Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller)

by Hamric, Zack

  I took a quick look in the mirror. Not as bad as I thought, a few dark bruises still faintly visible on my face from the beatdown two days before, but nothing that would make the casual observer run screaming down the street. A little worried about who I might run into on the street, so the first order of business was to drop in the same shop where I picked up the Tommy Bahama shirt the night before. Ten minutes later, I left with a new shirt, some khakis, and a panama style hat pulled down tight to help conceal my face a little better on the dark street. It felt good to be fanned by the warm tropical breeze rippling off the Atlantic as I walked up Ocean Drive. Not quite as crowded tonight-I could actually hear the surf just over the dunes and the rhythmic sound of the palm fronds rubbing together.

  Passed Fourteenth, switched over to Collins and continued walking. Lots of hotels here-some new additions, but most of them the classic old Art Deco buildings that looked like someone had poured a hell of a lot of time and money into them. Coming up on Seventeenth. Couldn’t really see the building at the corner; it was hidden behind a wall of twenty foot high hedges. I’m not sure why, but something seemed familiar, almost comfortable, so I turned in.

  The Delano Hotel greeted me with a well-worn stone stairway leading into a wide hall filled with floor to ceiling fabric that rustled gently in the tropical breeze blowing through the lobby. Something soothing about the sound it made. I liked the place-dark, big columns, a certain classic style that takes generations to develop. Didn’t want to stand out so I stopped at the first bar I came to on the right side of the hallway. Flopped down on a leather covered stool and had a bartender in front of me within seconds-my kind of place.

  “I’m Juan, what can I get for you tonight,” asked the bartender as he slid a cocktail napkin into place on the marble topped bar.

  “Dirty martini, Belvedere, three olives,” I said. “And shake the hell out of it.” While Juan worked on the drink, I used the full length mirror behind the bar to keep an eye peeled on the crowd passing through the hall. It was a perfect place to watch everyone coming through and still not be noticed.

  One thing was obvious; this crowd either had money or at least the appearance of it. Most of the guys seemed to either be going for the blue blazer and khaki look or the grungy club look-not much of anything in between. As for the women, it was like looking at a parking lot full of red Ferraris-sleek, expensive, and flashy. Good for a quick trip around town, but guaranteed to be a pain in the ass once you put some miles on them.

  The martini appeared quickly and just as quickly disappeared. Perfect-a little haze of ice floating on top and olives as big as my thumb stuffed with blue cheese. I waved at Juan, my new best friend for the night, and he started working on round two. It was good to relax-it’s damn difficult to be running on a razor edge all the time.

  I turned around on the round leather barstool and hooked my elbows over the edge of the bar and just watched. Five minutes in a bar and you can know the crowd. Apparently the women seemed to like older guys; there must have been a twenty-year age difference between the men and women. I vaguely remembered hearing some line about the Million Dollar Rule from someone I knew-for every million in net worth, it takes five years off a guys age. True love I thought as I watched the scene unfold. Nothing new here, just the same endless dance between men and women.

  There’s something irresistible to a beautiful woman about a guy who ignores her. I spent about five minutes cultivating a bored yet friendly look and a tall blonde drifted casually over to my side keeping her back partially turned as she rested her right arm on the bar. Apparently, she played by the same rules that I did.

  If I had to guess, I’d figure twenty-seven, tall, long blonde hair to her shoulders framing a face with piercing blue eyes and a full set of lush, red lips. In a word-fabulous. I caught the eye of Juan, gave a quick nod, and bought her a drink with the dead Russian’s credit card.

  “Thank you,” she said as she rotated around her position at the bar to face me.

  Look at the eyes, don’t look down, I mentally reproached myself. “You’re welcome,” I said. “My name is …John.” In spite of my intentions, there was no avoiding the fact that this woman had a body to die for-a long, lean athletic body, with an amazing rack. Look at the eyes…Look at the eyes…Damn good thing women can’t read minds.

