Bad News Travels

Chapter 40

Sykes watched the spinning carousel while sipping from his flask.

The carousel had appeared right around the time he’d joined the police department. It had been owned by a member of the Ringling Brothers Circus, who’d paid a small fortune for it in the early part of the last century. It had been moved around the country, and had eventually found a home here in Saint Augustine.

His daughter, Regina, had loved the carousel. On weekends, he’d brought her to the park to play. For a handful of change, she’d ride on a painted horse while the calliope piped out music that could be heard for miles. Sometimes, she chose instead to ride the camel that was part of the carousel’s menagerie. The camel wasn’t pretty to look at, and hardly any of the kids ever rode it, except Regina. He often wondered why the owners hadn’t replaced it with a horse. But they hadn’t, and it was still there.

He took another sip of whiskey, and felt it burn going down. It was a bad way to start the morning. But it took the edge off, and like the pills his coworkers took for high blood pressure and hypertension, he liked to think it was doing him some good.

The radio on the dashboard barked.

“Sykes? Are you at Davenport Park? Please pick up.”

One of the minuses of working for a small-town police department was that everyone knew where you were, all the time. He pulled the radio off the clip on the dashboard and pushed the button.

“Good morning, Tiffany. Yes, I’m at the park. What’s up?” he said.

“We just got a 911 call. A body was found at the Old Jail. Can you handle?”

Sykes could see the Old Jail from where he was parked. It was one of the stops on the trolley tour of the city and was now a museum. A long time ago, a rich man named Henry Flagler paid for the jail to be built north of downtown. So as not to strike fear in the hearts of the public, Flagler had decided to disguise it, and built it to resemble a posh hotel. Few tourists ventured out of the historic downtown these days. If not for the trolley tours, he had to believe the Old Jail would have been shuttered a long time ago.

“I can handle it,” he said. “Does it look like foul play?”

“Gunshot,” the operator said.

“Self-inflicted?”

“They didn’t say.”

Sykes hadn’t dealt with a homicide in a while. Most of the deaths were suicides of patients from the local VA hospital who seemed to lose hope the older they got.

“Tell them I’ll be right there.”

He took another pull of whiskey before backing out. In the theater of his mind, he saw Regina flash by, waving to him as she galloped past on her wooden horse.

It was all he could do not to wave back.

Mannequins dressed like a chain gang lined the road in front of the Old Jail. It hearkened back to a time that most people in the city would have liked to forget. Sykes wished they’d take it down, but no one had ever listened to what he had to say.

The museum didn’t open for another hour, and he had his pick of parking spaces. He swished mouthwash and spit it on the ground as he got out.

A fake sheriff greeted him at the door, packing a six-shooter. Local actors served as tour guides, and often got carried away, locking mouthy kids in cells or sticking them in the “Bird Cage” jail cell behind the building. Sykes had lectured the guides several times, and knew most of them by name. The fellow at the door was new.

“Who are you?” Sykes asked.

“My name’s Gamble. I started last week,” the fake sheriff said.

“I’ve never seen you before. Where are you from?”

“Gainesville.”

“College boy, huh. What did you study?”

“Acting and drama.”

“What brings you here?”

“I answered a job posting online. I needed the work.”

The story rang true. But Sykes wanted more. “Is that pea shooter loaded?”

“No, sir. It’s just for show.”

Sykes drew back his sports jacket to reveal the gun strapped to his side. “Mine isn’t. Am I making myself clear? Leave that thing in its holster at all times.”

“Yes, sir,” the fake sheriff said.

“Glad we’re on the same page. Now where’s this body?”

“In the back by the gallows. Follow me.”

Gamble led him down a hallway to the back of the building. The jail had been built by the Pauly Jail Building Company, the same people responsible for constructing Alcatraz in San Francisco, and it was designed like a small fortress, with concrete walls and steel ceilings. During the jail’s more than sixty years in operation, no prisoner had ever managed to escape.

The gallows was another sore point. It evoked the days of public executions, and lynchings. Men needed to die with dignity, even bad men, and he wanted to see it removed. He stepped into the backyard and was blinded by the sunlight. As his eyes adjusted, he discovered that a small gathering awaited him. Special Agent Daniels, that sneaky bastard Lancaster, and four FBI agents with badges pinned to their lapels. He didn’t see anyone from the police department, and wondered why that was.

“Put your hands in the air,” the fake sheriff said.

“Don’t tell me — you’re one of them,” Sykes said.

“I sure am. But I did take acting classes in college. They come in handy.”

The fake sheriff frisked him, and took away his sidearm and the backup gun he wore on his ankle. He decided to play stupid, and see where it got him.

“Would you folks mind telling me what this is all about?” Sykes said.

Daniels stepped forward. “Don’t you know? You’re under arrest.”

“For what? Not paying my property taxes on time?”

“For starters, lying to an FBI agent multiple times.”

“I was completely honest with you,” he lied.

Her forefinger jabbed him in the chest. The look in her eyes made him swallow hard. “You have no friends here,” she said.

The cellblock resembled a steel cage, with cells lining the two walls, a small common area with a badly pocked table, and a pair of benches. The table and benches were screwed to the floor so the inmates couldn’t break them apart, and turn them into weapons. There was no air conditioning, the air still and warm.

Sykes was made to sit on a bench. The FBI agents and Lancaster stood on the other side of the picnic table, while the fake sheriff guarded the door. Sykes was still annoyed that he hadn’t seen through the guy’s disguise. He would turn fifty-five soon, and wondered if he was starting to lose his edge.

One of the FBI agents picked up a cardboard box from the floor, and placed it on the picnic table. Daniels reached into the box and removed a handful of cell phones, which she placed in a row on the table. She did this until the box was empty.

Sykes felt sweat trickle down his back. These were the burners that he’d used to track Dalton over the past twelve months. He guessed the FBI had arrested Dalton, and during a search found the burners. It probably hadn’t been very hard for the FBI to contact the people at Callyo, and trace the burners back to him.

“Recognize these?” Daniels asked.

“Never seen them before,” he lied.

A second cardboard box was taken off the floor, and put on the table. Daniels removed reams of printed paper as thick as a phone book, and slapped them down in front of him.

“How about this?” she asked.

Sykes leafed through the papers. It was a transcript of the data that Callyo had collected on Dalton, and included every phone call, text, and email, along with the date, time, and his geographical location when he made the communication. Sykes’s name was on the cover page as the point person of the operation. He was cooked.

“Yeah, I recognize these papers,” the detective said.

“This is your operation, yes?” Daniels said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’ve been monitoring Dalton’s activities for the past year, correct?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Sykes took a deep breath, waiting. He expected Daniels to pull out his bank records, and slap them on the table. Those records would be the knockout punch, and prove how deep he’d gotten himself into this mess. He’d let greed get the best of him, and now he was going to pay for it.

But Daniels didn’t do that. Instead, she took out a small notepad, and a pen, in preparation for questioning him. The FBI didn’t use tape recorders during formal interrogations for reasons he’d never completely understood. It was old school, and not with the times.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Daniels said. “How you answer them will determine what we do with you. Am I making myself clear?”

His mind raced. The FBI hadn’t bothered to search his house. If they had, they would have discovered his bank records, and realized what was going on. In their haste to arrest him, they’d failed to cover all their bases, and as a result, they were still partially in the dark. They would eventually find out what he’d done, but it might take a while.

Daniels looked tired and run-down. The woman had been through a lot. If he helped her, she might cut him some slack. He needed to fall on his sword, and confess. He’d throw the others under the bus, and try not to implicate himself.

It was the only shot he had, and he was going to take it.

“Loud and clear,” Sykes said.

“Good. But know this. If I catch you telling a lie, I’ll throw your ass in jail so fast it will make your nose bleed,” Daniels said.

“I won’t lie,” he lied.

Chapter 41

Daniels placed a bottled water on the table. She wondered if Sykes had figured out why they’d brought him to the cellblock to conduct their questioning, as opposed to the FBI’s Jacksonville office, or the police station.

“That’s for you,” she said.

Sykes took a long swallow. The cellblock was heating up, and he looked like he was melting. The jail wasn’t air conditioned, and there was little in the way of cross-ventilation. It was hard to imagine living under these conditions.

“Are you ready to start?” she asked.

Sykes nodded.

“Tell us the circumstances leading up to your decision to monitor Dalton. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”

“Can I take my jacket off? I’m burning up.”

“Go ahead.”

The detective rose from the bench, and removed his sports jacket. Jon stood in the corner, watching the detective’s every move. Sykes avoided his gaze, and sat back down.

“Okay, so here’s what happened,” Sykes said. “Because Saint Augustine is a tourist town, we’re vulnerable to a certain breed of criminals, like con men and prostitutes. We employ two undercover cops whose sole job is to be on the lookout for these people. They hit the bars at night, and know people in the hospitality business, who tend to be a pretty good source of information.”

“Their names,” Daniels said.

Sykes gave her the names, then resumed. “About a year ago, my guys started to see these hot young Latin women in the bars, hitting on older guys. They saw these women take older guys home for the night, which of course got them suspicious.”

“Did you arrest them for prostitution?” Daniels asked.

“We did not. No money was changing hands, at least not in public. We assumed the transaction was taking place in a hotel room. Turns out, that wasn’t the case either. My guys had beers with one of these Romeos, and learned that he hadn’t paid for the sex, which he claimed was pretty wild.”

“Sounds like a set-up.”

“It was a set-up. These ladies had a friend, a young Russian woman who worked as a tour guide, who was making the introductions. ”

“Her name.”

“Katya.”

“So Katya was pimping these Latin women.”

“That’s correct. Folks in town liked Katya, so no one was suspicious.”

