by Rick Mofina
Looking deeper into her files they learned about her troubles and that Florence was also known as “Miss Tangiers,” an exotic dancer at the Cold Room, the bar with a strip club in the basement.
Word was that Florence was performing tonight.
It was 1:35 a.m. when the detectives entered the bar.
The joint had vinyl seats patched with duct tape, scarred hardwood floors and chipped brick walls. The basement smelled of beer, drain cleaner and cheap cologne. A bony naked girl twirled around a pole while Tom Jones sang “What’s New, Pussycat?”
This is where dreams come to die, Brewer thought.
“We’re looking for ‘Miss Tangiers,’” Klaver said to a waiter, a man with no neck who was built like a fridge. His droopy eyes rolled to Klaver’s badge, then he nodded to the hall and the dressing rooms.
“Number three,” the waiter said.
The door for number three bore many fractures.
Brewer knocked twice.
“Next show’s in fifteen minutes.” A woman’s voice was muffled.
“NYPD, Florence, open up!” Brewer said.
A silence, then a curse before a toilet flushed.
“I don’t have to talk to you.”
“You obstructing us, Florence? Want to dance in a cell tonight?”
Another curse before the lock clicked. The door cracked as wide as six inches of chain would allow. A pair of almond eyes stared up at Brewer.
“We need to talk to you about Omarr Aimes.”
“Who?”
Brewer had cued up a photo of Aimes and held up his cell phone.
“Oh, Sweet Time.”
“Yeah, Sweet Time. Open up.”
“I don’t know anything about him.”
“Listen up. We can take you downtown right now!”
“That’s a lie!”
“It seems your ex says you violated his visitation rights to see your daughter, Trinity. Something about not showing up, disrespecting the terms of what was ordered by the family court judge.”
“That is so much bull-fucking-shit.”
“Seems he filed a petition with the court and you failed to show at the hearing.”
“He’s a drunk and a deadbeat who hasn’t paid a damn penny in child support. What is the court doing about my violation petition? Are you going to help me with that? Jesus, why’re you getting in my face like this? It’s because of him I gotta work here. All my money goes to lawyers. I’m just trying to make a better life for me and my baby girl.”
“Get some clothes on,” Brewer said. “We’ll talk outside in the fresh air.”
“But I got a show in ten minutes.”
“Let’s go now, Florence,” Brewer said.
She closed the door, bustled about the room before emerging in a full-length leather coat with her bag, leading them out the back to the alley. She rummaged through her bag, produced a cigarette and lighter. A flame flickered. She inhaled deeply, leaned against the stone wall, hugged herself and blew a stream of smoke skyward.
“When was the last time you were with Omarr?” Brewer asked her.
“I have the right to remain silent.”
“You’re not under arrest.”
“Then we’re done.”
“I’ll tell you when we’re done,” Brewer said. “You know about Omarr.”
“That he’s dead, yeah. Bummer.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I didn’t kill him, unless dancing on his crotch is a crime.”
A bright light suddenly stung her eyes.
“Hey! What the fuck!”
Klaver had a flashlight aimed at her.
“You stoned, Florence? That could be a violation,” Brewer said. “You want us to take you downtown, jam you up?”
She was shaking her head to avert the light.
“No, fuck you.”
“How about a little cooperation?”
“Shut that thing off.”
The light went out.
“Now, when was the last time you were with Omarr?”
“The night before they found him dead.”
“Where? What did you do?”
“He came to the bar. He’s a regular. I danced for him. He hired me for overtime. We went to my girlfriend’s place. I did him all night for five hundred and he left in the morning. There, we’re done.” She dropped her cigarette and stubbed it. “I have to go.”
“Not so fast,” Brewer said. “When he came to the bar, was he alone or with anyone else?”
“He was alone.”
Klaver glanced over at Brewer. They knew Aimes had a prepaid cell phone. They couldn’t trace any of his calling history, nor could they find it.
“When you were with him, did he make or receive any calls on his cell phone?”
She said nothing.
“Think, Florence. Think.”
“One. He took one call when he was with me.”
“What did he say, who was he talking to?”
“How the hell should I know? Some shit about a job for some guy.”
Brewer exhaled slowly, struggling to hang on to his patience.
“We see from your file with the court that you’re studying to be a court reporter.”
“I told you I was trying to get out of the life, any law against it?”
“You have to have a good memory for that line of work. Prove to us that you have a good memory, Florence, and maybe we can help you.”
Florence looked at Brewer, considered his offer and blew smoke out the side of her mouth.
“Think about the conversation Omarr had—it was hours before he was killed. Can you remember anything about his end of it?”
The back door to the bar opened, a man’s silhouette filled the doorway.
“Get your ass on the stage, Miss Tangiers!”
Brewer flashed his badge, Klaver revealed his holstered gun. “Police business, back off!” Brewer said.
