by Don Donovan
"Majeski," he said. "Andy Majeski. B-but they call me Jess."
Silvana checked him out. Older guy, like maybe sixty, sixty-five. Running out the clock at this Dobbs gig. Thinning hair, pale complexion. Deep lines ran up from his upper lip. Big, brown age spots all around his receding hairline. Alcohol redness and cracking skin set in around the nose. Probably the only white man for ten blocks in any direction.
"Okay, Jess. Mind telling us what you saw?"
"Waa-aal, first I heard the shots. Then I —"
"How many shots?" Vargas said.
"Two. Or maybe it was three." He paused and reflected on it like Thomas Jefferson contemplating the next words of the Declaration of Independence. "No," he said with utmost finality. "It was two. Two shots."
"Okay," Vargas said. "Then what?"
"Then, I seen this guy runnin' out the door and another guy following him."
"Two guys?" Silvana said.
The clerk said, "That's right. Two guys. But, uh … but, I can't say they was together, you know? Mighta been one chasin' the other. But … I can't say that for sure, either."
"Well, what can you say for sure?" Vargas said.
"Waa-aal, after they both run out the door, I got up and went to the door myself. Stuck my head out. Not too far, y'understand, 'cause I didn't want to get it blowed off. But just enough to see."
"So what did you see?" Silvana asked.
"Nothin'."
Silvana: "Nothing?"
"Absolutely nothin'. Not a damn thing. They musta cleared out, I figure."
"So then what did you do?" said Vargas.
The clerk took a deep breath, clearly uncomfortable with rehashing this memory. "Then I went upstairs. I seen the door to room ten was wide open and that's when I seen the feller bleedin' all over the floor. We still can't rent that room out what with all the blood on the floor and the wall. Gettin' that blood up's a pret-ty damn tough job, let me tell you."
"Was he dead?" Silvana asked. "The man on the floor?"
"Ha! Damned if I know," the clerk said. "I wasn't gonna touch him, that's for damn sure. I run back down here to the desk and called 911. Real fast. I know he was dead by the time they got there, though, 'cause they carried him out on a stretcher with a sheet over his face."
Vargas said, "How long was the victim here in the hotel? When did he check in?"
"The victim wasn't the fella who rented the room. He wasn't the one who checked in."
"What?" Silvana said, her eyebrows up. "He wasn't the hotel guest?"
"Nope."
"Who checked in, then?"
Jess said, "Don't rightly know his name, but I know that guy bleedin' all over our floor? Warn't him."
Silvana said, "You sure? He wasn't the guy who checked in?"
"Nope. The fella who got shot was about the same build as the one who checked in, but they was two different people."
"You ever see him before? The one who got shot?" Silvana said.
"Nope."
"Any idea how he got into the room? Or what he was doing there?"
"None whatsoever."
Vargas: "Well, can you describe the guy who checked in? Was it you who checked him in?"
"Yup. I'd say he was a young fella. 'Bout thirty or so. Cuban, he looked like. Kinda small guy, shaved head. Tattoos all over. You know what I mean?"
"We know," Silvana said. "Can you describe any of the tattoos?"
Jess rubbed his arm. "Had 'em all up and down both arms. I know that much. Couldn't tell you what any of 'em were, though. Didn't pay much attention."
Silvana said, "How long was he —"
"Oh, and he had one around his neck. Like this." He ran a hand around his neck. "I remember that one. It was a big-ass, ugly snake."
Vargas wrote all this down in his notebook. He said, "How long was he in the hotel?"
The old man rubbed his chin. "Waa-aal, I guess 'bout four, five days, maybe."
"Can't you check the register?" Silvana said.
"Ain't got no register. They come and they go here. I don't ask no questions. Long as they pay in cash."
"Do you remember how much he paid?" Vargas said.
The old man nodded. "He paid two weeks in advance."
"How can you be so sure?" Silvana said.
"I'm sure you c'n imagine, the trade we get in here don't pay up that far in advance. When that guy did, I took note."