  She smiled a smile that I’m sure had melted the resolve and opened the wallets of many a man. “I’m Ravina. Where are you from?” she asked with a faint hint of a European accent.

  “Nashville,” I replied with the first city that popped into my mind. This was harder than I thought. Trying to make up my history on the fly was proving difficult. “I’m here on business for a few days. This looks like an interesting group tonight,” I said nodding at the crowd. “What’s with all the guys wearing the blue blazers?”

  “Most of the hotels here have a rotating party on different nights of the week. Last night was Hotel Victor, tonight the Delano, tomorrow night the Shore. As far as the guys in the blazers, what’s to say?” She said with a dismissive flip of her hair. “Men with no confidence tend to hang in noisy flocks with other birds. You strike me as more of a solitary hunter-even if you are wearing a Tommy Bahama shirt.”

  “Point taken; and as for the shirt, the airlines managed to lose my bag, so I had to pick up a few things to wear this week,” I said holding up the bag with extra shirts for emphasis.

  “You may need a little help in that area,” Ravina said with a teasing smile. “Not sure if you’ve had a chance to look around the area yet. Have you ever seen the pool behind the Delano?” she asked leaning lightly against my arm.

  “No, I haven’t-why don’t we go take a stroll,” I said pushing off the bar and gesturing toward the rear of the hotel. I paused a moment as Juan winked and slid the credit card bill in my direction. I left him a fifty percent tip-dead Russian guys sure can be generous. We walked out past the ornate pool tables of heavy oak and dark green felt that didn’t seem to be attracting any players this time of night-about the only action they were getting was people depositing empty martini glasses and the waiters scurrying to retrieve them.

  We walked through the tall open doors to the stone terrace that was still crowded at ten o’clock with people enjoying dinner. In spite of myself, I paused at the top of the steps and admired the view below. The broad steps with grass growing between the pavers stretched down to the long pool faintly illuminating the day beds lining both sides. The beds were crowded with groups of people drinking Cristal, talking loudly, making out with no pretense at subtlety, dangling their feet in the water, and just in general trying to look a little cooler than the next group.

  We paused for a moment. I was finally composed enough to able to focus on the conversation instead of her obvious assets. “I’m assuming you live in Miami. What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m with the service,” she said smiling.

  “The Secret Service?” I questioned, already knowing where this conversation was headed.

  “No, the escort service,” she said handing me a black card with gold embossed lettering. The card was printed with Elite Escorts and a phone number. “We’re hired by the promoter to come to the parties on South Beach. Surely you don’t think Miami has this many beautiful women?”

  “I could only hope,” I said wistfully. “I’ve always been curious; how does this work?”

  “If you would like to spend some time with me for the next few hours, I charge one thousand dollars. Given a choice, I would really rather spend the entire night with you-that would be three thousand,” she whispered as she ran her fingernails over my chest. I must have paused for a heartbeat. “Most men can’t afford me, if you can’t, I really do understand.”

  “It’s not really a matter of can’t afford, but I really can’t remember ever spending money on an escort,” I said. That was the absolute truth, because I couldn’t remember my name, much less my sexual adventures; simply no way to know whether or not that violated some
moral code I had drilled into me at childhood. But damn, she looked good! The problem was that someone had left me for dead in the alley a couple of nights before and then tried to kill me again last night. That sort of thing tends to play hell with a man’s libido-until I found and dealt with whoever was behind this, I couldn’t afford the distraction.

  “Well, if you do ever change your mind, you have my number,” she said as she touched my shoulder and graced me with one last smile. With that, she was gone, gliding back up the stairs to find true love for the evening with one of the blue blazer boys.

  She was about fifty yards away and had just reached the top of the landing when a walking mountain of a man stepped out in front of her. From my angle at pool level looking upward, he appeared larger than life, but he still had to be at least six-five, three hundred pounds or so. Looked like a decidedly unpleasant character, with what appeared to be a permanent scowl etched on his face and a greasy ponytail down to his shoulders. The expensive suit that he was stuffed into did nothing to lessen the effect.