The man retreated, muttering.
“Think about that call, Florence.”
“He was talking to some guy. It maybe had something to do with making a movie, picking something up for him. I don’t know. He sounded like he was talking about what they were going to do near Times Square. Then after he hung up he called somebody else and says that some guy named Zeta, or Rama, some crazy Albanian or Russian, got a job for them. Big easy money.”
As Klaver wrote it down, Brewer pressed further.
“This Zeta, or Rama, you hear him say anything else about him?”
“No, nothing. I swear that’s all I heard. Look, Omarr wasn’t there to talk, you know.”
Brewer and Klaver let a moment pass.
“We’re going to need you to come downtown and make a statement.”
“But I have one more show.”
“We’ll talk to your boss.”
“And you’ll help me, right?”
“If your information checks out.”
CHAPTER 43
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
Most of the travel magazine’s staff had gone out for lunch.
Alone at his desk, Joost Smit twisted the cap from a bottle of pink stomach remedy and swallowed a mouthful. Grimacing, he resumed rereading the disturbing email on his computer. Joost had received it ten minutes ago from a friend in Turkey who’d noticed a small news story.
Yuri Kripovanosk, corporate security consultant and former reporter with Interfax, the Russian wire service, was dead at fifty-two. He’d been found in an alley near a busy market in Istanbul.
Foul play was not suspected, according to police.
Joost never trusted police statements when it came to the deaths of peop
le he knew. He reached into his valise for his secure cell phone and called a friend in Vienna to see if he had more information. As the line rang, worry swirled in Joost’s mind over Yuri’s death. Yes, Yuri drank too much and when he drank he talked too much. He was the one who’d revealed Joost’s past to Aleena. But he was Joost’s most important associate in his global courier operation. Together they’d amassed sizable fortunes and talked of retiring to Aruba.
Yuri’s network was far more extensive and lucrative than Joost’s and far more dangerous, given that many of his clients were terrorists.
It was Yuri who’d arranged the music box delivery, through his people who’d brought it to Joost yesterday, near-frantic with instructions that it be delivered in New York within twenty-four hours. Yuri provided the emergency contact number to be memorized. For this job, Joost’s share was two hundred thousand euros. Cash. In the standard split. Half now, the remainder upon delivery. Joost did not know who the customer was or what the music box contained, only that it would pass easily through any security checkpoints.
Or so he was told.
And so he’d hoped.
In her last text Aleena had indicated that she’d changed planes in London without a problem and was en route to Newark. That gave Joost a measure of comfort on one front. But the unanswered phone in Vienna deepened his anxiety over Yuri’s death.
Joost hung up and swallowed another mouthful of stomach medicine.
His office phone rang.
The number for the receptionist downstairs displayed. Joost answered.
“Two gentlemen to see you, Mr. Smit.”
“I’m not expecting anyone. Tell them I am in meetings all afternoon.”
Joost hung up, removed his glasses and massaged his tired eyes. He needed to send a wire transfer to his bank in the Cayman Islands.
His line rang. The receptionist again.
“They’re from the KLPD.”
KLPD? That’s the national criminal investigations branch. Joost absorbed the update. “Did they say what it was about?”
“They wouldn’t say. They’re on their way to see you.”
Joost hung up. He had little time to think before two men entered the editorial department, scanned the empty desks, then filled the doorway to his office. One nodded to his nameplate.
“You are Joost Smit?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Sergeant Peter Linden and my partner is Sergeant Jan de Groot. We’re with the criminal intelligence division.”
A ping of uneasiness sounded in the back of Joost’s mind. Their accents were off.
De Groot shut his office door and proceeded to close all the window shades. At this point Joost thought it wise to cooperate. He stood to greet them.
“Yes, how can I help you?” He extended his hand.
Linden shook it, the glint of a gold filling flashed when he attempted a smile that seemed more like the scowl of a man void of human qualities.
“We have some routine inquiries.”
Then de Groot, the larger of the two men, shook Joost’s hand. Pain shot through it as if he’d been pricked as de Groot nearly crushed it in his.
Blood oozed from a small, deep puncture in the palm of Joost’s hand. Horror blossomed on his face. Gripping his wounded hand he sank into his chair, watching de Groot casually collapse the tiny needlepoint on his large ring.
Joost was aware that he’d been injected with poison.
“Comrade Smit,” Linden mocked him. “You’re aware who we are and why we’re here.”
Linden set a small vial with clear liquid and a packaged hypodermic needle on Joost’s desk out of Joost’s reach.
“Without this antidote,” Linden said, “you will die in twenty-five to thirty-five minutes, a heart attack at the desk, so common with men your age.”
Joost’s right hand was getting numb, sweat formed on his upper lip.
“The FSB in Moscow has been working very hard and that hard work led us to Yuri Kripovanosk in Istanbul,” Linden said. “Let me show you the excellent work of our team there.”
