by Don Donovan
In the PD's small reception area, Silvana badged the desk cop, who was in the middle of the sports pages of the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel.
"Lieutenant Machado, Miami homicide," she said. "This is Sergeant Vargas and Detective Acevedo. We'd like to speak with the chief, if possible. We're here on a murder investigation."
At the words "chief" and "murder investigation", the desk cop put down the paper and shoved his coffee aside. He picked up the phone, muttered a few words into it, and pointed to a hallway.
"Down there. End of the hall. Last door on the left."
Will Schultz had been police chief in Sunny Isles Beach for about two years. The man he replaced had been chief almost as long as the department had been in existence, which is to say, about fifteen years. That chief had the respect of his fellow officers, the locals loved him, and crime was negligible. A few barroom brawls, the occasional gambling pinch, or a stolen car might be the extent of it. Drugs didn't go much further than busting people holding a few joints of marijuana. Since Schultz took over, however, crime had been on a slow but steady rise.
He stood when the three Miami cops entered his office. Silvana made the introductions, the chief welcomed them, and they all sat.
"What can I do for you today, Lieutenant?" he asked.
Silvana said, "Chief Schultz, we're here on a murder investigation, and we have reason to believe our suspects might be frequenting a restaurant here in your town."
"Which restaurant would that be?"
"The Chayhana Oasis."
His expression turned stern. Silvana knew she'd hit some kind of nerve.
"Would your suspects possibly be of Russian or Ukrainian descent?" he asked.
"They would."
"Who would they be?" He fiddled with a pen on his desk, twirling it between his fingers, one hand to the other.
Silvana said, "Nazar Voloshin and one named Ivan, no last name available."
The chief nodded. "I don't know them." By the way he said that, it was clear he did know them but wished he didn't. "What else would you like to know?"
Silvana paused for a moment. Acevedo was about to pipe up, but she put a hand on his forearm, stilling him. She let the chief squirm in his lie for a few seconds, then said, "We would like to know where we can find them."
"I told you, I don't know them."
"Yes you do, Chief. And we would appreciate you telling us where they are."
His face reddened and he flung the pen violently over his shoulder. It hit the wall with a crack louder than Silvana thought a pen could make just by striking a wall. He said, "How dare you come in here, into my office, and accuse me of covering up for criminals? I want you out of here. Right now. And out of this city, while you're at it."
"We'll get out of your office, Chief," Silvana said. "But you have no jurisdiction to throw us out of town. We're police officers doing lawful business here in your town, pursuing suspects in a murder investigation. You try throwing us out, and believe me, it won't stop there. Our brass will hear about it."
"Oh, like I'm supposed to be terrified of Miami brass?" he said.
"Well, for one thing, they will most likely notify the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, who will wander in here one day wondering why you're impeding a legitimate investigation into murder suspects with organized crime connections operating in your own back yard." That settled him down, but only a little. "Then," she added, "the Miami Herald — they do read that up here, don't they? — would love to run a story about this. I can see the headline now: Three Hispanic cops thrown out of Sunny Isles Beach by police chief. Ooh, I don't think that's going to go down too well at all. You might even have — dare I say it? —protests in your streets, organized by Cuban activists in Miami."
That did it. Silvana saw it in his eyes. The last thing this rube wanted was attention from those nosy FDLE motherfuckers. And he damn sure didn't want his streets overflowing with Miami Cubans carrying signs about rampant racism in the Sunny Isles Beach Police Department.
"I-I can't tell you," he said, his head bowing into his waiting hands. "Voloshin said he-he would …"
"I can imagine what he told you, Chief. But you tell us what we want to know and I promise you we'll nail his ass. We'll see he's no threat to anyone." She leaned across his desk and lifted his head up to meet her eyes. "Ever again," she said. "But you'll have to let the chips fall. Do you understand?"
Silvana leaned even further to a point where her face was inches from his. He gave her a yes to her question. She saw the relief in his eyes and she patted his shoulder, then sat back down in her chair and said, "Now, what else can you tell us?" His move.