Daniels knew bullshit when she heard it, and she slapped the table. “Young women don’t have sex with strange men unless they’re getting something in return. Don’t play us for fools, Detective.”

“I’m not playing anyone,” Sykes said defensively. “People liked Katya because she was dating your father. It had a halo effect, if you know what I mean.”

Daniels’s cheeks burned. Her father had let himself be used in more ways than one. “You’re saying their relationship paved the way for Katya to work her scam.”

“That’s right. Your father was used. A month later, my undercover guys heard a rumor. Our Romeos were being blackmailed by two Russian brothers named Sokolov. They had videos that had been secretly taken at Katya’s house with the Latin girls. The Russians were threatening to destroy these men’s reputations if they didn’t pay.”

“How big were the ransoms?”

“Hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“What did you do?”

“I found out who the victims were, and talked to them. None of them were willing to press charges. I guess they were afraid of the consequences. That’s when we started running surveillance on the Sokolovs.”

“How did that go down?”

“The Sokolovs brought their ladies into Saint Augustine every week on a private plane, and rented cars privately through a company called Turo. They used one guy pretty regularly, so we went to his place, and planted a tracking device on his car, which let us watch where the Sokolovs went.”

“What was the guy’s name they rented the car from?”

Sykes searched his memory. “Arlen Childress.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Charger.”

So far, Sykes was getting a passing grade. “Keep talking,” she said.

“The Sokolovs did their business in Saint Augustine, but at night they stayed in Palatka. I guess it was safer for them that way,” the detective said.

“Where in Palatka?”

“The Gables Inn.”

“Dalton’s place.”

“Correct.”

“How did you get Dalton to use the Callyo burner phones?”

Sykes smiled thinly, pleased with himself. “The Sokolovs gave them to Dalton.”

“Come again?”

“The Sokolovs used burners to avoid being traced. They were buying them from a shop in Palatka, so we talked the store’s owner into stocking the Callyo phones, which had special bar codes on the packaging. When one of the Sokolovs purchased a burner, it was scanned at checkout, which let us know which phone they had. We contacted Callyo, and they activated the transmitter in that particular phone.”

“What was Dalton’s role?”

“He was the Sokolovs’ point person. He made sure they were taken care of when they came to town, the girls as well.”

“Taken care of how?”

“He kept rooms open, and brought takeout food to them. He also bought drugs for them. The girls were pretty doped up.”

Daniels ran her thumb up the side of the transcripts. She’d stayed up late poring through Dalton’s communications between the Russians and various drug dealers in the area, and knew that Sykes was telling the truth. But that didn’t explain why he hadn’t mentioned the operation when they’d talked in his office.

“Why didn’t you share this?” she asked. “Were they blackmailing you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

The detective had told his first lie. If he wasn’t careful, she’d slap handcuffs on him, and let him bake in a cell for a while. “There’s a videotape of my father in a board meeting at the hospital, looking on his cell phone at a video of you having sex with one of the Latinas. Why don’t you tell us about it?”

Sykes seemed to shrink before their eyes. He was sweating like he was about to be hanged from the gallows in the courtyard, and he spent a moment composing himself.

“I got trapped,” he said quietly. “My wife died a few years ago from cancer. It’s not easy being alone.”

She let an appropriate amount of time pass. “Go on,” she said.

“One of the Latinas was named Lissette Diaz. She came into headquarters one day, asking for help. She offered to turn on the Sokolovs if we’d put her into witness protection. It sounded intriguing, so I talked to her. Lissette lived in south Florida, and was a member of the Latin Kings. She and two other Latin Kings girls got arrested for shoplifting. While they were in the county lockup, they met Katya, and became friends.”

“What was Katya doing in jail?”

“Recruiting. Katya would get arrested on a minor charge, and spend a few days in the lockup, getting to know the other women. She offered to help them get work as strippers at a men’s club in Fort Lauderdale when they got out.”

“Which club?”

“I don’t remember. It was owned by a Russian gangster named Sergey.”

“Go on.”

“Lissette and her friends went to work for Sergey when they got out. They started as strippers, but soon were turning tricks. Lissette said it was crummy work, but the money was good. One day Katya introduced them to the Sokolovs, who told the girls they had a scam that would make them rich. Katya was moving to Saint Augustine to work in a museum and live in a house the Sokolovs had outfitted with hidden cameras. Once Katya got settled in, the girls would come up, and stay with her.

“Katya would take the girls to bars, and introduce them to rich men. The girls would seduce the old boys, take them to the house, and have sex. Every room had hidden cameras, so it really didn’t matter where they chose to do it. The videos would later be used for blackmail.

“Lissette was getting nervous. She didn’t think the Sokolovs were going to pay her, and might even kill her. So she came to the police. I decided she was being truthful, and we struck a deal. She would wear a wire, and collect evidence. The night before she was to start, we went to dinner. I got drunk, and she started rubbing my leg beneath the table. One thing led to another, and we snuck off to Palatka and had sex.”

Daniels shook her head in disbelief. It felt like the truth, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Sykes looked away, ashamed.

“Let me make sure I have this straight,” she said. “You had sex with an informant at the Gables Inn, which was owned by Dalton, who was under your surveillance.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you actually expect us to believe this?”

“It’s true. Look, I’m not proud of it. Lissette did the driving that night. She parked behind the inn, and we went in through the back door, and snuck upstairs and got naked. I didn’t realize where I was until the next morning.”

Sykes stared at the table. Avoiding eye contact was often a sign of deceitfulness. But there was also the chance he’d made an error in judgment that he now regretted. It wouldn’t be the first time a man had compromised himself for sex.

“When did they start blackmailing you?” she asked.

“The next day. Lissette was supposed to come to my office, and get wired up. She pulled a no-show, so I called her. She said, ‘Look in your inbox,’ and hung up. She’d emailed the video to me.” Sykes spent a moment looking at each of them. His gaze came to rest on Daniels. “I knew I was screwed. But I didn’t shut down the operation. I was going to build my case, and nail those assholes. Once they were in jail, I’d tell my boss about the video, and retire. It was the only honorable way out of the mess I’d created, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

Sykes had fallen on his sword, and admitted his guilt. Most cops that got caught breaking laws didn’t take that route. Her opinion of him changed.

“Last question,” she said. “Why was your sex video sent to my father? What purpose did that serve?”

“I don’t know. But I can guess.”

“Go ahead.”

“The victims refused to pay. We heard the Sokolovs talking about it on the surveillance. Then the hands started appearing on their doorsteps. The victims caved, except your father. He threatened to go to the police. That was also on the surveillance. The Sokolovs must have sent him my video to silence him.”

“My father never came to you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So the threat worked.”

“It would seem that way, yes.”

The sound was as distinct as a distant train whistle, filled with fury and unbridled rage. Jon came out of his corner, straight toward Sykes. Deceptively fast, he went around the bench, cuffed Sykes in the head, and sent him sprawling to the floor.

“You’re a god damn liar,” Jon roared.

Chapter 42

It took three agents to pull Jon away. Sykes remained on the floor, shielding his head with his arms. The detective had not uttered a word in protest. Had he lied to them? Daniels certainly hadn’t seen it.

But Jon had smelled the deception, and it had brought out the worst in him. He aimed a well-deserved kick at the detective’s head.

“You’re a piece of shit,” Jon said.

“Cut it out.” To Sykes she said, “Get up.”

Sykes dragged himself off the floor, and returned to his spot on the bench. His hair stuck up on his head, his lip bloodied from his fall.

“Did you just lie to us, Detective?” Daniels asked.

“Everything I said was true,” Sykes said.

Jon lunged at him, the agents holding him back. “Two days ago, you told us that you didn’t know Martin. Now you’re telling us that Martin never came to you.”

“That’s right,” Sykes said. “I didn’t know him, and he never filed a formal complaint with the police. So what?”

“When Martin watched the video of you and Lissette having sex, he freaked out. He knew you. You’re not telling us the truth.”

Sykes’s eyes went wide. Trapped by his own words, he had nowhere to go. “I want an attorney,” he declared.

Daniels cursed under her breath. It was impossible to know how much of what Sykes had told them was true, or cleverly fabricated lies designed to protect his skin. Under any other circumstances, she would have ended things, and let him call a lawyer; but this was her father they were talking about, and she was not prepared to go silently into the night.

“Let him go,” she said.

The agents released their grip on Jon, who jumped forward.

Sykes let out a muted cry. “Get away from me!”

Grabbing the detective by the shoulders, Jon dragged him toward the cell door. “I’m going to hang your sorry ass from the gallows by my shirt.”

“Help me!”

Daniels and the agents didn’t move. No one liked this tactic, but sometimes it was the only path forward. The gallows were directly outside the cellblock, and Jon yanked the cellblock door open and dragged Sykes kicking and screaming toward it.

“I’ll talk!” Sykes said.

Jon kept dragging him toward the gallows. “You said that before.”

“On my wife’s grave.”

Jon put on the brakes. “So help me God, if you’re lying...”

“I’ll tell you everything.”

Jon retraced his steps, and tossed Sykes onto the bench. The detective’s chest heaved up and down as he gasped for breath. Jon cuffed him in the back of the head.

“Start talking.”

“Martin was on our radar from the beginning,” Sykes said. “We weren’t sure if he was a part of the scam, or just an innocent dupe.”

“Which was he?”

“He was a pawn. That Russian bitch had him wrapped around her little finger. He was pussy-whipped.” He glanced at Daniels. “Sorry, ma’am, but it’s the truth.”

Daniels fumed. “Why didn’t you tell us this when we came to see you?”

“I was afraid you’d be angry with me,” the detective said.

“Why would I be angry?”

“Your father came to me, and said he wanted to press charges. He’d secretly tape-recorded several of his telephone conversations with the Sokolovs. It was enough evidence to put them away for a long time.”