Vargas said, "When those two guys you saw, those two guys who ran out, when they came into the hotel, did they ask for him by name?"
"Ahh, you have got me there," the old man said. "I musta been takin' a little catnap and I don't remember anybody coming in or nothing. Till I heard the shots, that is. That woke me up."
Silvana sighed. "Okay. So when you woke up and saw these guys running out the door, was either one of them the guy who checked in?"
"Can't say for hunnert percent sure, but I don't think so."
"Why not?" she said.
"Waa-aal, I know the second fella runnin' down the stairs wasn't him, 'cause he had a lotta hair, you know? Plus he was bigger. Bigger in the shoulders and everywhere." Jess mimed his hands around his shoulders. " 'Member I told you the guy who checked in had his head shaved?"
"I remember," Silvana said. "Now what about the other one? The first one out the door?"
Jess rubbed his stubbly chin. "Now that I'm thinkin' about it, I think I can say it wasn't him, either. 'Cause that fella was a white man. Least I think he was."
"You think?" Vargas said. "We're gonna need more than that."
"Thass about the best I can do," Jess said. "I wouldn't bet the ranch on it, but I think he was a white man. He ran outa here so fast …"
Silvana said, "Can you describe him any further? Height? Weight? Build? Tattoos? Clothing? Anything at all."
"Mmm, come to think of it, he was wearin' a black T-shirt. Oh, and one o' those wool caps on his head so you couldn't see his hair, you know what I mean? But thass about all I can tell you about him. Sorry."
Vargas said, "Did your hotel guest have any other visitors while he was here? During those four or five days?"
"Waa-aal, 'course, I can't speak for the daytimes 'cause I don't work then, but he didn't have no one come to see him at night."
"No girls? Nobody?" Vargas said.
"Nossir. Nobody."
"All right, Jess. Thank you for your cooperation," Silvana said. "Sergeant Vargas is going to take your address and phone number in case we need to talk with you again."
"My pleasure, ma'am. Oh, and there's one thing I'd like to ask you."
Silvana looked at him. "What is it?"
"Would you happen to know of anyone who could get that blood off the floor in room ten?"
13
Logan
Miami Beach, Florida
Thursday, August 16, 2012
10:05 AM
I HAD GOTTEN UP EARLY TO MAKE THE DRIVE to the mainland and still get here at a decent hour. Wasting the whole day driving didn't seem like a good idea, so I set the alarm for five-thirty, had a good breakfast, and tried to smooth things over with Dorothy.
She gave it her best shot, trying to talk me out of this, trying to get me to clip Laura Lee. I just couldn't. No matter what Laura Lee had in mind for me, I couldn't do that to her. She'd lost too much already.
In any case, I rented a car and made the trip. On the way up, I called Roger and told him I couldn't work today. He wasn't happy, but he knew I was a good worker, didn't fuck off on the job, so he let it go. Told me to come in tomorrow.
By ten, I had driven across the Venetian Causeway, paid the toll, and hit Miami Beach. Now, I was casing Anton Kovalenko's residence, according to the address Laura Lee had given me. A condo in one of the older art deco buildings on 21st Street, not far from the Miami City Ballet. Very convenient.
These buildings weren't very big, or very flashy, for that matter. This Anton, for all his being a big star and everything, was either a tightwad with his money or ballet didn't pa
y too well. I landed on the latter.
It took me longer than I thought it would to locate the building. The number was not immediately visible to me as I drove by. I turned around a couple of times and by the third pass, I saw the number well-hidden behind some out-of-control vegetation.
No doorman. I walked in. Lobby empty. The mailboxes took up the wall on my left and I found his right away. Number 305. Appropriate, I thought. Nothing says "Miami" like the number 305. I peeped a few of the boxes. Nothing inside. The mail hadn't been delivered yet.
The lobby was worn, but an attempt had been made to keep it clean. The design of the building and its interior may have been from the 1930s, but the furniture was strictly 1990s. It was clear the building's owners did not want anyone to think this was a low-grade property, despite their limited budget.
