video store clerk.

  It took about a half hour to get downtown from Miramar. I got my grande mocha, along with the latte for Cespedes, and met her in front of the jail. It was a modern eight-story facility on the bank of the New River, adjacent to the county courthouse. It was ironic that many of the neighboring buildings were fancy high-rises with water views. Not much luxury for prisoners, though.

  “What’s Morozov charged with?” I asked, as we walked inside.

  “Battery on a Police Officer—he set that cheetah loose on us. And he was found in the house where I have a reasonable suspicion child abuse was occurring.” She sipped her latte. “I met with him very briefly this morning after he was processed. I asked him if he knew where Frank Cardone was, and he said he doesn’t know. He denied that he knew anything about the pornography, that he was there watching the house because Cardone had booked.”

  “Who asked him to do that?”

  “That’s where he got cagey. He said he has information that would get him a free pass, but he insisted that you be present for the interrogation.”

  “I’m certainly interested to hear what he has to say.”

  We went through security and the sergeant in charge of the holding cells had Eric brought to an interview room. He had handcuffs around his wrists and he looked a whole lot less sure of himself than he did when he was working out at the gym.

  Cespedes got out a pocket recorder and established our location, our identities, and Eric’s permission to have the interview recorded.

  “Let’s start with the house in Wilton Manors,” she said. “Please explain what you were doing there when we arrived yesterday to look for Frank Cardone.”

  “I do odd jobs and favors for a couple of different people,” he said. “A couple of times I’ve house-sat for Antonio Cruz, watching Felix for him.”

  “Felix is the cheetah you had in your possession when we arrived?”

  He nodded.

  “Please say all your answers for the recording,” Cespedes said.

  “Yes. I was staying at Antonio’s house with Felix.”

  “Does the property in Wilton Manors where we found you belong to Antonio Cruz?”

  “No. It belongs to some corporation owned by a friend of his.”

  “Who’s the friend?”

  “I never knew his name. Antonio introduced me to Frank Cardone, who needed some help now and then.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “I ran errands for him. Nothing illegal. I took Dimetrie to his dance lessons. I’d do the grocery shopping. That kind of thing.”

  “Were you aware of the activities going on at the house?”

  He hesitated, licked his lips. “I knew they were making movies,” he said. “But I never knew that Dimetrie or Ozzy were under eighteen.”

  “Yet you told me yourself that Dimetrie was seventeen,” I said.

  “I didn’t know that until the day before,” he said. “Frank told me they were both over eighteen. That he made them shave and use that hair removal stuff so that their skin would be soft and they’d look like they had barely reached puberty. I thought it was a scam for the people who bought the videos.”

  “Did you ever participate in the videos?” I asked.

  “No.” He was pretty emphatic. “Frank said that I looked too muscular and too old, anyway.”

  “How about in the operation of the business,” I asked. “Did you ever help in making the movies?”

  “No.”

  “Distributing them?”

  “No.”

  “How did you get paid for your work?” I was hoping that he’d say that Alexei Verenich wrote him checks, so that I could ask more about his relationship with Verenich.
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  “Cash. It was a pain in the neck sometimes. Frank would give me a whole bag of coins and I’d have to take them to the Publix to convert them to bills.”

  Probably money from the Triple X bookstore. So no lead there.

  “What was Antonio Cruz’s involvement with the porn house?” I asked.

  Eric shrugged. “Never saw him there.”

  Cespedes said, “In Florida, Battery on a Police Officer is a third degree felony and carries penalties of up to five years in prison. Even if it’s your first offense, judges come down pretty hard. So you better have some information to trade. Or else you’re wasting our time.”

  Eric was sweating. “I swear, I didn’t do anything. And Felix getting loose, that was an accident. I was freaked out, man. I had to get away.”

  Cespedes leaned toward the recorder. “This concludes our interview with Eric Morozov,” she said.

  “Wait!” he said.

  She looked up at him. “Mr. Morozov has something else to add. Yes?”

  “Talk to Mr. Cruz. He’ll tell you I’m a good guy. I do my jobs, I don’t complain.”

  “Let’s go at this from a different angle,” I said. “You were present while the videos were being made, weren’t you?”

  “No, man, I swear I wasn’t.”

  Though I hadn’t heard from Wagon yet, I took a gamble. “Then how come your fingerprints are all over the cameras and the lighting equipment?”

  Eric gulped and his eyes widened. “I might have…I might have helped Frank out with the filming sometimes,” he said. “But I swear, I didn’t know the boys weren’t legal.” He started to cry. “You’ve got to believe me.”

  “I wish I could, Eric,” I said.

  Cespedes’ phone rang, and she stopped the recording, then stepped outside.

  “Please, Angus,” Eric said, still crying. “You’ve got to help me. I can’t go to prison.”

  “You’re a tough guy,” I said. “You’ll manage.”

  I crossed my arms and stared at him until Cespedes returned to the room. She started the recording again. “New evidence has come in against you, Eric, and I have to say it doesn’t look good.”