“What did you do with this evidence?”

“I burned it.”

“You did what?”

“I put it in the fireplace in my house and burned it. Martin was willing to accept responsibility and admit his mistakes. I wasn’t. It was as simple as that.”

“You betrayed him.”

Sykes nodded ruefully. “Not the proudest day of my life, but that’s what I did. Your father told the Russians that he’d gone to the police, and was going to fight back. The Russians responded by sending him the video of me with Lissette.”

“To silence him,” Daniels said, seething.

“Uh-huh.”

The detective fell silent. Jon cuffed him again. The blow was hard enough to snap Sykes’s head forward.

“Stop hitting me,” he protested.

“You’re holding back, which is as good as lying in my book,” Jon said.

“Who said I was holding back?”

“I did. The fact that you betrayed Martin wasn’t the end of the world. Martin could have picked up the phone, and called his daughter. If he was willing to admit the affair to you, then he would have done the same with her. So why didn’t he?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes. And I think you know the answer. It was Nicki, wasn’t it?”

“Who’s Nicki?”

“His granddaughter. Martin spoke to her a day before he took his life, and told her he was sorry. I didn’t know what that meant, but I do now. The Russians were going to send the blackmail videos to Martin’s granddaughter, whom he adored. Martin couldn’t bear the thought of that, so he drained his bank account, and paid them off. Does that sound about right?”

“Yes,” the detective said.

“Who gave the Russians Nicki’s email?”

“Katya did. She stole Nicki’s personal information off Martin’s computer.”

“Who told you that?”

“Lissette sent me an email. She said that the Sokolovs had shut Martin down.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“Relieved. I wanted the whole thing to go away.”

“I’m sure you did. Last question. Why did Martin take his life after paying the Sokolovs off?”

“I have no idea.”

Jon put his hand on the back of Sykes’s neck, and drove the detective’s face into the table. Sykes was wise enough to turn his face sideways at the moment of impact, which spared him a broken nose and losing a number of his front teeth. Jon pulled him back up.

“The Sokolovs weren’t done with him, were they? They had found his Achilles’ heel with Nicki, and were going to continue to blackmail him. Isn’t that right?”

Sykes was breathing hard and said nothing.

“Lissette told you that. Or maybe it was Martin. It doesn’t really matter, because you didn’t do a damn thing about it. You just wanted the whole thing to go away.”

Sykes continued to be mute.

“And when the call came that an apparent suicide had been found by a hiker, you were hoping that it was Martin, weren’t you?”

Still nothing. Jon grabbed the detective by the back of the neck. It was enough to get Sykes to break his silence.

“I liked Martin. He was my friend,” Sykes said.

“You didn’t like him enough to help him,” Jon said. “You stood by, and let these animals torture him. You’re a god damn disgrace.”

“What about our deal?” Sykes asked.

“No deal,” Daniels said. “Get him out of here.”

Sykes was dragged out of the cellblock by the FBI agents. Daniels remained behind with Jon, telling the agents she needed a moment to herself. When they were gone, she buried her head in Jon’s chest, and wept.

“Sykes could have done something. He could have helped my dad,” she cried.

“I’m sorry, Beth. At least now we know the truth,” he said.

“When you were hitting him, I was thinking, Please kill him. Please.”

“But then you would have arrested me.”

Jon held her with one arm. In his other hand was his cell phone, which he punched a number into. In a rage, she tore the device from his hand, and tossed it onto the floor.

“How can you be so heartless?” she said.

“There’s no time to waste. We have to move quickly.”

“What are you talking about?”

He retrieved the cell phone and finished dialing the number.

“Put that damn thing away!” she said.

He had to leave a message. “Carlo, this is your old buddy Jon. I need help. Call me ASAP.” He pocketed the phone and gave her his full attention. “Pull yourself together.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“You’re letting your emotions mess with your head. Why did we pull this routine on Sykes? Why didn’t your team just arrest him, and interrogate him normally? Because we were threatened last night, and we determined the threat was real.”

Daniels blinked. “We didn’t ask Sykes about that.”

“We didn’t have to. He already gave us the target.”

She brought her hand to her mouth. “Nicki?”

“Correct. Katya stole your niece’s information off your father’s computer, which I’m sure included Nicki’s physical address. That’s how Carrie plans to rip our hearts out. She’s going to tell the Russians to go after your niece.”

“But they’re blackmailers. Killing kids isn’t what they do.”

“Normally I’d agree with you, but this situation is different. I shot Bogdan’s little brother, and he’s not going to let that score go unsettled.”

Daniels wiped away her tears. “I’ll call my sister now. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

He got a call and answered it. “Hey, Carlo. Some friends of mine need protection. Are you available?” He placed the phone against his chest. “Give me Melanie’s address.”

Chapter 43

“Do I look okay?” Beth asked.

They were outside the Booty Call, a sleazy strip club in Fort Lauderdale, basking in the lurid pink neon sign that flashed GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! to passing motorists. It was past midnight, the middle of the week, and business was slow, the lot only a third full. A few miles away, Carlo and his men were guarding Melanie and her family.

Beth had dressed down for the occasion, and wore tight-fitting jeans and plenty of makeup. It made her look sexy in a trashy way, not that Lancaster was going to tell her that.

“Perfect for the occasion,” he said. “Is your team in place?”

“They were the last time I checked.”

“Please check again. I don’t want this blowing up in our faces.”

Beth texted her team, and got an immediate response. “All set.”

He offered her a stick of chewing gum, which she declined. “Think of it as part of your disguise,” he said. She smiled, and moments later blew a large bubble.

They entered the club. A woman with enormous cleavage tried to collect the entrance fee. The music was deafening, and he had to shout in her ear.

“I’m here to see Sergey,” he said.

“Nobody here by that name. Ten dollars a head,” the woman said.

“Tell him Jon Lancaster wants to see him.” He faced the security camera in the ceiling, and waved. “Hey, Sergey! I need to talk to you!” To the woman he said, “We go back a long way. Please tell him.”

The woman slid off her stool and moved to the other side of the lobby. She made a call on her cell phone while her back was turned.

Beth leaned into him. “How do you know this guy?”

“He was a snitch that I used a few times.”

“He won’t be suspicious?”

“On the contrary, he should be happy to see me.”

The last time he’d gotten together with Sergey, the diminutive Russian gangster was being squeezed by a pair of drug-dealing Broward County detectives who were forcing his dancers to move cocaine being stolen out of the sheriff’s stockade. Sergey was a seasoned criminal, and knew the score. While these types of arrangements were lucrative on the front end, they often proved deadly, as bad cops were known to put bullets into their partners if things broke bad. Lancaster had worked his magic, and gotten the smuggling operation shut down, forever earning Sergey’s love.

“We’re buds,” he added.

The woman returned. “Sergey says ten minutes. Go have a drink. You still got to pay me.”

“In your dreams,” he said.

Entering the club was like a descent into hell. The pulsating music made his head throb, and the strobe light hurt his eyes. The girls dancing naked on the elevated stage looked strung out, their faces emotionless.

He did a head count while paying for their drinks. Fourteen guys drank at the bar, six more around the club. There was a bouncer built like a linebacker, and two male bartenders. If his memory served him correctly, two of Sergey’s thugs hung out in back, and would enter the club in case of trouble. The magic number of bad guys was five.

He watched the girls doing pole dances while counting his change. Had their parents envisioned this when they’d signed their little darlings up for gymnastics or dance school? Probably not. He found Beth waiting in a booth.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking glasses.

“What kind of wine is this?” she asked.

“It’s a patriotic place. Red, white, and blue wine. I got you red.”

“Thanks. None of the dancers look like the girls that the Sokolov brothers brought to Saint Augustine to work their scam.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“They aren’t showing any Latin Kings tattoos.”

He sipped his beer. When working a case, they complemented each other; the things he missed, Beth picked up on. If the relationship didn’t work out, he supposed they could open a private investigation firm once she grew tired of the FBI’s bullshit. The Donna Summer song ended, and the stage lights began to flash.

“Fire drill?” she asked.

“They’re about to switch dancers. It keeps the customers interested.”

“Do you have a membership?”

If you wanted to solve cases in south Florida, you had to frequent the bars and clubs. The patrons and employees were great sources of information, and could be persuaded to talk for a few drinks, or a generous tip.

“I get around,” he replied.

The new lineup pranced onto the stage, and started bumping and grinding. His eyes locked on the last girl in the line.

“Lissette Diaz just came in. Last girl on the left,” he said.

“I’m not seeing the right tattoo,” Beth said.

“Hold on.”

He went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. While the bartender did the mixing, he edged up to the stage, holding a twenty in his hand. He motioned to the dancer he believed was Lissette. She came over in a flash.

“This is for you,” he said.

“Want to stick it in my G-string?” she asked.

“From behind. I’m an ass man,” he said.

She giggled and spun around. As he slipped the currency into the purple floss separating her cheeks, he got a good close-up of her back. On her right shoulder was the distinct Latin Kings tattoo, covered by a heavy application of makeup. It made sense. A lot of guys hit on dancers in clubs, but no guy would hit on a girl who was part of a gang.

Lissette spun around, blew him a kiss, and pranced away. He paid for the drink and returned to the booth. Beth wore a wry smile.

“Looks like you made a new friend,” she said.

“It’s her,” he said.

The club bouncer approached their booth. No neck, refrigerator body. It was the same thug whose thumb Lancaster had torn up several months ago during an unpleasant encounter. The cast was gone, which was usually a good sign.

“How’s your hand?” he asked.

The bouncer frowned. “I remember you.”

“I’m Jon. This is Beth. Sorry, but I forgot your name.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Don’t be a hater.”