Not long after I walked in, a few people came and went. One was a young girl stepping off the elevator, somewhere in her twenties, and plenty hot. She looked as though she might've been heading for the beach, carrying a basket-sized purse with suntan lotion sticking out of it and a big towel around her neck.
Then an older couple shuffled in and got on the elevator. Retirees from up north, no doubt. Very few people who live in Miami Beach are actually from Miami Beach.
I took the stairs to the third floor. There were two more above it. The hallways were surprisingly nice. Well-lit, looked like newish carpeting, wallpaper not peeling off yet. Anton's apartment was two down from the elevator. This was the older couple's floor and they slowly made their way to their apartment at the end of the hall. They had their backs to me the whole time.
I put my ear to Anton's door. Nothing. Reaching around under my guayabera, I felt my semi-auto in my waistband, the attached silencer sticking down the crack of my ass. The coldness of the metal spread across my body for a split second. I knocked.
No answer. I knocked again.
Same result.
I went back downstairs and walked outside. My car sat parked a couple of doors down with a good view of the building. I got in and waited.
≈ ≈ ≈
An hour and a half passed. I kept the engine running most of the time to keep the AC going, otherwise I would've fried in there under the burning sun. I'd tried to keep a close eye on the front door, but to prevent myself from falling asleep, I periodically checked my email on my cell phone. Still, I was able to catch everyone coming and going from the building.
Then, at about ten minutes to twelve, a man walked right past my car toward the building's entrance. A quick check of the photos Laura Lee had given me. One was a full-front head shot, the other a full-body shot. The guy had walked past me in profile, but he had the same wave in his hair, looked to be the same age, and the rest of him looked exactly like the guy in the photo, even if he was moving past me. Only one way to find out.
I gave him a couple of minutes, then got out of my car and went back inside, up to the third floor. I took the elevator this time. I looked around inside it. No security cameras. I pulled the photos from my pocket and looked at them closely. The elevator hit the third floor.
Once again, I knocked on the door. This time it opened.
His face had the same full, pouty lips as the one in the photo. Some of that wavy hair fell over his forehead almost to his eyes. He wore a nice shirt, looked like it might have been silk, and a couple of heavy gold chains looped around his neck. Not the kind of bling I would've expected from a ballet dancer.
"Anton?" I said.
He looked me over. I know I don't look like anybody connected with ballet. I'm about five-ten and my build is thick and solid. My face has a kind of mean look to it — I never intended it that way and I don't put on like that, it's just how I am naturally. My buzzcut topped me off and my overall appearance screamed, "I have nothing to do with ballet!"
"Who the fuck are you?" he said, his accented voice barely above a growl.
I was stunned for a second. I hadn't expected this kind of language out of him, or this kind of resistant attitude. I gathered myself and said, "I want to talk to you." I shoved my way in and pushed the door shut behind me.
He gave me a big push of his own with both hands and I landed hard with my back against the door. Strength in his hands, and anger on his face. Without warning, he let go a hard right to my jaw. It snapped my head back against the door. That one hurt. He came at me with both hands, I dodged and stepped to one side, digging a solid left in his kidney. He buckled. As he quickly recovered, I pulled my piece and fired, two soft pops into his chest. He dropped to the floor, blood spreading quickly across his nice beige carpet.
I got the hell out of there in a hurry.
Took the stairs back down, out the front door. Nobody in the stairwell, nobody in the lobby. Out to the car, fire it up, and back to the Venetian Causeway.
That son of a bitch could hit! I thought. That right hand was one of the hardest I've ever taken. I've got new respect for those ballet dancers. I never knew those guys were so tough.
I reached for one of the bottles of water I always keep with me and spun off the cap. A long swig and I felt much better. The stars had cleared from my head and I was headed across town for the southbound Turnpike, then to US 1 back to Key West.
14
Laura Lee
Little Havana, Miami, Florida
Friday, August 17, 2012
8:20 AM
AT HER BREAKFAST TABLE, LAURA LEE SÁNCHEZ gazed at today's Miami Herald in disbelief, then reached for her cell phone.
