by Neil Plakcy
When she landed on her feet again, she said, “How much do I owe you for this great service?”
“Nothing. I collected my fee from the thief.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved the check she had given him as a retainer. “You can have this back, too.”
She squealed with delight as she took the check back. “How nice!”
He walked back outside, then down the sidewalk to his office. He brewed himself a cup of coconut aloha tea and then wrote up notes on the case for his file, saving the document in a folder on his hard drive called Closed Cases.
All he had to do was talk to the ATF agent and pass on what he’d learned, and then he could put the whole business behind him. The AK-47s and whatever else Kiril Ovetschkin was up to would be someone else’s problem.
5 – La Guajira
It was closing in on noon, and Biff had a long, tedious drive diagonally across the county to reach La Guajira, the restaurant where he was to meet the ATF agent. He went west on Miami Gardens Drive, through miles of urban sprawl, the roadside dotted with insurance offices, mobile phone stores, and check-cashing operations. Oh, for a couple of good alligators, he thought, as he reached the Turnpike entrance. Wipe out a lot of the population, let the Everglades claim the land again.
But that would mean less business for a private investigator. He shrugged. It was the way the world was.
He used the mindless drive south on the Turnpike to think through the case. Where could the files be? His search the night before had established that they weren’t in Igor Laskin’s apartment. Did Laskin have an office? A safe deposit box? Had he given them to his girlfriend Natasha for safe keeping?
He pulled up in front of La Guajira a few minutes before one. It was a simple storefront boxed in by a credit union and a discount linens store. A painting of a young peasant girl, presumably the guajira of the restaurant’s name, was propped in the window.
A tall, slim Cuban guy in a white guayabera and tan slacks stood outside the restaurant, talking on a cell phone. As Biff approached he snapped it shut and said, “You must be Andromeda.” He stuck his hand out. “Hector Hernandez.”
They shook hands, then walked into the tiny storefront. “Doesn’t look like much, but the food’s better than my mother makes,” Hector said. “Just don’t tell her that.”
“My lips are sealed,” Biff said. “Until it’s time to eat.”
They ordered platters of ropa vieja and fried plantains. Biff got a can of Jupina pineapple soda from the cooler, and a Tazo iced tea for Hector. When they were sitting at a table in the back, waiting for the food to arrive, Hector said, “So how do you come to be interested in Kiril Ovetschkin?”
“His wife Douschka ordered some boudoir photos from my client,” Biff said. “A photographer named Sveta Pshkov. Kiril didn’t like the pictures, so he came to Sveta demanding the files. Only someone had stolen them. Sveta hired me to recover them.”
“Douschka,” Hector said, shaking his head. “You know what she looks like?”
“Haven’t seen the pictures. And I haven’t been able to get in touch with her.”
The waitress delivered the plates of food and walked away. Hector inhaled deeply and sighed. “Douschka is beautiful. Any woman in the room looks like nothing next to her. And she’s not even my type. Honey blonde hair, skin like peaches and cream, built like a Victoria’s Secret model.”
“I’ve seen Ovetschkin,” Biff said. “He’s a frog, she’s a princess?”
Hector laughed. “You could say that.” He took a forkful of beef. “He’s very jealous of her. Imported her from some peasant town in Russia.”
Biff decided that Hector knew his Cuban food. La Guajira did a better job than a lot of places he’d eaten in Havana, back in the day. “You know a guy named Igor Laskin?” he asked, between devouring the tender beef and the soft, sweet plantains. “I think he works for Ovetschkin.”
“Yeah, he’s Kiril’s go-to guy when anything needs muscle power. Early thirties, bodybuilder, born in Russia but raised here. Kind of a loose cannon—he’s heavy into steroids so he gets that roid rage sometimes. He’s beat up a couple of guys, but we can never get anyone to testify against him.”
“Ambitious?” Biff asked.
“You bet. I don’t think he has the brains to be a boss, though. He’s strictly muscle, in my opinion. What do you know about him?”
“I think he stole the digital originals of the photos. I’m trying to figure out why. You think maybe he has a thing for Douschka?”