The bouncer motioned for them to follow him. Lancaster found it amusing that Sergey had sent the same thug that he’d roughed up. He guessed that Sergey was trying to teach the guy a lesson, which seemed to be the Russian way of doing things.

Sergey’s office befitted a corporate CEO. Mammoth desk, a large wall covered in HD video monitors, and the newest addition — a portable bar. The little gangster sat in a swivel chair, staring intensely at the monitors.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” he said without turning around. “Andres, make our visitors a drink. What is your pleasure?”

There was a sitting area next to the desk. Beth plopped down on the leather couch and got comfortable. “I could use a scotch, straight up.”

Lancaster sat next to her. “Beer works for me. A cold glass, if you have it.”

Andres’s eyes flared, and he started to say something. His judgment got the better of him, and his angry response stayed buried. Sergey told him to shut the door after the drinks were served. Andres gave them a parting scowl.

Lancaster raised his glass to his lips. A tiny particle dislodged off the bottom and rose to the top, where it fizzled and popped. It could have been nothing, or it could have been a knockout drug. Revenge being a dish best served cold, he placed the glass on the coffee table. Beth did the same with her drink.

“How’s business?” he asked.

“My employees are robbing me blind,” their host replied. “The bartenders steal from the till, the girls take whatever isn’t nailed down. I’d like to shoot all of them, but then I’d have to shut down. Who is your lady friend? What does she do?”

“My name’s Elizabeth, and I’m a dancer,” Beth said.

“Wonderful. Two dancers quit at my other club. When can you start?”

“How about tomorrow night?”

“You have yourself a deal.”

Lancaster had thought the Booty Call was Sergey’s only operation. Perhaps the other members of the Latin Kings were dancing at the second club, instead of here with Lissette. He grabbed his beer and edged up to Sergey’s chair.

“I thought this was your only club,” he said casually. “Did you expand?”

“Yes, and I’m getting ripped off there as well.”

Sergey pointed a remote at the monitors. One by one, the screens changed, showing the interior of the second club. It was smaller, with a horseshoe-shaped stage, and a bar running against the wall. Two Hispanic dancers were bumping and grinding for the sparse crowd. It was all about tips, and their G-strings were hurting for cash. In desperation, one girl got on her knees, and ran her tongue against her partner’s buttocks. Her shoulder turned to the camera, exposing the Latin Kings branding.

“What’s your new club called?” Lancaster asked.

Sergey did not respond. Lancaster waited a beat before looking at his host. The Russian gangster was staring at Beth with a murderous intensity.

“She’s a cop, isn’t she?” he said, seething.

“How could you tell?”

“She doesn’t look like a slut.”

Beth rose, and flashed her credentials. “FBI. Jon tells me you’re a reasonable guy. Play ball with us, and we’ll go light on you. Our interest is with your partners.”

“You come into my club, and threaten me? Big mistake.” Sergey’s hand fell onto the laptop on his desk. His fingers were a blur. “I’m alerting my men.”

“So am I.” Beth sent a text on her cell phone. “You lose. See for yourself.”

Sergey switched monitors back to the Booty Call. The patrons had subdued the bouncers and bartenders, and were handcuffing them. They’d slapped badges onto their shirts, and several were wielding firearms. Sergey’s men were outnumbered three to one.

“Those are your men,” Sergey said.

“Good deduction,” Beth said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“And lose the element of surprise? I wasn’t born last night, asshole. You’re under arrest. Put your hands where I can see them.”

Andres entered the office without knocking. “We are under siege.”

“Go in there and fight them!” Sergey roared.

“I quit,” the bouncer said, and walked out.

Chapter 44

The willingness of a suspect to talk was directly related to the number of charges against them. In Lissette Diaz’s case, this included blackmail, extortion, and prostitution, which combined could land her ten to fifteen years in the big house.

Lissette was led out of the Booty Call with the other dancers, and made to get into a van. She wore a baggy sweatshirt and shorts, her wrists shackled. She looked scared.

“What do you think? Will she talk?” Daniels asked.

They were standing in the parking lot beneath the cloudless night sky. Jon had grabbed a fresh beer from the bar in Sergey’s office, and it was nearly gone. He waited until Lissette was in a van before replying. “It all depends on how we squeeze her.”

“You have something in mind?”

Jon explained his plan. It was sneaky, and just might do the trick.

“I’m in,” she said.

“Let her sit for a few minutes. Then pull her out.”

“Why? To torture her?”

“She’s done time. Let her remember what it’s like not to have your freedom.”

They took her to a swanky gastropub that stayed open late and served pricy pub grub and endless refills of a local brew called Funky Buddha. They let her order off the menu, and she picked the calamari tower and beef sliders appetizers. It was an hour before closing, and the place was quiet. The waiters and waitresses stood at the bar, chatting away.

Their drinks came. Lissette had ordered an IPA with a high alcohol content. Daniels hated the bitter taste of IPAs, and she’d decided that they were popular because they got you drunk quicker. Her phone vibrated. It was Melanie. She excused herself and walked away to take the call.

“Hey! Are you okay?” she asked.

“We’re fine. Carlo handed us off to your team, and they put us in a suite at the Bahia Mar,” Melanie said. “Nicki keeps sneaking outside to the hallway to talk to the agents standing guard.”

“About what?”

“She wants to become an FBI agent. Please tell me you’ll talk her out of it.”

“Do you really think she’ll listen to me?”

“Well, she certainly won’t listen to me.”

“I’ll try. Is that why you called?”

“Always cutting to the chase. No, I called because I wanted to see how your investigation was going. Are we going to be able to go home anytime soon?”

“I sure hope so. I’m interrogating a suspect right now. I’ll call you in the morning, and give you an update.”

“Our father really screwed up, didn’t he?”

Daniels wiped away a tear. “Dad got caught up in a bad situation. I’m not going to blame him for what happened, and neither should you. He was human.”

“Thanks, Beth. Good luck with your interrogation.”

Daniels returned to the table. The food had arrived, the calamari a tower of fried seafood doused in a magic sauce, the sliders sizzling hot. Lissette ate her fill and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I’m twenty-five years old, and I’ve been in jail four times,” she confessed. “You tell me what you want to know, and I’ll give it to you.”

It was a wonderful opening line, but Lissette’s sincerity was in doubt. Taking out her cell phone, Daniels pulled up a video of Sykes giving a taped confession at the FBI’s Jacksonville office. Sykes’s clothes were rumpled, and he sported gray stubble on his chin that clashed with his jet-black hair. She stuck the phone in Lissette’s face.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Daniels said.

Lissette’s playful demeanor evaporated. “You arrested Sykes?”

“I’ll ask the questions. But yes, we did arrest Sykes. And he was smart enough to give us a full confession. You’re in a world of trouble, Lissette.”

Lissette placed her hand against her chest in surprise. “What did I do?”

“You brought those girls from the Latin Kings gang to Saint Augustine for the purpose of blackmailing a bunch of rich old men,” Daniels said. “That’s human trafficking. Each girl you brought will bring you ten years in prison. Add five more years for extortion and prostitution, and you’re looking at over thirty years.”

Daniels had overstated the crimes against Lissette, which was part of the ruse. Lissette brought her napkin to her mouth. She looked ready to puke. “Did Sykes tell you that?” she asked accusingly.

“Yes. He said you were running the operation, ” Daniels said.

“He’s lying.”

“Why would Sykes lie to us? What did he have to gain?”

“Sykes hates me. He fell in love with me, and wants to pay me back.”

“If you weren’t running the operation, then who was?”

“Katya.”

“Who?”

“He didn’t tell you about Katya?”

Daniels shook her head. She looked at Jon, and he also shook his head. This was Jon’s gambit — to pretend they didn’t know about Katya, and make Lissette believe that Sykes had implicated her in crimes she hadn’t committed. Lissette threw her napkin onto her plate and looked ready to explode.

“That fucking prick! He’s trying to destroy me!”

The waitstaff grew quiet, and stared at them. Daniels lowered her voice. “Why don’t you give us your side of things, then?”

“My pleasure,” Lissette said.

Daniels’s cell phone had a special app that let her record conversations. She hit the button and positioned the cell phone so the speaker was pointing at their suspect.

“Start from the beginning,” she said.

“I met Katya while I was in jail,” Lissette said. “The gang I ran with threw me away, and she recruited me.”

“What do you mean, they threw you away?”

“I joined the Latin Kings when I was fifteen. I became one of their girls, and worked as a prostitute. When I turned twenty-four, they cut me loose, along with two other girls. We went out on our own, and got busted. That’s when I met Katya.”

“What was she in jail for?”

“Weed.”

Lissette explained how she and her friends became strippers at the Booty Call, and how after a few months, Katya introduced them to the Sokolov brothers, who talked them into blackmailing a bunch of rich old geezers in Saint Augustine. Her story was identical to the one Sykes had told, leading Daniels to believe it was true.

“Katya ran the show,” Lissette said. “Me and my friends were just...”

“Pawns,” Jon said.

“Yeah — we were pawns. She used us. Story of my life.”

“Okay. So Katya recruited the older men that you and your friends had sex with,” Daniels said. “How did that work?”

“Katya introduced us to these old rich guys at different bars, and we’d take them back to the house, and screw their brains out. Katya was wired, which made it easy.”

“What do you mean, she was wired?”

“Katya had a lover named Martin. I think he was a doctor or something. Martin was a cool guy, and had a bunch of rich friends. Katya used him to get to the friends.”

“Tell us about Martin,” Jon said.

“He was a widower, had a lot of money. Katya said he was lonely.”

“Was Katya in love with him?”

“No. Katya used him. That was how she was. Hardest bitch I’ve ever known.”

