Undercover Connection

He didn’t give. She was suddenly tackled again, down on the ground, feeling the full power of the man’s strength atop her. She stared up into his blue eyes, glistening like ice at the moment.

She realized the crowd was gone; she could hear the bustle at the doorway, hear the police as they poured in at the entrance.

But right there, at that moment, Josef Smirnoff lay dead in an ungodly pool of blood—blood she wore—just feet away.

And there was this man.

And herself.

“Hey!” Thank God, Jorge had found her. He dived down beside them, as if joining the fight. But he didn’t help Jasmine; he made no move against the man. He lay next to her, as if he’d just also been taken down himself.

“Stop! FBI, meet MDPD. Jasmine, he’s undercover. Jacob... Jasmine is a cop. My partner,” Jorge whispered urgently.

The man couldn’t have looked more surprised. Then, he made a play of socking Jorge, and Jorge lay still. The man stood and dragged Jasmine to her feet. For a long moment he looked into her eyes, and then he wrenched her elbow behind her back.

“Play it out,” he said, “nothing else to do.”

“Sure,” Jasmine told him.

And as he led her out—toward Victor Kozak, who now stood in the front, ready to take charge, Jasmine managed to twist and deliver a hard right to his jaw.

He stared at her, rubbing his jaw with his free hand.

“Play it out,” she said softly.

The Feds always thought they knew more than the locals, whether they were team people or not. He’d probably be furious. He’d want to call the shots.

But at least his presence meant that the Feds had been aware of this place. They had listened to the police, and they had sent someone in. It was probably what Jorge had been trying to tell her.

Jacob was still staring at her. Well, she did have a damned good right hook.

To her surprise, he almost seemed to smile. “Play it out,” he said. And to her continued surprise, he added, “You are one hell of a player!”

Chapter Two

“Someone knew,” Jorge said. “Someone knew that Smirnoff came in—that he was selling them all out.”

“Maybe,” Jacob Wolff said. He was sitting on the sofa in Jasmine’s South Beach apartment.

She didn’t know why, but it bothered her that he was there. So comfortable. So thoughtful. But it hadn’t been until now, with him in her apartment, that she really understood what was going on.

Two weeks ago, Josef Smirnoff had made contact with Dean Jenkins, a special agent assigned to the Miami office. Jenkins had gone to his superiors, and from there, Jacob Wolff had been called in. Among his other talents, he was a linguist, speaking Russian, Ukrainian, Spanish, Portuguese and French, including Cajun and Haitian Creole. He also knew a smattering of Czech and Polish. And German, enough to get by.

Maybe that’s why she was resenting him. No one should be that accomplished.

No, it was simply because he had taken her by surprise.

“Maybe someone knew,” Wolff said. He added, “And maybe not.”

“If not, why—?” Jorge asked.

Wolff leaned forward. “Because,” he said softly, “I believe that Kozak set up that hit. Not because he knew about anything that Smirnoff had done, but because he’s been planning on taking over. Perhaps for some time.

“Smirnoff came in to us because he was afraid—he’d been the boss forever, but he knew how that could end if a power play went down. He was afraid. He wanted out. Kozak was the one who wanted Smirnoff out. And he figured out how to do it—and make it look as if he was as pure as the driven snow in the whole thing himself. He was visible to dozens of people when Smirnoff was killed. He played his cards right. There were plenty of cops there today, in uniform. What better time to plan an execution, when he wouldn’t look the least guilty? In this crime ring, he was definitely the next man up—vice president, if you will.”

“The thing is, if Kozak figures out something is up, we’re all in grave danger,” Jorge pointed out. “Undercover may not work.”

“Jorge, undercover work is the only thing that might bring them down,” Jasmine protested.

She was leaning against the archway between the living-dining area of the apartment and the kitchen. It was late; she was tired. But it had been the first chance for the three of them to talk.

After the chaos, everyone had been interviewed by the police. Stars—the glittering rich and famous and especially the almost-famous—had done endless interviews with the press, as well. Thankfully, there had been plenty of celebrities to garner attention. Jasmine, Jorge and Jacob Wolff had all managed to avoid being seen on television, but still, maintaining their cover had meant they were there for hours.

She’d been desperate to shower, and her blood-soaked gown had gone to the evidence locker.

In the end, they’d been seen leaving together, but that had been all right. Everyone knew that Jorge was Jasmine’s friend—she’d brought him into the show, after all.

And as for Jacob Wolff...