“Haven’t seen it,” Hector said, shaking his head. He speared a rogue plantain that tried to jump off his plate. “That’s all this is about? Stolen pictures?”
“I was tracking the pictures last night and I overheard a conversation. At the Marouschka in Hallandale Beach.” He paused. “About a shipment of AK-47s coming in through Customs in Miami.”
Hector put his fork down. “And you heard what, exactly?”
Biff repeated the conversation. “Sound familiar to you?”
“It’s another piece of the puzzle,” Hector said. “One of the Customs guys is named Fiorentino, and he had a heart attack yesterday. From what you’re saying it sounds like he might be on Ovetschkin’s payroll.”
He pulled out a pad and made a couple of notes. “Thanks for the tip,” he said, when he was finished. “And for lunch.” He smiled.
“My pleasure.”
Hector pushed his empty plate away from him and drained the last iced tea from the bottle.
“I’m inclined to think Douschka didn’t order those photos to give to Kiril. And that’s why he’s so eager to get the originals and destroy them.”
“She cheating on him?”
“She’s a pretty little country girl, like La Guajira over there.” He pointed at the portrait in the restaurant window. “Though a whole lot more luscious, in my opinion. Very spoiled, not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. I think it’s possible. And then Kiril finds out.”
“Any idea who the boyfriend is? Igor Laskin?”
Hector shook his head. “Igor’s hot for this girl named Natasha, daughter of a guy they call The Professor, much bigger than Ovetschkin.”
“Then who?”
“No idea. We keep trying to set up surveillance on Ovetschkin, but money’s tight, and we didn’t have much to go on. Now at least we can look into these arms shipments.”
Biff promised Hector Hernandez he’d let him know if he heard anything more about the AK-47s. He left La Guajira wondering who Douschka Ovetschkin had ordered the photos for, how Kiril had found out about them, and why Igor had stolen them.
His cell phone rang as he was getting on the Turnpike. “Mr. Andromeda, he is here again!” Sveta whispered. “I give him files but he does not believe they are only ones. I am frightened! You can come here, please?”
“I’m way out in West Dade,” he said. “It’s going to take me at least forty-five minutes to get there.”
In the background, Biff heard Ovetschkin roaring in Russian. “Hang up and call 911, Sveta,” Biff said. “I’m going to call a buddy in the police too.”
He disconnected the call and pushed the speed-dial for Jimmy Stein. “I’m in the middle of shit here,” Jimmy said.
“Ovetschkin’s at Sveta’s studio and he’s threatening her,” Biff said. “I told her to call 911 but can you get a unit over there?”
“The things I do for a bagel with a shmear.” Jimmy hung up, and Biff hit the accelerator on the Mini Cooper, darting around slower traffic. He called Sveta’s studio again, but the line was busy.
He kept trying as he sped up the Turnpike, exiting at the Golden Glades interchange, where he picked up I-95. When he pulled up at the Aventura Beach shopping center, a white Miami-Dade police car with its distinctive green stripe was parked in front of the mall entrance.
He hurried into Sveta’s studio, where he found a police woman trying to convince Sveta to go to the hospital. Sveta’s right cheek was bruised, and she had a hell of a b
lack eye growing. Her filmy pink chiffon blouse had been torn, and she was struggling to keep it up over her ample breasts.
“What happened, Sveta?” Biff said.
“Nothing. Was accident,” she said, her eyes glancing over at the plump African-American police woman. Her name tag read White.
“Are you a friend of Miss Pshkov’s?” Officer White asked.
“Biff Andromeda,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “I run the detective agency a couple of doors down.”
“Maybe you can get Miss Pshkov to explain what happened,” Officer White said. “I arrived about a half hour ago, and found her in obvious distress, but she refused to tell me who attacked her, and she won’t go to the hospital.”
“I’ll take care of her,” Biff said. “Thank you for responding so quickly.”
Officer White handed a card to Sveta. “If you decide to press charges, here’s a phone number you can call. You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
Sveta nodded.