The words gave Daniels pause. Her father had been played. It wasn’t a complete surprise; growing up, he’d empty his wallet to beggars with hard-luck stories, then hit up an ATM so he could pay for dinner. He was vulnerable to a fault, which she’d always found endearing, until now.

“Was Martin blackmailed as well?” Jon asked.

“Yes,” Lissette said. “He didn’t want to pay at first, and even went to the police. But eventually he caved and paid up. Katya boasted to us when she got her cut. Said she was going to buy a new car when she got home.”

“How much was her cut?” Jon asked.

“Fifty grand. That was the Sokolovs’ deal. We’d get twenty percent of the money when the geezers paid up.”

Daniels glanced at Jon. He was frowning. They were thinking the same thing. If $50,000 was 20 percent, then the total was $250,000. Yet $1.2 million was missing from her father’s bank account. Where had the rest of it gone?

“Did you know that Martin committed suicide last week as a result of being blackmailed by Katya and the Sokolovs?” Jon asked.

Lissette’s face crashed. It was the kind of emotion you couldn’t fake.

“I didn’t know,” she said.

“These are horrible crimes,” Jon said, boring down on her. “People’s lives are being ruined because you and your friends took advantage of them.”

“I was just a pawn.”

“Prove it.”

Lissette lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “How am I going to do that?”

“We want Katya. Tell us how to find her, and we’ll cut you the sweetest deal you’ve ever seen. If not, you’ll go down for her crimes.”

“That’s not fair.”

Jon rubbed his two fingers together. “That’s the world’s smallest violin. Take it, or leave it.”

Lissette fell silent. As a member of the Latin Kings, she’d been indoctrinated in a code that prohibited her from snitching on another criminal, even if that criminal was her worst enemy. The police were the real enemy, and she wasn’t supposed to help them.

Except the Latin Kings had cut her loose. Had she aged out from being a prostitute? If that was the case, then she owed her former gang nothing. Daniels tried to read her face, but couldn’t tell what she was thinking. A gentle nudge was in order.

“The restaurant’s going to close soon,” Daniels said. “What do you want to do?”

Chapter 45

Lissette sang like a canary. Katya and Bogdan were hiding out in a boat at the Bahia Mar Yachting Center, and they were planning to motor over to the Bahamas in a few days and stay there until the dust settled.

The irony was not lost on Lancaster. Beth had moved Melanie and her family to a suite at the Bahia Mar, thinking they would be safe. Instead, she’d brought Melanie that much closer to the person who wished to harm her daughter.

They took Lissette to the police station on Broward Boulevard and booked her, then drove to the Bahia Mar. During the drive, Beth called the chief of the FBI’s North Miami office, and requested a team. Hanging up, she called her sister.

“We need to move you again,” she said. “I’ll explain when we get there.”

The Bahia Mar was a landmark, known for housing spring breakers and being the fictional home of Fort Lauderdale’s most intrepid sleuth, Travis McGee. Lancaster waited in the car while Beth went inside and brought Melanie and her family downstairs.

From where he sat, he could see the yachting center. It was the size of a small city, and the chances of Bogdan venturing into the hotel and running across Melanie or her family were slim. But it still could happen, and they needed to take every precaution.

“The bad guy is staying in the yachting center?” Nicki said breathlessly. “Can we stay, and watch you arrest him? It would be way cool.”

Nicki was sandwiched between her parents in the back seat. Beth spun around, and gave her a freezing look. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never seen a bust before. I could do a presentation at school, and explain how it went down,” Nicki said.

“Were you planning to take a video on your phone?”

“That’s a great idea. I could shoot it from the hotel balcony, and give a running commentary.”

“This man is armed and dangerous,” Beth said. “You will be nowhere near the yachting center when he’s arrested.”

“Do you think there will be a shootout?”

“That’s enough, young lady,” her mother scolded her.

Lancaster stayed in the car while Beth moved her sister’s family into the Courtyard by Marriott on A1A. He was a fan of Travis McGee, and had read all of the McGee novels with their color-laden titles. While he’d enjoyed them, the stories rarely resembled the real world, where lingering questions remained after a case was solved. Lisette had said that Martin had paid $250,000 to the Sokolov brothers, yet $1.2 million was missing from Martin’s bank accounts. Somehow, nearly $1 million had disappeared, and he had a feeling that they might never learn where it had gone.

Beth got in the car and slammed the door.

“My niece is driving me crazy,” she said. “Let’s go.”

He headed south on A1A. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“Take Nicki to a firing range, and spend an afternoon target shooting.”

“And what will that accomplish?”

“It will humble her. Hitting a target is hard, and most people can’t do it. She’ll fail, and it will bring her down to earth. Then you’ll be able to reason with her.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “That’s not a bad idea. Thank you.”

The team from the FBI’s North Miami office was jammed into the harbormaster’s office in the Bahia Mar Yachting Center when they arrived. There were six agents, four males and two females, with sidearms strapped to their sides. The harbormaster, a bronze-skinned, chain-smoking lady named Camille, had an open log on her desk.

“This is high season. I’ve got two hundred and fifty boats docked here,” Camille said, her face enveloped in a bluish cloud. “You need to do better than the owner’s name if I’m going to find the one you’re looking for.”

“He’s Russian,” Beth said. “Does that help?”

“Do you know how many Russians have boats docked here? Fort Lauderdale is every oligarch’s playground during the winter. Over fifty have Russian ties, and they all use company names to rent slips. I need more information to find this guy.”

Lancaster thought back to their conversation with Lissette. She’d told them that Bogdan’s boat was named after his mistress, and he wondered if they’d misunderstood her. Taking out his cell phone, he typed the words “Russian” and “mistress” into Google. A long list of porn sites came up featuring Russian ladies engaged in female domination, and he scrolled down before finding a site with a literal translation. The word kira meant ruler and mistress in Russian.

“Is there a boat docked here named Kira?” he asked.

Camille ran her finger down a column in the log. “Yes, sir. It’s in slip 142. It’s registered to a company called Kompromat.”

Another search revealed that the word kompromat was defined as damaging information used for blackmail and extortion. Bogdan had a warped sense of humor.

“That’s our guy,” he said.

The yachting center was so large that they needed a map to find Bogdan’s yacht, which Camille drew up for them. Lancaster inquired about the yachts moored to either side of the Kira, and learned that both were owned by Europeans staying in the hotel.

It was four a.m. when they left the harbormaster’s office, and the yachting center was dark. Night arrests were never easy, and Beth marched her team back to the parking lot and had them suit up in body armor, in case Bogdan decided to go out in a blaze of glory.

She offered Lancaster a vest, and he declined.

“It will only slow me down,” he said.

“Put it on, anyway. I don’t want you getting shot on my watch,” she said.

Her voice was stern, and he reminded himself that Beth was in charge. As he suited up, she addressed the team. “Jon’s been here before, so I thought it would be best if he explained what to expect,” she said.

The six agents turned to face him.

“The yacht center is forty acres, and it’s easy to get lost,” he said. “There’s a three-thousand-foot parallel dock, and another five thousand feet of floating docks. Based upon the harbormaster’s map, Bogdan Sokolov’s boat is moored on the parallel dock, which isn’t well lit. I’ll lead the way, if you want.”

The team seemed good with his offer.

Beth said, “You’re on.”

Everyone drew their firearms, and headed down the dock. Over the years he’d experimented with different makes of concealed weapons, and kept coming back to the Glock 26. It could be hidden anywhere on his body, and packed a mean punch.

The dock’s boards groaned beneath their feet. Where was a loud, annoying sea gull when you needed one? Many of the vessels were of the mega variety, with interiors larger than most homes and full-time crews. Living in Fort Lauderdale his entire life, he’d been exposed to the rich and famous, who vacationed here during the winter to escape the cold. He’d never experienced wealth-envy, except when he was around yachts like these. They cost more than a private island, yet from what he’d seen, they were hardly used. He wondered who the owners were trying to impress, or if they just liked squandering their money.

They passed a yacht where an all-night party was underway, complete with waiters in tuxedos serving drinks, and a woman in a white evening gown plucking a harp. The music was soothing, the notes dancing lightly across the water. There was enough light coming from the vessel for him to read the slip’s number.

“We’re getting close,” he said under his breath.

Beth and her team were right behind him.

“Have you ever boarded a boat during a bust?” she asked.

“I once boarded a boat owned by a drug dealer, and nearly got shot,” he said. “My footsteps gave me away. The harbormaster said that the yachts adjacent to the Kira are empty. I suggest we board them, and see if we can spot Bogdan inside his vessel. That way, he won’t be able to blindside us.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They soon reached the Kira. He’d been expecting a yacht with all the amenities, and was disappointed to find an old houseboat. They were a familiar sight on the Intercoastal waterways, and usually filled with partiers. This model was sixteen feet wide and sixty feet long, with a rooftop bar with a canvas top, a flybridge, and twin 90-horsepower Yamaha outboard engines. The windows were dark, with no signs of life.

Beth split her team in two. The agents boarded the adjacent vessels, and used small flashlights to peer into the Kira’s interior. The intrusion of light was greeted by a soft crying sound, which everyone heard.

“Sounds like a dog,” Beth said under her breath.

“Can’t be,” he whispered back.

“People that own boats don’t have guard dogs?”

“Some do, but they take them with them when they go on shore. If they don’t, the dog might jump in the water, and drown.”

The crying grew louder. A word became discernable. Help.

“Where is that coming from?” she asked her team.

One of the agents pointed at an open window in the center of the boat.

“It’s coming from here,” the agent said.

“Can you see what’s inside?”

“No. There’s a sheet over the window.”

“We’re boarding. Cover us,” Beth said.

They hopped over the guardrail onto the flybridge, and cautiously approached a sliding glass door covered by a curtain. The door was locked, and Beth used the butt of her gun to break the glass. She fitted her hand through, and unlocked the door.