Fuzzy sat across the table from her. "Who are you calling?" he asked.
"Logan."
He put his hand across her cell phone and gently took it from her. "Always use your throwaway for calls like this. Always."
Her nod told him she should have known better. He'd gotten her a few burner phones out of general principle. "You never know when you might need one," he'd told her.
It was an old flip phone, the kind they sell now as throwaways, where you have to actually punch the numbers in. Laura Lee had never worked one before, so it took a little getting used to. After nervously stumbling through a couple of tries at the number, she finally got through. He answered.
"Logan?" she said. "Did you take a little trip yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Meet me at Lorelei's at noon sharp."
He said, "Wha—"
"Noon sharp! Be there!" She hung up.
"What are you going to do?" Fuzzy said.
"I don't know. This is all fucked up. Big time."
Fuzzy sipped at his orange juice and loosened his robe. "This is going to be one heavy duty shitstorm. Let me do it, baby."
"No, I can't. We can't do it that way." Anguish clouded her voice. "They'll come straight to the both of us. And if you had anything to do with it, they'll get us both."
Fuzzy didn't have a beard, and his hair was cut a modest length, so there was no visible reason for his nickname. His broad, hard face warned of trouble if you tried messing with him, and at forty-four, he was still very fit and agile at six-one and one hundred ninety pounds.
A smile returned to her face. A sweet one. "You remember that night we met? Right after Giselle?"
Fuzzy nodded. "I'll never forget it. It was in that restaurant right there in the Arsht Center. I thought you were the most beautiful of God's creatures I had ever seen. Real poetry in motion."
In fact, "real poetry in motion" were the exact words he had used on that occasion back in 2008. The company was preparing for a tour of Eastern Europe and Russia, and Giselle was to be one of the ballets showcased on that tour. The performance in Miami was a tuneup for their big trip and Laura Lee had danced Giselle as she had never done before. The very top of her game at that point in her career.
"I never told you this," she said with a tease in her voice, "but I saw you in the audience that night."
"You did?"
"Mm-hm. You were seated in the first tier, stage right. And the only reason I noticed you at all was because
you were wearing that hideous red shirt with a tie under your tuxedo."
He laughed. "I was never what you would call a clothes horse. I wasn't much for dressing up. But I had no idea you'd spotted me."
"Ha! How could I miss you? That shirt cut right through the lights, and when they went down at certain times during the show, I got a better look at you."
His eyes filled with amazement. "I never knew any of that."
"And," she said, "that's why I went to Prelude for dinner afterward. I was hoping you'd be eating there. Of course, you weren't too hard to find with that shirt, so when I saw you and your friend — what was his name again?"
"Jamie. We were on the force together. I had just retired and he was still active."
"Right, Jamie. And speaking of never telling you anything, you never told me what you — a big, tough cop — were doing at the ballet! Why weren't you at a ballgame, or some cop bar or something?"
"Ex-cop," he said. "Turns out Jamie was gay, but I was the only one who knew. He was still waaaaay in the closet otherwise. We were former partners, so you know how that goes. You and your partner get very close. You got no secrets between you. He knew I'd keep my mouth shut."
"It was his idea to come to the ballet?"
"Right," Fuzzy said. "He told me it was more beautiful than anything I would ever see in my life. Plus he had free tickets for those great seats."
Laura Lee laughed. "Thank God for free tickets!"
"Who knows where we'd be without them?" he joked.
"What ever happened to Jamie, anyway? I never saw him after that night."
"He was killed in action a week or so later." Fuzzy's head dropped slightly. "Drug dealer shot him during an attempted arrest." Laura Lee saw his pain from calling up this memory. He said, "He was the best cop I ever knew. I loved him like a brother."
She nudged him back to more pleasant thoughts. "Well, anyway, when I saw you two in Prelude, I knew I had to figure out some way to meet you."
"So that's why you 'accidentally' spilled your drink on me as you were walking to your table?"
"That's right," she said with a hearty chuckle. "Not only did I meet you, but I rendered that ugly shirt unwearable. One stone, two birds down."