Schultz regained his composure. He took a hard breath and said, "Voloshin has recruited about a half-dozen Russians and brought them down here from Fort Lauderdale. Ivan — his last name is Hudzik — is his right hand man. I don't know what they're doing or why those other Russians are here. But they all eat in the Chayhana Oasis and then go to the Lady Godiva. That's a strip joint not far from there, just off 163rd Street."
Vargas asked, "Do they live here?"
Schultz nodded. "They live spread around the city in three condo towers. We had heard the Russian mob bought those towers outright with laundered money, but … that was just a rumor."
A pretty fucking accurate rumor, I would bet, Silvana thought. "Give us Voloshin's address. Also Ivan's, if you have it."
He jotted down the addresses. Silvana nodded a thank-you at Schultz and the cops left the office.
60
Laura Lee
Little Havana, Miami, Florida
Thursday, September 13, 2012
7:15 PM
THE ROYAL PHILHARMONIC ORCHESTRA'S recording of Swan Lake was approaching the Act I finale, Laura Lee's favorite part. She had danced this ballet many times and she still got chills when she heard the dramatic flow of Tchaikovsky's music. The Dilaudid had just kicked in, a full tab this time. She closed her eyes and sent her memory back to her performance of this finale, floating off stage with the music, leaving Anton alone while the swan drifted by him in the background.
The moment was smashed by the front door flinging open. She turned in her chair, startled, and nearly fell to the floor. Fuzzy walked in, home after a long day of working security for a big fashion show at Dadeland Mall.
Fright covered her face and Fuzzy went to her, dropping to one knee beside her. "Whoa, it's all right, honey. It's just me. I'm home now. Everything's A-OK."
"Jesus, don't do that. I heard them out behind the house earlier, but when I went to see, they were gone. Or hiding, rather. I think one of them tried to get in the front room window, while I was in the bathroom. Ha! They didn't think I could get out here fast enough in my chair, but I did. They scrammed before I got here. And not only that, there was a van parked on the street a couple of houses down just a little while ago."
"Laura Lee, honey," Fuzzy said, "there's no one here. They're not outside."
"I fucking hate this!" she cried. "I hate not being able to say what I want in my own home!"
"You can say anything you want, baby. No one's listening." He put a hand on her arm.
She shook loose. "That's what you think. You know the phone rang today — the landline. And when I went to answer it, there was no one there. No one! What do you call that?"
"Maybe it was a wrong number," he said.
"Ha! Yeah, right. And maybe they were calling to tell me I won the lottery, but then changed their minds at the last second."
"Honey," Fuzzy said, "it's not like you think. We're not being watched."
"You know, I called him the other day. Monday, I think it was. You hadn't gotten home from work yet."
"You called who?"
She spoke in the faintest whisper, directly into his ear. "Who do you think?" Then she pulled back to where he could see her and silently mouthed "Logan".
"What the hell did you call him for?" Even Fuzzy lowered his voice now.
"I wanted to know
if he was being watched. Being tailed."
"And?"
"And," she said, "he says he isn't, but I know he is. The Miami cops —" Her voice dropped to a whisper again. "— paid him a visit. Same ones that were here."
"They did? They went all the way to Key West?"
"Shhhh! Don't say it so loud."
He went to a full whisper to calm her down. "They went to Key West?"
She nodded. "He says he gave them an alibi. But I don't believe him. I think they're about ready to bust him."
"How can that be?" He shook his head in disbelief. "What can they have on him?"
"I don't know. But he admits they went there to pay him a visit. They're onto him for sure, and they're probably tailing him, too."
Fuzzy continued shaking his head. "How can they have anything on him? How can they connect —"
She put a hand over his mouth. "Shhhhh! Don't say anything."
He said, "Are you sure of all this? He told you they asked him about the night —" A whisper again. "— the night he wasted Anton?"