“Going in,” she announced.

Jon followed her, and hit the light switch. They were in the galley. The sink was stuffed with dirty dishes, the garbage pail overflowing. The crying had stopped.

Beth walked out of the galley down a hallway. It had doors to either side, and she opened the first one, and flipped on the light. It was a small room with a queen-size bed and a night table. Like the rest of the boat, it had zero personality, the walls without photographs or artwork.

She opened the other doors off the hallway, revealing more bedrooms. The last door was locked, and she put her ear to the wood.

“I hear something. Sounds like a moan,” she said.

“Want me to take the door down?” he asked.

“Be my guest.”

He threw his weight against the door and popped a hinge. The rest was easy, and he removed the door and placed it in the hallway. Beth entered cautiously and turned on the light. The room was empty save for a woman bound to a metal chair. Chains circled her ankles, and were attached to thick concrete blocks. A plastic bag covered her, held down by a bungee cord. Self-preservation is our greatest instinct, and the woman had sucked the bag into her mouth, and gnawed holes into the plastic with her teeth. The holes were tiny, and she was barely breathing.

Lancaster undid the bungee cord and removed the bag. The woman’s hair was matted against her forehead, hiding her face, and he wiped it away. It was Katya. He gave her a gentle slap, and her eyes popped open.

“Remember us?” Beth asked.

Her chest heaved up and down. “You’re Martin’s daughter.”

“That’s right. Did Bogdan do this to you?”

“Yes. He killed the others as well.”

“What others?”

“He shot the Vasileks and the other Russians who were working with them. He apologized before he shot them, said he needed to tie up loose ends.”

“That was nice of him. Where is he?”

Katya clamped her mouth shut. Russian criminals were a strange breed. Their allegiance to their partners was sacrosanct, even when their partners turned on them.

“Why are you holding back? He tried to murder you. He’s not your friend.”

“And neither are you! I want a lawyer.”

A thundercloud passed over Beth’s face. She looked ready to scream, and she looked to Lancaster for help. Beth was bound to a set of rules that he’d abandoned a long time ago.

“Leave us alone,” he said.

Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to charm her into telling me.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, go into the hall, and make sure none of your team comes in here.”

“You can’t lay a hand on her, Jon.”

“No scars?”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Please go into the hall. This won’t take long.”

The battle was always the same. Beth’s conscience wrestling with her heart. This time, her heart won out, and she marched out of the room.

“Last chance. Are you going to tell me where Bogdan is?” he asked.

Katya hissed at him like a snake. “Screw you.”

“Wrong answer.”

He placed the plastic bag over Katya’s head so the punctured side was in back, and secured it around her neck with the bungee cord. When she tried to scream, he put his hand around her throat and squeezed. Her eyes bulged. He bid her goodbye in Russian.

“Dasvidaniya.”

She torqued violently in her chair. Her breathing, at first frantic, began to diminish. He leaned in, and stared at her through the plastic. Their eyes locked.

“Be smart. Save yourself.”

He released his grip on her throat. When no response was forthcoming, he said, “Lissette told us where to find you. She sold you out. She was the smart one.”

Katya looked at him differently through the plastic. Had she and Lissette not gotten along? They were both young and beautiful, and there was every reason to think that jealousy had played a role in their relationship. It was worth a shot. Taking out his cell phone, he pulled up the photograph he’d surreptitiously snapped of Lissette eating dinner a few short hours ago, her chin greasy with food, and showed it to her.

“Lissette cut a deal, and now she’s free. Tell me where Bogdan is, and you’ll walk out of here. Hell, I’ll even buy you dinner. What do you say?”

Katya was hardly breathing. A sound escaped her lips that sounded like yes. He undid the bungee cord and pulled away the bag. She spent a few moments sucking down air.

“Out with it,” he said.

“Bogdan is in the hotel, top floor, room 1801,” she said.

He started to leave. She shrieked indignantly. “Let me go. That was our deal.”

“I lied,” he said.

Chapter 46

The Bahia Mar was an iconic South Florida landmark, which was a nice way of saying that it sorely needed a facelift. Daniels stood at the front desk with the sleepy-eyed night manager, a middle-aged Cuban who’d been napping when she walked in.

“What room is he in?” the night manager asked.

“1801. Last name Sokolov.”

The night manager two-finger typed an ancient computer. “Here we go. Bogdan Sokolov. He’s a regular guest, and has a boat docked in our marina.”

“That’s our man.”

“May I ask why you’re looking for him?”

“No, you may not. Is there any way to know if he’s in his room?”

“There most certainly is.” He typed another command. “Whenever a guest enters their room, it registers on our system. They’re called door counters. We installed them to stop kids here on spring break from holding parties in their rooms. Okay. According to the system, the door to 1801 was opened at 2:37 a.m.”

She checked the time. It was 4:39 a.m. Two hours ago.

“Can you tell me if he was coming, or going?”

“Sure. We can review the surveillance video from the hallway.” He exited the screen and opened up another application. “I’ll bet you a dollar he’s dealing drugs.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I work nights, and see him come in with young girls. They’re always messed up. I assumed he was picking them up in a bar, getting them high, and bringing them here.”

“Did you ever think of reporting him?”

“To who?”

“The police?”

“The police are bad for business. I could get fired if I did that.”

A surveillance video taken in the hallway outside room 1801 appeared on the computer’s screen. It was of poor quality, and she squinted to read the time stamp in the bottom right-hand corner. It was the same time the night manager had said.

The video ran for thirty seconds before Bogdan and a young girl wearing skintight jeans and a halter top appeared. The girl had whiskey legs and was holding on to Bogdan for dear life. He kissed her on the mouth before keying the door. They both went in.

“Let me see that again,” she said.

The night manager replayed the video. As Daniels watched, she created an order of events. Bogdan had tied up Katya and put a plastic bag over her head. Rather than watch her die, he’d left the marina and gone to a bar, where he’d picked up a floozy, fed her drugs, and brought her to his room. Most people who committed murder felt some kind of remorse. Not this animal.

“Thank you,” she said.

Her team stood by the bank of elevators. The elevators were small, and she decided they would take two to the eighteenth floor.

Jon stood off to the side. He understood that he wouldn’t be joining them. He deserved to go — without his help, they wouldn’t have found Bogdan — but having a nonagent on the bust was against bureau rules.

“I’m sorry, but you need to stay here,” she said.

“Maybe I can get a beer at the bar,” he said.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

“At you? Never. I’d just like to see his face when you break down the door.”

“I’ll describe it to you later over a drink.”

She squeezed his arm and went to join her team. There were three agents in each of the two elevators. She got on with the team that had the battering ram. The door slid shut and the car ascended, the cables creaking as they rose.

“This elevator is older than me,” an agent with gray hair quipped.

The cars arrived simultaneously on the eighteenth floor. The first team checked out the hallway, and confirmed that it was empty. Daniels motioned for the agent with the battering ram to take down the door. Suddenly, a man in pajamas holding an ice bucket emerged from a room. His eyes went wide.

“FBI,” Daniels said. “Make yourself scarce.”

The man returned to his room and silently shut the door.

“Do it,” she said.

The door to Bogdan’s room was of the same vintage as the elevator, and imploded from a single hit. They entered with their weapons drawn. The room was a studio with a balcony that faced the ocean. Bogdan and his lady lay naked on the bed, smoking a joint.

“You’re under arrest,” Daniels said.

Bogdan crushed the joint into an ashtray before getting out of the bed. His body was a carnival of tattoos, and it was hard to tell where they ended, and his actual flesh began. He lifted his arms into the air to show that he didn’t have a gun. There was one hidden somewhere in the room; Daniels could feel it in her gut.

“Freeze!” she said.

Bogdan shuffled backward. He said something in Russian, pretending that he didn’t understand English. His lady friend pulled the sheet up over her head.

“Stop moving.”

Bogdan ignored her, and kept retreating. There was a hideous scorpion tattoo over where his heart was. Daniels aimed at it.

“Is this how you want to go out?”

More Russian came out of his mouth.

“I know you speak English,” she said. “Clasp your hands behind your head, and get on your knees. So help me God, do it!”

Bogdan stopped moving. He smiled, unafraid.

“Would you really shoot an unarmed man?” he asked in perfect English.

“I have before,” she replied.

His smile vanished. “Then why don’t you do it?”

“Because that’s not what I’m planning to do. We have enough evidence to put you away for a long time. I’ve already got your prison picked out.”

The cocky expression left his face. “Where is that?”

“It’s a supermax prison in the Rocky Mountains called ADX Florence. Twenty-three hours a day in a sound-proof cell. No phone, no TV. You’ll go crazy in no time.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” he snarled.

“Nothing would make me happier.”

“Well, I am sorry to disappoint you.”

Before she could reply, Bogdan turned around, and walked onto the balcony. It was a still night, and no one had realized that the slider was open. Reaching the guardrail, he put his hands over his head as if preparing to dive, and pitched himself over. Daniels got there just in time to see the impact.

Rot in hell, she thought.

Chapter 47

They stayed up all night searching the Kira for evidence. The Sokolovs had blackmailed scores of elderly men, and Lancaster knew that a notebook or digital device with records of the money they’d extorted from their victims had to exist. But as hard as they looked, Beth and her team couldn’t find it.

“God damn it,” she swore. “Their records must be somewhere.”

Lancaster stood on the dock. He’d abstained from the search for the same reason he hadn’t helped with the bust. Bureau rules.

“You need to take a break,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped.

“But I have coffee.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

She joined him on the dock, and he handed her a steaming cup of coffee he’d bought from a vending machine next to the harbormaster’s office. She sipped it, said, “That tastes awful,” and downed the rest. Her shoulders were sagging from an invisible weight, and he wondered if she’d hurt herself, then realized it was exhaustion.