Biff saw the officer to the studio’s front door, then locked it after she walked out. “Now, Sveta,” Biff said, returning to where she sat in front of a white canvas backdrop tacked to the wall. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“He come to me as I am organizing pictures from bar mitzvah on Saturday,” she said. “He want me to give him all files of Douschka. I tell him I still no have them, but I have hired man to find them. He get very angry, and hit me.”
“I’m so sorry, Sveta. I’m looking for the files. I know who stole them, but I can’t find them yet.”
“Is way of world. Good news is that Ovetschkin tell me he going away for one day. I have until tomorrow to get files.”
“I promise you’ll have them by then,” Biff said. “Now let me look at your eye.”
Sveta leaned back in her chair and Biff gently probed the tender part of her face. “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken.” He closed his eyes and focused on the tips of his fingers, sending heat and energy into Sveta.
“Mmm,” she said. “Feels good.”
Biff stepped back, and Sveta glanced at herself in the mirror. “My face! Is no more bad!” She looked at him. “Mr. Andromeda, you are magical!”
“Just a little talent I have,” he said. Then he opened his third eye and sent the befuddling signals to her brain so that she forgot that Biff had touched her. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure out a way to get Ovetschkin off your back for good.”
As he walked back to his office, he wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
6 – No More Parking Cars
When he returned to his office, he picked up the phone and heard the stutter dial tone which indicated a message on his voice mail. The chiropractor at the far end of the mall was hiring a new office manager, and wanted a background check. Dr. Oppsal had been burned once, when an employee with an undisclosed criminal record stole medical information on patients and sold it to a disreputable law firm. Since then, she had paid Biff to do basic checks on everyone she considered hiring.
Biff walked back outside and along the sidewalk to the chiropractor’s, where a full-sized plastic skeleton dangled in the front window. It made a light clanking noise when Biff opened the door. The only patient waiting was a black man, a dwarf, with kinky hair gelled up into a tall pompadour. He was reading a magazine and swinging his legs in the air.
The front desk clerk, Sophia, was a short, chunky Latina with slicked-back dark hair and a row of different-colored studs along each ear. She wore tight-fitting polyester blouses in brightly-colored prints, and a rhinestone necklace that spelled out her name.
“You have an application for me?” Biff asked.
“Another loser,” Sophia said. “I can tell a mile away. But Aunt Rita won’t listen to me. Only you.”
“You get yourself a private eye license, she’ll listen,” Biff said.
Dr. Oppsal was Sophia’s aunt by marriage, and they had a love-hate relationship. The good doctor paid so little she couldn’t attract good staff, and Sophia had such a limited skill set she couldn’t get a better job.
Sophia stood up and began making a copy of the application for Biff. “Not me. I’m going to cosmetology school.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Biff. “See, I did my own makeup this morning.”
It looked to Biff like a spider had landed on her eyelids. “I thought you were getting a real estate license.”
Sophia shook her head. “Nah, I gave that up. Too much math.” She pulled the papers from the copier and handed them to Biff. “So, when are you going to ask me out on a date?”
“I keep telling you, I’m taken,” Biff said.
“Yeah, by this imaginary woman I’ve never met. What’s her name again? Farfalle? Farfegnugen?”
“Farishta. You never know when she’ll show up.” He took the papers from her. “Thanks. I’ll get a report together soon.”
He put aside investigating the applicant, though, because the issue of how he was going to get Ovetschkin to leave Sveta alone was more pressing. It was clear to Biff that he had to know more about the man. He was no hacker, but he subscribed to a number of different databases that tracked everything from birth certificates to criminal records. From the same illegal source that had supplied Laskin’s driver’s license number, he found Kiril Ovetschkin’s Social Security number, and that was all he needed to do more legitimate research.
Kiril was born in Kiev in 1957. He left Russia for Israel in 1986, shortly after Mikhail Gorbachev had instituted his glasnost policy. In 1992 he had made a million-dollar investment in a Miami-based import-export business and received his green card through Form I-526, Immigrant Petition by Alien Entrepreneur. After the appropriate waiting period he received U.S. citizenship. The company, Russia Imports Ltd., traded in gas and oil pipeline equipment, purchased from manufacturers in Russia and sold to third-world countries around the Caribbean. Since it was privately held there was little information available on its profitability.