"That's what he said. They asked him about that night, and he said he was ready with a solid alibi."
Still whispering. "What kind of alibi?"
She said, "Oh, it was something about shooting pool or something. Some bullshit story that won't hold up."
"This blows me away," he said. "That they have some kind of evidence that links him to — you know."
"Yeah, I know," she whispered. "And he'll crack like a fucking egg under a hammer once they turn up the heat. I don't trust that lowlife son of a bitch one bit."
They remained in that position, her in her chair, him on one knee holding her hand. The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra was now well into Act II, kicking off the danses des petites cygnes. Laura Lee briefly buried herself in this breathtaking passage. A minute or two later, she whispered, "You have to do something about him."
"Do something?"
"Yes. Do something." She ran an index finger across her throat. "I don't have to tell you he'll give us up in a fucking heartbe — what was that?" Her head turned toward the bedroom.
"What? What was what?" Fuzzy said.
"That! Hear it?"
"Honey, it's the music. The CD."
"No, no! There's a noise coming from the bedroom. No, wait …" She spun her head around, listening in all directions. "It's gone now."
"Okay," he said. "It's all right now."
"It's not all right," she said. "You have to …" She threw a furtive glance around the room, then whispered, "… do something."
61
Silvana
Sunny Isles Beach, Florida
Thursday, September 13, 2012
7:35 PM
THE PLAYA DEL MAR WAS THE TALLEST CONDO structure in town. "Thirty-nine stories of oceanfront grandeur", the sign promised, and it probably wasn't too far wrong. The sun had just gone down but the building still gleamed in the afterglow of day. Lights appeared in many of the windows, all the way to the top. Outside the entrance, liveried doormen aided passengers into two limos and a big BMW 700 series. The cops avoided the front altogether, entering the parking garage instead, badging their way past the gate guard.
From the garage, they elevatored up to the thirty-eighth floor. The ride was quick, and Silvana wondered if Nazar was only on thirty-eight, who was in the penthouse?
When Acevedo asked why they were doing this at this particular time, Silvana said, "We arrive at this hour because he's probably getting ready to go to dinner, or relaxing before he gets ready. This is usually the best hour to roust these cocksuckers, apart from the middle of the night. In any case, he'll probably be fully clothed, and that's important."
Apartment 38-A was down at the end of the hall, by the stairs. The cop thud, followed by a muffled "Who is it?" from the other side of the door. The peephole had gone dark.
The cops all showed tin. "Police officers," Silvana said. "Open up."
"What do you want? I have done nothing."
"Open up," she said. "We want to talk to you."
Silence, then: "All right. Give me minute, okay?"
About fifteen seconds later — enough time, Silvana figured, for him to put his piece away — the door opened and the cops walked in.
"What is problem?" Nazar said. "Why are you —"
Vargas and Acevedo grabbed him and overpowered him immediately. From her pocket, Silvana pulled the dish towel she had brought for this occasion and stuffed it into his mouth. He struggled hard, but was no match for the two Cuban cops.
Silvana opened the door and stuck her head out. Nobody in the hall. She motioned the others out of the apartment and into the stairwell. Up two flights of stairs to the roof.
Once they exited onto the roof, they stayed by the door, not going near the edge. It was not quite dark enough yet and they didn't want to be seen. Vargas had one of Nazar's arms in a very painful hold while Acevedo had the other. Acevedo also had one big arm around Nazar's neck, close to a choke hold. Any movement by Nazar was futile.
Silvana said, "Now we want to know what you're planning against Maxie Méndez. We want to know your overall plans for moving into Miami. And we want to know the name of the person you work for and where we can find him." She suspected maybe they could find him directly beneath the spot where they stood, on the thirty-ninth floor. She removed the towel from Nazar's mouth.
"Fuck you, cop!" he said, spittle flying into Silvana's face.
Silvana landed a straight right hand hard on his immobile jaw. Teeth loosened and blood squirted out of his mouth.
