STAYING ALIVE (Book Three of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  Alicia said, "Sorry we're late, Jimmy. It was unavoidable. Anyway, we didn't lose too much time." She felt Amy's sly glance in her direction. "Amy is with me today because I'm showing her the nuts and bolts of my work. She's sort of a laundry girl in training." Amy smiled at the subtle dom-sub implication. Jimmy didn't catch it, of course.

  "Amy," Jimmy said, "I want to congratulate you on how you handled the meeting the other day. You walked a very fine line and made everyone happy."

  Amy threw him another smile. "Thank you, Jimmy. I hope the parties can come to an agreement that both sides can live with."

  "We should know something by next week," Jimmy said. "Don Rafael is in Medellín right now, conferring with his associates."

  "So," Alicia said, "are we all set?"

  Jimmy nodded. "Yes. And thank you for doing this. I've got it here in this suitcase." He head-gestured to the floor on his left. A small leather case sat there, about the size of an airline carry-on.

  "How much are we talking about?"

  "We'll start off with one point two million total. One million, eighty thousand in the case plus your end, a hundred and twenty K right here." He slid a shopping bag from Armani Exchange across to Alicia. A beige blouse lay on top. In one very smooth move, she deftly swiped it off the table and set it on the floor next to her briefcase.

  "Consider it done," she said.

  "What will happen to it?" he asked, his nervous eyes darting to the case on the floor.

  She said, "I'm taking it to Panamá today. It's going into the account of a shell company. Then I want you to set aside Monday the twenty-seventh and the Tuesday after Labor Day. We're going to put the money to work here in Florida."

  "I'm not getting this," Jimmy said. "Why all the complicated maneuvering?"

  "Because you want to turn this cash into wealth that is working for you. I might add, it's going to cost you a little more the deeper into it we get."

  "More? More than your ten points? Why?"

  She pointed to the case on the floor. "Look, you have to understand something. Right now, that cash has no value. Sure, it's a million plus in US currency, and sure, you could take some of it and go buy a fancy car, but where do you go from there? You can't spend it. You can't really do anything with it except hide it under your mattress. I could set it on fire and watch it burn to ashes and you wouldn't have lost anything because it has no value as it sits in that case. It's actually a liability, because if you get caught with it, you could be in deep shit. So you have to consider the money you spend on this venture as having no value in and of itself, but will enable the rest of your money to have great value."

  A slow nod, then Jimmy said, "Well, when you put it that way …"

  "That's the only way to put it. That's why I do what I do. Now I'm assuming this isn't all the money you have, that you've got more ready to go once you see this gets washed properly. And then that money will go to work for you and finally have value. What keeps me in business is the fact that you earn the money faster than you can spend it, no matter what you spend it on. And you can't just trot on down to your corner bank and open an account for a million plus in cash. Not anymore you can't. But when I get done with it, it'll be clean as the soul of a newborn baby."

  "Clean how?"

  "Clean, as in ready to put into legitimate investments, and let it make even more money legally. Now how does that sound?"

  "Pretty damn good," Jimmy said. "Take it away."

  22

  Laura Lee

  Little Havana, Miami, Florida

  Friday, August 24, 2012

  11:35 AM

  THE OVERTURE TO ATHALIE from A Midsummer Night's Dream gently wafted out of Laura Lee's speakers, drenching her living room with the beauty of the melody, the subtlety of the orchestration. With her eyes closed and her face utterly relaxed into a soft smile, she got lost in it. She also got lost in the first glass of Pinot Grigio out of the fresh bottle she just opened.

  She had danced that ballet many times and as she sat in her wheelchair, she mentally revisited the striking choreography she knew so well. Mendelssohn's music could always do that to her. She welcomed these little moments, these pauses in her life of pain, to relive her dancing, her art that was so much of who she was.

  Was.

  Just as it got to the part where the music rose dramatically, then fell off quickly to a whisper, the doorbell rang.

  Jarred from this dreamlike state, she clicked the remote to lower the volume, then rolled toward the door. She opened it and two men stood outside looking down at her.