Linden reached into his pocket for his cell phone and played a short video recording. Yuri was in a darkened room, naked, bound to a table. A man with bolt cutters was amputating his toes. Linden adjusted the volume so Joost could hear Yuri’s screams.
“The toes, the fingers, then his cock. You know the drill. Old school but effective, right, Smit?” Linden’s gold crown flashed when he grinned. “He cooperated, which brings us to you.”
Joost swallowed.
“We have learned of a plot to assassinate our president in New York during the General Assembly of the United Nations. You will tell us about this plot and Russian security will defeat it our way, hopefully avoiding the complication or the embarrassment of involving the Americans.”
The numbness in Joost’s hand was shooting along his arm.
“I know nothing of any plot.”
“This is not the time to lie,” Linden said. “Yuri arranged for you to deliver an item containing something critical to this plot. What is it and where is it?”
Joost’s shoulder began throbbing.
He glanced at the antidote, then searched around his office, coming to a snapshot of a staff Christmas party, finding Aleena, smiling, innocent. If he gave her up, they would find her and kill her.
“Yuri was mis-mis-mistaken.”
Linden said nothing as de Groot began rummaging through files, the schedules, staff lists. Minutes passed as Linden tapped the antidote vial with the frequency of a ticking clock.
Painful spears of lightning shot through Joost’s brain.
His body had turned to stone. He saw de Groot drawing his face to a corkboard of upcoming editions and the small harmless note Joost had written on the look-ahead list: “Aleena in NYC for feature.”
Aleena’s full name was in the magazine. Her desk was a few feet away.
The room began spinning for Joost and he smelled bread.
Warm and fresh.
He was a boy again in his father’s bakery in Saint Petersburg. The happiest time of his life, helping box the pies, the tarts, and bag the bread. His Dutch father had big hands and he kneaded the dough like a master. His Russian mother smelled of sugar and cream when she hugged him against her apron.
Before he died Joost embraced the memory of how the ovens kept him so warm through the coldest winters.
CHAPTER 44
Somewhere in New York City
Cole woke in darkness.
His heart was beating fast because today they were going to get away.
But he didn’t move a muscle.
Ever since they’d found the handcuff keys he prayed that the guard wouldn’t realize that he’d dropped them. Chances were good they would not be missed, because ever since Cole and his mom were taken, the guards had only used the keys once to release Cole’s mom when they took her away.
Cole and his mother had held off acting on their discovery.
“We have to wait for the right time,” she had whispered.
Buoyed by the hope of escape Sarah decided they must make their move when their captors were at their weakest.
In the predawn.
“We’ll do it before sunrise,” Sarah had told Cole last night before urging him to get some sleep.
Now he was wide-awake, his heart racing as he checked on his mother lying on her mattress near him.
* * *
Sarah was awake, too, keeping vigil of the men far across the old factory floor where the scene was akin to a military encampment.
Snoring and coughing echoed in the still air.
Most of them were asleep in cots, or in sleeping bags on air mattresses. In the ambient light she saw a couple of them at the tables working
at computers, talking softly on cell phones or to each other. The various tiny lights of their equipment winked and light reflected off the metal of equipment peeking from tarps.
Sarah studied their guard.
He was wearing a holstered gun.
He was in a padded high-back office chair some ten feet away where he’d spent much of last night in a lip-smacking feast of spicy-smelling food from a plate on his lap.
Now, his chin was on his chest and he was snoring.
Sarah gathered her chain and inched closer to the guard.
The luminescent digits of his watch showed 3:39 a.m.
The guard was out cold.
Sarah glanced toward the others in the distant darkness.
Now, she thought, we have to do this now.
Sarah moved to Cole, who retrieved the keys from their hiding spot.
When he tried the first one in his mother’s cuffs, it didn’t work. Neither did the second key. He glanced fearfully at her. She bit her lip, checked to make sure the guard was still sleeping, then tried the key in Cole’s cuff.
It clicked open.
She gasped, clasped her hands over his cuffs, then freed Cole from the chain. She closed his open dangling handcuff around his wrist so it would not make a sound. He now had two cuffs closed on one wrist.
“Heavy,” Cole said, testing the weight.
The metal against metal made a little noise but not too much.
“Okay, honey, are you ready?”
Fear flooded Sarah’s voice as she fought to stay calm for Cole.
“I think so.”
“Remember what we talked about?”
“Yes.”
“Each time I went to the bathroom I loosened the cover of the air shaft,” she said. “I’m pretty sure it leads to the next room.”
Cole nodded.
“Pull it off and find your way out of here. Just get out and tell the first person you see who you are and to call 9-1-1 and send police.”
“I’m scared to leave you, Mom.”
“I know but you have to be brave. I want you to get out and be safe.”
Sarah took Cole’s face into her trembling hands.