“I’m going to find those records if it kills me,” she said.

The investigation was over, only it wasn’t over. Nearly $1 million from Martin’s bank account was still unaccounted for. Like a jigsaw puzzle with a hole, the final piece needed to be found before the puzzle could be put in its box and stored away.

“You need some sleep. Come on, Beth. Take a break.”

“Not on your life,” she said.

There was no better sunrise than the one Lancaster saw that morning. It broke the ocean’s surface with the fury of a newborn planet, the night sky and all its stars vanishing in the blink of an eye. Beth and her team were still hunting for the Sokolovs’ bank records, their voices carrying from different parts of the houseboat. He had stayed up because that was what men in love did, no matter how futile the search may be.

He would have bet good money the records weren’t on the boat. He didn’t know why he knew this, but he did. The money was safely tucked away in an offshore bank account, or a safe deposit box, and would probably get moldy before it was discovered.

Beth appeared on the flybridge, looking as good as a person could look when they hadn’t slept. She jumped onto the dock, holding her cell phone.

“You can’t be serious.” Beth had different tones of voice. This was her Melanie tone, used exclusively when talking to her sister. “Did you tell her no?”

He smelled roasting coffee. A roach coach had appeared next to the harbormaster’s office. He was their very first customer of the day.

When he returned, Beth was still on with Melanie. He shredded the paper bag and handed her a coffee and a fresh Danish. She covered the mouthpiece.

“I need real food. Where are you taking me for breakfast?”

“Now you’re talking,” he said.

They walked up the street to the Casablanca Café. Over the years, different immigrants had run the place, first Cubans, then Venezuelans, and now Brazilians, who were some of the friendliest people he’d ever encountered, their smiles wide and genuine. They sat at a sidewalk table with an umbrella, and ate omelets while watching the dog walkers stroll by. The food had the desired effect, and calmed Beth down.

“Let me guess. Nicki is up to her old tricks,” he said.

“I’ve created a monster,” she said.

“What did she do this time?”

“I called Melanie and told her that Bogdan was no longer a threat, so she and Nolan checked out of their hotel and went home. During the drive, Nicki asked my sister if we’d figured out where her grandfather’s missing money had gone.”

“Why did you tell her about that?”

“I didn’t, and neither did my sister. We’re guessing she must have overheard one of our conversations, and surmised the rest. The kid is sharp.”

“It’s genetic. So what did Melanie tell her?”

“Melanie told her the truth, which is how she and Nolan are. So Nicki says, ‘I bet I can figure out where the money went.’ So of course my sister exploded.”

“Why did she explode? We could use some help.”

Beth’s fork hit the plate. “What are you saying? That we should enlist Nicki’s aid again? If you don’t mind, I’d rather that Nicki forget about this.”

An aging Labrador sauntered past, sniffing the ground for food. He’d had a Lab as a kid, and had a soft spot for the breed, so he slipped the pooch a hash brown.

“That’s not going to happen, and you know it,” he said. “Your niece likes to solve problems; that’s why she’s drawn to CSI work. Telling her no will only make her want to do it more. Why don’t you let her loose, and see what she finds?”

If looks could kill, he would have been pushing up daisies.

“I don’t think so,” Beth said through clenched teeth.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“That would be an understatement.”

“Will you tell me what?”

“Figure it out.”

He picked at his food. Was Beth afraid that Nicki would find the money trail, and make her look bad in the process? Beth wasn’t petty, and would have welcomed bringing the case to a close. No, there was something lurking beneath the surface that he wasn’t seeing, and after a long, reflective moment, he realized what it was.

Beth was afraid of the unknown. If Nicki found the lost money, it might very well lead to another awful truth about Martin. Perhaps Martin had a harem of women he was supporting, or he’d gotten involved in another illegal activity. As adults, that kind of information was hard to take; for a teenager, it could be devastating. Better if Beth were to find where the money went, and come up with a story that she could tell her niece.

“I get it,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“So what do I do?” she said.

“Tell Nicki that tracing bank records is off limits, and could land her in serious hot water, like getting expelled from school. She doesn’t want that on her record, does she?”

“I like it. Can tracing bank records really land her in trouble?”

“I have no idea. But if you say it firmly enough, she’ll believe you.”

Beth got a call from her sister, and decided to take it on the sidewalk across the street, where there would be less chance of being overheard. Lancaster cleaned his plate, and accepted the waitress’s offer of a refill on his coffee. His own cell phone started to make noise, and he glanced at its screen.

His newsfeed had sent him a breaking story. Reading it, his heart sank. A cop in north Florida had taken his own life. It was a sickening trend. More cops died by their own hand than in the line of duty. Exposure to trauma, accidents, and shootings led to mental health issues, which went unnoticed until it was too late. He’d lost several buddies this way, and always kicked himself for not being more aware of their anguish.

The story didn’t offer many details, and left out the officer’s name until next of kin were notified. He did a search, and found a more thorough report on a site called Patch. The officer was a thirty-year veteran who’d recently been suspended. Yesterday, the officer had posted a note on Facebook, and apologized to all his friends for the pain he’d caused them. Sometime after that, he doused the walls of his living room with gasoline, and set the place on fire. He parked himself in a recliner, and put a gun to his temple. With his home engulfed in flames, he ended his life.

It was how most cops checked out. With a gun.

The reporter had posted a video showing the smoldering remains of the house. It had been burned to the ground, with only the stone fireplace remaining.

The officer’s car sat in the driveway. It had managed to escape the inferno, and was all that was left. It looked eerily familiar, and he called his friend at the Department of Motor Vehicles and did a quick check on the license plate.

Beth crossed the street and returned to the table. She took a hard look at him.

“You don’t look well. What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Sykes committed suicide last night,” he said.

Chapter 48

“If Detective Sykes was such a terrible person, why wasn’t he kept locked up?” Nicki asked that evening at the dining room table in her parents’ home. “A guy like that shouldn’t be walking around, should he?”

“He was in jail, but he made bail,” Jon explained.

“Shouldn’t the police have kept him in jail? He broke a lot of laws, didn’t he?”

“Unfortunately, that’s not how the system works,” Jon said. “In the eyes of the law, a person is innocent until proven guilty. Unless the crimes the person committed are heinous, most judges will allow a suspect to stay out of jail until trial.”

“Even really bad people?”

“Yes, even bad people.”

“I think the judge made a mistake,” Nicki said.

Daniels wiped her mouth with a napkin. The dinner had been delicious, her sister’s culinary skills on full display. She didn’t often feel jealous of Melanie, but this was one of those special times. Facing her niece, she said, “The judge set a very high bail. Sykes was able to pay it, so he was released.”

Melanie served them dessert. Homemade crème brûlée.

“Do many people kill themselves after they pay bail?” Nicki asked.

They hadn’t discussed the case over dinner, but instead had talked about Nolan’s medical practice, and Melanie’s volunteer work at the Shriners Hospital. The past two weeks had been rough, and it was time for the family to put things behind them.

“Some people do,” Daniels said. “The director of the FBI’s Jacksonville office told me that Sykes lost his daughter, and that he suffered from depression.”

“Is that why he did it?” Nicki asked.

“That’s what everyone I’ve spoken to thinks.”

“But you can’t be sure.”

“You can never be one hundred percent sure. But it’s a good assumption.”

Daniels ate her dessert, hoping it would end the conversation.

“How much was the bail he had to pay?” Nicki asked.

Melanie and Nolan gave their daughter reprimanding looks. Nicki ignored them, and focused her attention on her aunt. She was like a dog with a bone, and wouldn’t let go of something until her curiosity was satisfied. Jon stepped in.

“Why is that important?” he asked.

“You said his bail was high,” Nicki said. “From what I’ve read about police work, it doesn’t pay very well, and many policemen struggle financially. I was just wondering where he would have gotten the money to pay it.”

Jon glanced across the table at her. The expression on his face said that Nicki had a valid point. Where had Sykes gotten the money to pay bail, and walk out of jail?

“His bail was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Daniels said.

“Wow. That’s a lot of money. I wonder where it came from.”

The dining room fell silent. Jon shrugged as if to say, Who the hell knows? It was yet another question that would probably go unanswered. Nicki spooned dessert into her mouth and emitted a happy noise.

“This is really good, Mom,” she said.

Jon’s ocean-facing apartment in downtown Fort Lauderdale was above most retired cops’ pay grades. The building was new, and had plenty of modern conveniences, including a state-of-the-art security system and an emergency generator capable of keeping the place running for several days in case of a hurricane.

Jon’s unit had two spacious bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen, and a balcony with an unobstructed view of the Atlantic. Hollywood had paid Jon big bucks for his life story, and he’d bought into the building while it was still under construction.

Everyone who lived in the building knew Jon, and they often leaned on him when there was a problem. As they waited for an elevator to arrive, an elderly man wearing tennis shorts and a floppy hat hurried over to them.

“Jon — just the man I was looking for. Got a minute?”

Marty was a transplanted New Yorker who ran off a different clock. For him, a minute was more like twenty, with Marty doing most of the talking.

“Sure, Marty. What’s up?” Jon said.

“That whack-a-noodle on the moped was riding around on the property last night. He came right up behind my wife, and scared the daylights out of her.”

“Did you call security?”

“By the time I did, he was gone. The guy’s a menace.”

The elevator had arrived. “I’ll be up in a few,” Jon said.

Daniels went up, and let herself in with the spare key. She poured herself a glass of white wine, and went onto the balcony with her laptop. Nicki’s comments about Sykes’s high bail had gotten the wheels turning. Was Sykes’s $350,000 bail part of her father’s missing money? If so, then Sykes wasn’t a victim like he’d so adamantly claimed.