  "Miss Sánchez?" the shorter man said.

  "Yes."

  "We're police officers, ma'am. I'm Sergeant Vargas, this is Detective Acevedo. We'd like to speak with you for a minute. May we come in?"

  "Well, of course. Is everything all right? Is Fuzzy all right?"

  "Oh, yes, ma'am," Vargas said. "He's fine. I knew him a little, you know." The cops entered and she escorted them to the center of the living room. They sat on the couch.

  "You did?" she said, clicking off the music.

  "I did. I hadn't been on the force too long and it was a little before he retired. He helped me with a problem I was having. A great guy."

  "So what brings you here today, Sergeant?" She drank some of her wine, trying her best to keep it to dainty sips.

  "Well, Miss Sánchez, we understand you knew Anton Kovalenko."

  Laura Lee knew this was coming, as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow morning. "Yes, I did."

  "Are you aware he was killed a few nights ago? Shot to death?"

  "Yes," she said. "I did read about that in the paper. Do you know who did it?"

  "No, ma'am," said Acevedo. "But we're looking. Would you have any idea as to who might want to kill him?"

  "No, I wouldn't. I haven't seen Anton in about three years."

  "You mean, since the night in 2009 when he dropped you on stage and you broke your back?" Vargas said.

  Laura Lee moved her head back, just as she had practiced in front of a mirror for when this question came, feigning hurt at being reminded of a personal tragedy.

  "Yes," she said, choking herself up. "That was the last time I saw him."

  Vargas said, "You wound up in this wheelchair, your promising career was ended in one instant, and he skated. All after dropping you when he could've caught you, is that it?"

  She cleared her throat and sipped again at her wine. "Sergeant, I think you have it wrong. That was an accident that night. Everyone saw it."

  "But if it weren't an accident," Acevedo said, "if he did drop you on purpose — for whatever reason — that would upset you quite a bit, would it not?"

  "Detective, I was upset quite a bit, as you put it anyway, and I have been ever since that night. But it was an accident. It could've happened to anyone. Those things happen, you know."

  "But it didn't happen to anyone. It happened to you," Acevedo said.

  "Yes, it happened to me." Now she inserted a little impatience into her voice. "We were dancing The Nutcracker that night, and we had to execute a very complex, very dangerous move. We had done it many times in rehearsal, all successfully. But that night, he made a mistake. It made me a paraplegic and killed my career, yes, but it was a mistake and not a reason to kill him."

  Vargas said, "How do you know it was a mistake, Miss Sánchez?"

  "A dancer knows these things, Sergeant. I know when my partner is negligent or sloppy, and I know when he makes an honest mistake. I'm sure you can say the same thing about Detective Acevedo here." She gestured toward Acevedo, who stiffened. "And I know Anton made a mistake that night."

  "Where were you on Tuesday night?" Vargas said.

  "Sergeant, do you honestly think I rolled my wheelchair to some godawful street in some ghetto neighborhood, pistol in hand, and shot Anton in his car? And then wheeled myself back to Little Havana? Do you really believe that?"

  "Just answer the question, please."

  "As a matter of f
act, I was here at home, where I am most nights. As I'm sure you can imagine, I don't get out much."

  "Did anyone see you at home Tuesday night?" Acevedo said.

  "No. No one. Except Fuzzy, that is."

  Vargas: "Any phone calls?"

  "No," she said.

  "What about Fuzzy?" Vargas said. "Where was he that night?"

  "Well, you know, since he retired from the force, he's been working as a security guard. He worked Tuesday and got home around ten o'clock."

  Acevedo said, "Ten o'clock at night?"

  "Yes, that's right. Ten at night."

  "Where does he work security?"

  "He works for Whitewing Security. They're a company that leases out security people, bodyguards for celebrities, big events, gate guards, and so on. A big company."

  "Yes, ma'am," Vargas said. "We're familiar with them. Where was he working Tuesday?"