  He reached out and gripped her arm with what appeared to be a gentle grasp, but it was apparently enough to cause her to wince with pain. He asked a few questions that ended when she nodded her head in my direction. He stopped and stared at me for a few seconds with a puzzled frown on his face.

  It seemed I reminded him of someone he had seen before but just couldn’t place. Probably fortunate for me that the soft lighting around the pool and the pulled down hat I was wearing made it difficult for him to see my features clearly. I had that same vague uneasy feeling of familiarity about him, but had the additional handicap of remembering nothing from my past that would help me identify him.

  It really was time to go. I didn’t want to give gorilla boy a closer look at my face or any more time to refresh his memory, so I headed to the back of the pool area. The darkness was barely illuminated by just a few low lights scattered around the cabanas and the soft azure glow from the underwater lighting in the pool. The end of the pool was only about six inches deep and some of the more adventurous drunks had dragged lounge chairs into the pool while they enjoyed their last nightcap.

  Just beyond the end of the pool was a crowded tiki bar still packed with a rowdy crowd who had obviously been enjoying themselves without restraint since late afternoon. I caught the eye of a couple of women as I made my way through the throng. I was tempted by the thought of one more for the road and decided I had probably pushed my luck enough for one night.

  Walking past the noisy revelers, I stepped into the soft crystalline sand leading to the rear gate of the complex. In the darkness under the palm trees, I almost bumped into a hammock swinging softly in the breeze. The hammock was the source of faint moaning coming from two lovers lying entwined in the hammock. Completely oblivious to my presence as they celebrated the end of a long day in the tropics, they wouldn’t have noticed me if I had tripped over them. I quietly slipped past them and exited through the back gate onto the boardwalk that ran behind the hotels on South Beach.

  I started walking the three blocks back to my hotel on the beach walk with only the murmuring of the breeze and the presence of a few late night joggers and skaters to keep me company.

  CHAPTER 9

  Wednesday mornings suck Rivera groused as he drank the fourth cup of coffee that morning and tried to shake the nagging hangover that he woke up with at five that morning. Too much stress and late night drinking for too many years - the result was more mornings than he cared to think about that started with three aspirins and a cup of coffee. He tried to focus his bleary eyes again on the computer monitor as he checked for any new updates on his John Doe. The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly prickled as he felt a presence behind him and turned to find two men he had never seen before waiting for him.

  Rivera didn’t know them, but he had seen the type often enough during his years on the force. Government pukes-matching dark suits and the obvious lumps under their jackets told him they had to have some kind of government ID to clear weapons past the security in the main lobby. These guys looked a little harder around the edges than most, not just the athletic looking builds, but the burning intensity of their eyes that seemed to bore a hole right through him.

  “What could I do for you gentlemen?” Rivera asked as he turned and casually flipped off the monitor behind him.

  “We need to speak to you for a few minutes about an ongoing investigation. Is there some place we can talk?” the older of the two asked.

  “Yeah, conference room right over there,” Rivera indicated with a wave. They followed behind him and stepped into the ten by twelve room that was dominated by a cheap folding conference table and six chairs that were so damn uncomfortable it always guaranteed that most meetings would be short ones. Rivera twisted the rod on the louvered blinds and they were cut off from the curious stares of the rest of the office.

  Rivera lowered himself heavily into the chair at the end of the table. “Alright gentlemen, how can Miami Dade Police department be of assistance to the FBI?”

  “I’m Derek Miller,” the agent said producing his federal ID. He gestured in the direction of his partner. “He’s Blake Davis. That was actually a pretty good guess on us being the FBI.”

  “I had you figured for a couple of three letter guys-FBI, DEA, ATF, CIA - same suits, just different agencies. I know all the DEA guys, so that just left a couple of choices.” Rivera took a moment to carefully check the badges and to evaluate the men in front of him.