The FBI’s Jacksonville office had sent her the crime scene report, and she decided to start there. Sykes’s neighbor had smelled smoke and come outside to see the flames, so he’d called 911. By the time the fire trucks arrived, Sykes’s house and its contents were destroyed. The firemen had later discovered Sykes’s body beneath the rubble. The local pathologist had done an autopsy, and said that Sykes had died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The pathologist had ID’d the body using dental records.

The local cops had questioned the neighbor, who was the only witness. His name was Kyle Benn, and he was a retired postal worker, and a widower. Benn was part of the neighborhood watch group, and had told the police that he liked to sleep with his windows open, just in case there was a burglar canvassing his property.

Daniels immediately saw a discrepancy. Benn was a busybody, who knew his neighbors’ business. So why hadn’t he heard Sykes’s gun discharge? Had his TV drowned out the sound? Or were their houses far apart, and the sound hadn’t carried?

Those were two logical explanations. But was either correct?

She continued reading. Benn had given the police a chronology of his evening. Dinner at seven, walk the dog at eight, then read a book. That ruled out the blaring TV.

Benn’s address was in the report. She googled it, and a photo taken from the street outside the house appeared. Benn lived in a modest ranch with a carport. His neighbors to either side were very close by.

She reread the pathologist’s report. There was no doubt that the body was Sykes, and that he’d shot himself in the head. So why hadn’t Benn heard the gunshot?

She got a call from Jon and answered it.

“I was just starting to worry about you,” she said.

“The guy with the moped showed up,” he explained. “Marty and I went outside to talk with him, and he bolted. We ran him down, and now we’re waiting for the cops.”

“Is he a threat?”

“I found a stun gun in his backpack. He might be a neighborhood vigilante, or he could be a stalker. I’m going to let the police deal with him.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, I think he’s a threat. He jumped at Marty like he wanted to kill him. As we used to say in the navy, he needs to be neutralized.”

Jon never ran away from a fight. It was one of his more endearing qualities.

“I’ve been on my laptop, reading the police report of Sykes’s suicide,” she said. “Something isn’t adding up. I want you to take a look at it later.”

“Will do. A cruiser just pulled in. I’ll be upstairs as soon as I can.”

She disconnected. Sykes’s address was also in the police report. On a hunch, she googled it, and a photo appeared on her screen. A typical ranch house on a small plot of land. The landscaping was immaculate, the shrubs neatly trimmed, and several mature oak trees in the yard afforded the dwelling plenty of shade. She went on Zillow and got an estimate of the house’s worth in today’s market, which was $200,000.

She poured another glass of wine and parked herself on the living room couch. Sykes appeared to live within his means, so how had he made bail? There was a chance he’d inherited money, but in her experience, financial windfalls usually led to upgrades, like new houses or major renovations. That wasn’t the case here.

She sipped her wine. It wasn’t adding up. She needed a fresh set of eyes to look at these reports.

Come on, Jon. Get your ass upstairs.

Chapter 49

Moped Man did not go quietly.

He had an outstanding warrant in Miami for indecent exposure and attempted rape, and the cops had to subdue him while reading him his rights. As their cruiser disappeared into the night, Marty examined the bike, which was in bad shape.

“Think I should throw it away?” his neighbor asked.

“I think you should pull the VIN number, and see if it’s stolen,” Lancaster said.

“But it’s a piece of junk. The owner can’t be missing it.”

“The owner might be poor, and depend on this bike to get to work. If I’m right, you’ll make the guy’s day by returning it.”

Marty patted him good-naturedly on the shoulder. “That’s what I like about you, Jon. You’re always looking out for the little guy.”

His neighbor said goodnight and walked the bike into the building. Lancaster was about to follow when he got a text from Nicki, asking if he could talk. He suspected she meant without Beth being present, and he answered her with a simple yes. A moment later his phone rang, and he went into the lobby to answer it.

“Hey, there,” he said. “Isn’t this a school night?”

“I know, I should be doing my homework, but I needed to tell you something,” the teenager said. “Please don’t tell my aunt that I called you.”

“You’re putting me in a bad spot, Nicki. I don’t keep secrets from Beth. I’m going to give you a pass this time, but in the future, this has to stop. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes, it’s a promise.”

“Okay, now tell me what’s on your mind.”

“No one knows where my grandfather’s money disappeared to. Well, I think that there are people who know, and that you and Aunt Beth never talked to them.”

Her words stung. He tried to leave no stone unturned when working a case. Beth was equally thorough, and ignored little. Now Nicki was suggesting that they’d missed something important. It happened to the best investigators, and he swallowed his pride and said, “Who’s that?”

“The other men that got dead hands put on their doorsteps,” Nicki declared. “They were also being extorted, and were friends of my grandfather. They know.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because my grandfather would have told one of them.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. For my twelfth birthday, my grandfather gave me a copy of The Three Musketeers. On the title page he wrote an inscription that said, ‘One for all, and all for one. Never forget that, Nicki!’ He told me that a person could live by those words, and lead a meaningful life. My grandfather was loyal to his friends. They know.”

Nicki was right; Martin’s buddies probably knew where the missing money had disappeared to. But that didn’t necessarily mean they wanted to talk about it. Martin was dead, and so were the Sokolov brothers, and so was Sykes. The whole stinking mess was over, and he felt certain that Martin’s friends wanted to put it behind them.

“It’s worth a shot,” he said, not wanting to tell Nicki his true feelings.

“I emailed you their names a few days ago,” she said.

“I’m sure I still have it,” he said.

“I’ll resend the email. You need to talk to them.”

His cell phone vibrated as he entered his apartment. Nicki’s email had arrived. He opened it, and had a quick look at the names, then put his cell phone away.

He smothered a yawn. He hadn’t slept in days, and his body felt ready to quit. He’d promised Beth that he’d take a look at Sykes’s police report, and hoped he could keep his eyes open long enough to give it a careful read.

“Beth? Where are you hiding?”

“In the living room, having a glass of wine,” she replied.

He poured himself a cold beer. He once read an interview with a famous mystery writer who said that if he ever ended a novel with his protagonist entering his house and saying, ‘Honey, I’m home,’ the character would be retired. That was a shame, because coming home to Beth was a more pleasant experience than entering an empty apartment. He found her resting on the couch, her laptop lying on her stomach.

As he sat, her eyelids fluttered.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“The guy on the moped was wanted. He’s spending the night in jail. How about you?”

“The police report of Sykes’s death doesn’t pass the smell test. Look at it.”

He took her laptop and tapped a key. The screen saver vanished, and a police report took over. “What am I looking for?”

She answered him with a snore. He put his beer and the laptop aside, and lifted her legs so she was horizontal. She mumbled thanks without opening her eyes.

He moved to the balcony. If you lived in Florida long enough, anything below seventy degrees felt chilly, and he shivered as he drank his beer and stared at the ocean. Before he bought this place, the real estate agent had shown him the floor plan, and he’d realized that this unit would never have a building erected in front of it. The view was his, and his alone.

He slogged through the police report. Not many cops had taken creative writing classes, and the writing was as dull as dirt. Something about the report had bothered Beth, and he wondered what it was. Perhaps it was the nosy neighbor not hearing the gunshot. That was a red flag, but the neighbor was elderly, and might very well have been hard of hearing. He decided to wait until morning to ask her.

At the report’s end was Sykes’s autopsy. Sykes had ended his life with a gun, which wasn’t surprising. In his experience, most cops chose this route, probably because they’d been around firearms, and knew that it was quick and painless.

At the bottom of the page, the pathologist had signed off. The handwriting was doctor typical, and impossible to decipher. Beneath the signature line, the pathologist’s name was printed in block letters, and he stared at it.

Dr. Peter Matoff.

The name rang a bell. Pulling out his cell phone, he opened up Nicki’s email, and looked at the names in the list of men in Saint Augustine who’d been blackmailed by the Sokolov brothers. The last name caught his eye.

Peter Matoff.

It was an unusual last name, and he didn’t think there was more than one Peter Matoff living in Saint Augustine. Just to be certain, he did a search on Google, and was proven correct by a site called WhitePages. There were nineteen Peter Matoffs living in the United States. Only one lived in Saint Augustine. The man who’d done the autopsy on Sykes was also one of the blackmail victims.

That was a problem. There were sixty-seven different counties in Florida, and each county had its own autopsy protocol. While he didn’t know the exact procedures in Saint Augustine, he felt certain that Matoff wouldn’t conduct an autopsy on a policeman involved in a case where he was a victim.

He stared into the darkness, thinking hard. Sykes had killed himself at home, so the sheriff would have told Matoff that it was Sykes, and not a John Doe. To avoid a conflict, Matoff should have asked for another pathologist to conduct the autopsy.

But Matoff hadn’t done that, and had performed the autopsy himself.

Why?

He went into the kitchen to get another beer. Beth was on the couch, having a bad dream and talking to herself. Upon returning to the living room, he knelt down beside her and whispered in her ear. She stopped twisting and turning, and fell into a deep sleep.

Her handbag lay on the floor. Tucked in a side pocket was Martin’s autopsy report, which Sykes had given to Beth during their visit to his office. Normally, these reports were emailed, which allowed them to be distributed to other people to read. But Sykes had chosen to give Beth a hard copy. It hadn’t felt strange at the time, but it did now.

He returned to the balcony and read Martin Daniels’s autopsy report. Beth had used a yellow magic marker to highlight the gun that Martin had used to kill himself. It was a vintage WWII handgun, which had never made any sense.

He came to the bottom of the report. The pathologist’s name was scribbled and impossible to read. But it was instantly familiar, as was the name printed beneath it.

Dr. Peter Matoff.