  "He did a couple of jobs on Tuesday," Laura Lee said. "In the afternoon, he and a colleague escorted Celine Dion into town from the airport, and got her checked into her hotel. Then in the evening, he worked security for a political event. One of the US Senate candidates was speaking somewhere in the area that night. He went straight from one to the other, as far as I know." Another modest gulp of wine.

  Vargas said, "And after he got home, you and he were here alone the rest of the night? No visitors? No phone calls?"

  "That's right, Sergeant. Now, I repeat, do you think I shot Anton? Me? Or Fuzzy? Do you really think that?"

  "It's not what we think, Miss Sánchez," Acevedo said. "We're just trying to gather the facts behind this case. We want to find out who did this."

  "So you think that because Anton had a temporary loss of coordination that night in 2009, that I've waited all this time to kill him."

  Vargas: "If there's even a chance that he dropped you on purpose, ma'am, that makes for a powerful motive. We've talked to a lot of people and by all accounts, Anton Kovalenko was a good guy. Maybe a little egotistical, but everyone seemed to like him."

  "A little egotistical!" Laura Lee said with the wineglass at her lips. She set it down and added, "That's like saying it gets a little humid around here in the summertime."

  "What do you mean by that?" Vargas said.

  Her eyes lost their focus, turned toward the front window. "Well … you know. He was in it for everything he could get for himself. He didn't really give a shit about anyone else. I know. I danced with him for several years before my accident."

  "Do you know anyone else, anyone else in the ballet company who might wish him harm?" Vargas asked.

  "Mmm, no. Not really. But if there were such people, they probably wouldn't talk about it to anyone."

  "Yes, ma'am. You're probably right." Vargas signaled Acevedo and they rose from the couch. "Okay, Miss Sánchez. Thank you for your cooperation. If you can think of anything that might help us in our investigation, please call me, all right? Here's my card."

  "If I can think of anything, Sergeant, I'll call you."

  The cops went to the door. With his hand on the knob, Vargas turned around, just a little, like he wanted to say something. He thought better of it, then turned for the door once again. With one foot out the door, he stopped and looked back at Laura Lee. "One more thing, ma'am," he said. "How long have you lived here?"

  "You mean, lived here in Miami? Or here in this house."

  "Here. In this house."

  "I moved in here right after I got out of the hospital in 2010. But I used to have the most wonderful condo in North Bay Village." Thoughts of North Bay Village streamed through her mind, bringing a smile out onto her face. "Right on the water, you know. It was very lovely." Back to reality: "But then, after my accident, I had to find something more … affordable. You understand, I'm sure."

  The cops left. Laura Lee turned the stereo back on, poured herself another glass of Pinot, got her Dilaudids out on the table — just in case — and immersed herself in the seductive elegance of Mendelssohn's overture.

  23

  Silvana

  Miami, Florida

  Friday, August 24, 2012

  1:40 PM

  THE BALLISTICS REPORT from the Anton Kovalenko murder came across Silvana's desk. Two shots to the head, just as the ME had described, both rounds coming from the same gun, a nine millimeter. No fucking help. Every jigaboo gangbanger in Liberty City has one of those.

  Gun was fired at close range, shell casings found on the floor of the front seat of the car, no prints on them. Only Kovalenko's prints in and on the car. Means the killer was riding shotgun. Probably forced Kovalenko to drive to Niggertown to create the impression he was killed by someone who lived there and couldn't resist shooting a white boy who just happened to be driving down Northwest 65th Terrace at that hour. Ha!

  Her mind went to work. That fucking dancer would have had as much reason to go riding in that area at that time of night as I would to watch a Miss America pageant on television.

  The door opened. Vargas and Acevedo entered and she told them to sit down.

  "How did it go?" she said.

  Vargas said, "Laura Lee Sánchez claims the incident that broke her back was not deliberate. That Kovalenko dropped her accidentally. We couldn't shake her story."

  "Did you cop-scare her?"

  "As much as we could without going overboard. She is, after all, a helpless woman in a wheelchair."

  "And what about Fuzzy?" she said.

  "He might be a different story," Acevedo said. "She says he worked that night and got home around ten, so he might've had opportunity."

  "And the other ballet people?"