  Derek Miller, the older of the two was clearly the one in charge. Judging from the lean musculature of his six-foot frame to the bluish haze of stubble framing his square-cut jaw line, everything about this guy said he was a no bullshit professional. Rivera immediately liked what he saw.

  Blake Davis, his partner seemed a little more twitchy-constantly shifting his gaze around the room-if Rivera had to guess, he’d figure the slightly puffy face and bloodshot eyes were a telltale that this guy was a closet drinker.

  “So what’s the FBI doing in my office on a Wednesday morning?” asked Rivera.

  “There was an inquiry on a restricted set of personnel records yesterday for a John Doe you were trying to identify. You lost him. We want him,” said the younger agent.

  “Well fucking get in line. He’s wanted for questioning in two deaths-one was probably self-defense, the other was a murder. What’s your interest?” Rivera asked as he stared them down across the table.

  “He works for us. Been on an undercover assignment for over a year now,” said Miller.

  “Undercover? Be a little more specific. What kind of job was it?” queried Rivera.

  “Sorry, we really can’t discuss it,” said Miller cutting off further discussion with a quick shake of his head.

  Rivera was having none of it. Standing and grabbing the edge of the table with both hands until his knuckles turned white, he growled in a barely controlled voice, “You guys cut the feds versus locals bullshit or you can take a walk. You come in my office unannounced, expecting my cooperation and you’re giving me nothing. I’ve got issues with two dead people and what looks like involvement by the Russian mob and I don’t have the patience to get into a pissing match with you guys.” Rivera saw the quick reaction as the two looked sideways at each other. He had apparently hit a nerve.

  Miller spoke first. “What information do you have to make you think there’s a Russian mob connection?”

  “First clue was this dead Russian guy your boy killed the other night,” said Rivera. He unceremoniously opened the folder and dropped the pictures of the dead Russian in front of the agents.

  The agents looked at each other as if trying to decide where to go with the conversation. Miller broke the tension first. “OK, here’s the deal. We’re going to need some local resources on this, so we’ll tell you what we can. We want you to be our contact-no information going outside of this group. Your John Doe’s name is Kyle Jackle. He’s been a NOC working deep cover in Italy for the past
year as a part of a joint CIA-FBI task force monitoring the trafficking of Russian women for the sex trade in the US.”

  “So, what is he doing in Miami and why is he wandering around like a lost ball in high weeds?”

  “If you’re referring to the amnesia, we don’t know how that happened. What we do know is we want him back. The guy is one of our best agents and a personal friend of mine,” said Miller. “Going back about fourteen months, he was working undercover in Italy, mainly bouncing back and forth between Rome and Naples. We had heard some vague rumors of a new working relationship between the Camorra syndicate in Naples and the Russian mafia. Most of the traditional Mafia families don’t work with the Russians, but some of the families in Naples are so fragmented, they’ll jump on any opportunity to grab some territory when they see it.”

  Rivera interrupted, “ So what do the Russians have that the Italian mob needs? They’ve make lousy wine, bad suits, and have no other redeeming qualities that I know of.”

  Miller stared at Rivera in annoyance as he continued his narrative, “You’re forgetting the one resource that the Ukranians in particular are famous for-young, beautiful women. Just to give you a little background on how this whole business got started, back in the 80’s the majority of the sex trade was Asian girls coming into the country. This started to shift in the 90’s when the economy completely cratered in Russia and most of the surrounding countries in Eastern Europe.

  The chaos opened the door for anyone with money and that was the Russian mob. They recognized and grabbed the opportunity to exploit women mainly from the villages in the Ukraine, Georgia and the Urals. Most of these girls weren’t very sophisticated-very little education, never been far from their village, and no hopes of any job to support themselves or their families. After the economic crash, the choices went from bad to worse for these women. Ads started appearing in the local papers for models, dancers, restaurant workers, or nannies to work in Europe and the United States.”