"Wrong answer," she said. "Tell us what we want to know."
"I tell you shit, you fucker!"
She crammed the towel back into his mouth.
"Nazar, you don't seem to understand. You're in deep shit here. We're not reading you any rights. We want information and you're going to give it to us." A full-power left to the kidney and his legs buckled. He gasped for breath around the towel.
She let him deal with the pain for a half a minute or so before pulling the towel out. A gesture to Acevedo tightened the hold on Nazar's neck. He began turning blue. Struggling was useless.
Silvana head-signaled Acevedo and he let up. Nazar gasped deep breaths. "How about it?" Silvana said. "Start by telling us who you work for."
"Pav … Pavlo Marchuk."
She reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. "I better find his number on here." She turned on the phone and began looking. A minute or so later, she had it. "Well, look here, boys. He's telling the truth. Here's Pavlo Marchuk, along with several of his phone numbers. Good boy, Nazar." She squeezed his cheek and patted it, hard, almost a slap.
"You … you fucker …" he said, still gasping and without nearly as much conviction as before.
"Yes, yes, I know, I'm a fucker," Silvana said. "Now what are you planning in Miami?"
His breath returned slowly. He said, "We want drug business in Miami. Heroin."
"Heroin. My, you don't say! You hear that, boys? He says they want to move into the heroin business in Miami. How about that? Do I have it right, Nazar? Heroin?"
"Heroin. Yes," he said.
"Nazar, I'm sure you knew Gregor Babich. You did know him, right?"
He nodded. "Gregor was good man."
"Yes, good man. But you know, just like you, he had ideas of moving in on Maxie Méndez and the heroin trade in Miami. We warned him about it. We told him how unhealthy it was. How he shouldn't go where he's not wanted. See, the thing is, we don't like you fucking Russians. We don't like the way you do business, the way you treat people, we don't like anything about you. We urged your friend Gregor to go back to Brighton Beach and tell all the rest of you Russian faggots to forget about Miami. And what do you suppose happened?"
"Fuck you!" Blood sprayed from his mouth and on to Silvana's blouse.
She slapped him. "I'll tell you what happened. He didn't go back. He stayed here and tried to move in on a street dealer. He died face down in a puddle of
water." She gestured to Vargas and Acevedo. They brought him to the edge of the roof. Looking up at the now-dark sky, she said, "It's not raining now, though. Too bad."
She pointed an index finger downward and the two cops threw him off the roof.
62
Logan
Key West, Florida
Friday, September 14, 2012
6:10 PM
TODAY HAD BEEN A TOUGH DAY. Especially tough because we had four yards that had palm fronds and coconuts and other yard waste all over the place. High winds and heavy rain last night had created the mess, and Roger and I had to clean it up. It's the part of this job I hate the most.
I was filthy dirty, so dirty that I put a bath towel across the seat of my SUV so I wouldn't grind any dirt from my pants into my nice clean seats. It's bad enough all the dog shit I step in gets into the carpet on the driver's side, no matter how hard I try to scrape it off my work boots before getting in. You can never get it all, that's one thing I've learned.
Another is, it takes forever to get the dirt out from under your fingernails. Don't get me wrong. I don't mind getting dirty, under my fingernails or anywhere else, but I want to be able to get clean afterward. I take my shower when I come home but that doesn't do it. I need to lather up one of those fingernail brushes with Lava and scrub the shit out of my nails. It takes a long fucking time for them to come clean, believe me. And it's no fun.
After working with all that yard waste today, I really, really wanted to jump into that shower as fast as I could. Even though I was dead tired from a long, hot day of hard work, I bounded up the steps to our apartment and dashed inside.
I smelled dinner on the stove. A garlicky kind of smell. Maybe Dorothy was whipping up some of that pasta I liked so much. I glanced in the kitchen as I came in. She lay on her side on the floor with a knife through her neck. Blood formed a massive pool under her head and across the kitchen floor.