  Vargas said, "They all say dropping her onstage was an accident. They saw it happen at close range and swear it was accidental. According to them, Kovalenko was a pure professional who would never do anything to deliberately harm a fellow dancer."

  Silvana: "What's your take, Ray? Is she telling the truth?"

  "It looks like it, Lieutenant. Her story sounded plausible, and she didn't budge from it. Other than a motive — which might not even be true — we don't have much. I don't see how we can tie her in."

  "Bobby? You feel the same?" Silvana said.

  "Well … like Ray says, Silvi, her story adds up. But there's something … something in my gut that makes me like her for Kovalenko."

  Silvana knew Bobby Vargas possessed some of the best cop instincts on the entire force, so when he paused like this, she paused with him.

  "You sure? You sure you're not just wishing she was behind it?"

  "Uhhhh … maybe, I, uh, I don't know. She just, she just came off like she was almost glad he was dead, you know? She clearly didn't like him. Called him an egomaniac, said everybody thought that of him. Had a kind of smug attitude about it. You know, like, he's not king shit anymore and that's because of me."

  Silvana said, "Well, we can't pick her up and charge her just because she didn't like him. From what you've told me, your gut feelings aside, it doesn't look like there's anything there." She carefully pulled the first file from the neatly-arranged row of files on her desk. "Let's move on to Raúl Nuñez. Ray, did you talk to —"

  "You know, Silvi," Vargas said, holding up an index finger, "there was one thing."

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "Well, I thought it was kind of strange. When we pulled up to her house, I saw … well, I noticed it was right next door to the scene of that triple homicide last year, you remember? On Tenth Avenue in Little Havana?"

  Silvana's eyes widened. "Next door? You mean the one where …"

  "Yeah," he said. "That one."

  "And her house is right next door?"

  "Yeah."

  The hair on Silvana's arms and on the back of her neck bristled. She felt goosebumps prickle her skin. That was the crime of the year, as far as the Miami Herald was concerned. They gave it more ink than any police-related story she could remember.

  Two scumbags and a teenage girl were shot to death, all by one gun as she re
called, and the girl happened to be the niece of the wife of a heavyweight local politico who pushed the department as hard as he could to find the perp. Under tremendous pressure, Silvana and Vargas arranged for the Dávila brothers, Maxie Méndez's top enforcers, to take the fall. Literally. The two cops gunned them down on the street in Key West, making room for Jimmy Quintana to step into the number two spot.

  But Silvana knew the Dávila brothers didn't do it.

  "Any connection to that incident?" she said.

  "None that I could see," Vargas replied. "But I asked her how long she'd lived in that house and she said she moved in sometime in 2010, so she would've been living there last June when those killings went down."

  "Do you think she knew any of the vics?"

  Vargas shook his head. "She doesn't look like the type that would hang out with that crowd. They were shitbags."

  Silvana: "Find out if she called 911 that night. If she did, I want to hear the tape of her call. If she didn't, I want to know why. That hit went down at around four AM, as I recall. She's in a wheelchair. I doubt if she was out salsa dancing at that hour. She had to hear the shooting."

  Vargas said, "You think there's something there?"

  "I don't know," she replied with a shrug. "Probably not. But I don't like coincidences. Especially coincidences like this one. I want you guys to ask around, see if she had any connection — any connection at all — to the vics in that case. One I remember was that fucking lowlife, Chicho Segura. I can't remember the other two, but one was a young girl. Get on it." They headed for the door and she said, "Oh, and Bobby."

  "Yeah?"

  "Do what it takes, but find out if there's a link between her and that triple homicide."

  "Right, Silvi," Vargas said.

  "Ray."

  "Yes, Lieutenant."

  "You hear what I said? Do what it takes."

  Acevedo said, "I heard, ma'am."

  "You're on board?" she said.

  He nailed her eyes with his. "Fully, Lieutenant. I'm fully on board."

  Silvana checked her watch. Still a few minutes left in her lunch hour. She reached into her drawer and pulled out her copy of LA Confidential. The one with the Barnes & Noble bookmark.