Douschka was born in a small town outside Minsk on April 12, 1987, making her just thirty years younger than her husband. Biff wondered how that was working out. She had arrived in the US a year before, on a K-1 visa, a temporary one for the purpose of marrying a US citizen. She and Kiril were wed a few days after her arrival, and she received permanent residency status based on the marriage.
The condo in the Odessa was owned outright by Russia Imports, Ltd., which also owned a Mercedes S600 sedan and a CLK 350 Cabriolet convertible, both of which were registered at the home address. Kiril and Douschka both had clean drivers’ licenses, and Douschka had no criminal record. Kiril had been charged with several felonies in the past twenty years, but the charges had always been dropped due to lack of evidence. There was also a powerboat registered in the corporation’s name.
His cell phone rang with a call from Jimmy Stein. He was sure the Miami-Dade cop was calling to exact some kind of payment for helping Sveta out earlier that afternoon. But instead Jimmy said, “You know the Bolshoi Gym on Collins Avenue?”
“Yeah. I was just there yesterday,” Biff said.
“Good, you’re coming back today. I need you down here ASAP.”
On the off chance he might need a file or Internet access, Biff tossed his laptop computer into a small backpack. Then he folded his tall frame into the Mini Cooper for yet another trip over to Sunny Isles Beach, wondering why Jimmy Stein had summoned him. Sure, he’d slipped into the gym the day before without buying a guest pass, but he doubted that was a reason to call in the cops.
It must be Igor Laskin, he thought. Laskin worked out at the Bolshoi Gym, like most of the other Russian expatriate bodybuilders. And according to Hector Hernandez, Laskin was subject to roid rage, the irrational anger that arose from steroid abuse. Had he gotten in trouble somehow at the gym?
Waiting at a traffic light on Collins Avenue, he saw a van with “Mobile Grooming” painted on the side, and a phone number and web address. In small letters, the words “pets only” were in italics. He wo
ndered about that. Did people call in hopes somebody could come to their house and give them a manicure or facial? Had the van owner gotten frustrated and put “pets only” there to discourage those calls? The world had certainly changed over the last few centuries.
He pulled into the gym’s parking lot and spotted Stein’s Dodge Charger. With the backpack over one shoulder, he walked across the lot. Jimmy himself was standing just inside the front door. Today’s microfiber shirt was a mud-brown color, already stained with sweat, matched with comfort-fit khakis and black Nike track shoes.
Jimmy was talking to the check-in clerk, a skinny young Latin with a wispy mustache. When he saw Biff, he pulled away. “I have something to show you,” he said. “Follow me.”
Biff followed him into the locker room. Once again he had to consciously shut down as much of his sense of smell as he could, because the aromas of sweat, soap and cologne were nearly overwhelming.
“These lockers here, they’re for regular clients,” Jimmy said, pointing at a row of lockers. The door to one hung open. “That one belonged to a guy named Usnavy Gonzalez.”
Biff noted the use of the past tense but didn’t say anything.
“We found this in his locker.” He motioned toward an evidence tech, a slim Vietnamese named Loi, with multiple piercings and a bright red stripe in the middle of his black hair. He held up a photo of a beautiful blonde reclining on a sofa. She was naked, with one hand propped behind her head and the other dangling near her crotch.
Even though she put most swimsuit models to shame, she couldn’t hold a candle to Farishta, Biff thought. “Let me guess. Douschka Ovetschkin.”
“Smart guy,” Jimmy said.
“Any computer files with it? Disks? Drives?”
Loi shook his head. “Only this picture.” He motioned Jimmy over to the locker, and Biff leaned back against a locker to wait. A photo of Douschka showed up in the locker of a man he was pretty sure was dead, based on Jimmy’s use of the past tense. What did that have to do with the theft of the original digital files?