“You shouldn’t have made that show of going off with us in front of Victor Kozak,” she said, glaring at Wolff. She realized her tone was harsh. Too harsh. But this was her apartment—or, at least, her cover persona’s apartment—and she felt like a cat on a hot tin roof while he relaxed comfortably on her rented couch.

She needed to take a deep breath; start over with the agent.

He didn’t look her way, just shrugged. “I told Ivan, the bartender, I wanted to get to know you. They believe I’m an important player out of New York. Right now, they’re observing me. And they believe if they respect me, I’ll respect them, play by their rules. I’m supposed to be a money launderer—I’m not into many of their criminal activities, including prostitution or any form of modern slavery. My cover is that of an art dealer with dozens of foreign ties.

“Before all this went down tonight, I was trying to befriend Ivan, who apparently manages the girls. I’m trying to figure out how the women are entangled in their web. Apparently, they move slowly. Most probably, with drugs. Before all this went down tonight, I’d asked about you, Jasmine, as if taking advantage of the ‘friendship’ they’ll offer me. He said you weren’t available yet, but that all good things come in time, or something to that effect. He’ll think I took advantage of the situation instead—and that I’m offering you all the comfort a man in my position can offer.”

“Really?” Jasmine asked. “But I was with Jorge.”

Wolff finally looked at her, waving a hand in the air. “Yes, and they all know you two are friends, and that it’s normal you would have left with Jorge. But Jorge is gay.”

“That’s what you told them?” Jasmine asked.

“I am gay,” Jorge said, shrugging.

Jasmine turned to him. “You are? You never told me.”

“You never asked. Hey, we’re great partners. I never asked who you were dating. Oh, wait, you never do seem to date.”

Jasmine could have kicked him. “Hey!” she protested. Great. She felt like an idiot. She and Jorge were close, but...it was true. They’d been working together for a while, they were friends. Just friends. And because of that, she hadn’t thought to ask—

It didn’t matter. They’d both tacitly known from the beginning as partners they’d never date each other, and neither had ever thought to ask the other about their love life.

She had to draw some dignity out of this situation.

“At least we did the expected,” she said. “I guarantee we were watched. Oh, and by the way, Ivan Petrov controls the venue. But Natasha really runs the models. She gives the assignments, and she’s the one who hands out the paychecks.”

Wolff looked at her. “You’re going to have to be very careful. From all that I’ve been told, she’s been with this enterprise from the beginning. She may be almost as powerful as Kozak himself. When Natasha got into it, she wasn’t manipulated into sex work. She used sex as an investment. She came into it as a model, slept with whomever they wanted—and worked her way up to Kozak.”

“I am careful,” Jasmine told him. “I’m a good cop—determined, but not suicidal.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So, this is all as good as it can be,” Wolff said, shaking his head. “What matters most here tonight is that we’ve lost Smirnoff, our informant. And we’ve still got to somehow get into this and take them all down. We have to take Kozak down, with all the budding lieutenants, too. My position with this group is pretty solid—the Bureau does an amazing job when it comes to inventing a history. But the fashion show is over. The opening is over. The club will be closed down for a few days.”

“I’ll have an in, don’t worry. The last words from Natasha this evening had to do with us all reporting in tomorrow—for one, to return the clothing. For another, to find out where we go from here.” Jasmine hesitated.

“They haven’t asked you to entertain anyone yet?” Wolff asked.

“New girls get a chance to believe they’re just models. After that, they’re asked to escort at certain times, and, of course, from there...”

“We’ll have this wrapped up before then,” Jorge assured her.

“And if not, you’ll just get the hell out of it,” Wolff said.

“You don’t have to be protective. I’ve been with the Special Investigations Division for three years now, and I’ve dealt with some pretty heinous people,” Jasmine told him.

“I’ve dealt with them, too,” Wolff said quietly. “And I spent this afternoon up in the Everglades, a plot of godforsaken swamp with a bunch of oil drums filled with bodies. And I’ve been FBI for almost a decade. That didn’t make today any better.”

“I’m not saying anything makes it better. I’m just saying I can take care of myself,” Jasmine said.

She really hadn’t meant to be argumentative. But she did know what she was doing, and throughout her career, she’d learned it was usually the people who felt the need to emphasize their competency who were the ones who weren’t so sure of their competency after all. She was confident in her abilities—or, at least she had thought she was.

With this Fed, she was becoming defensive. She hated the feeling.

“Guys, guys! Time-out,” Jorge said.

Wolff stood, apparently all but dismissing her. “I’m heading back to my place. Most days, I’ll be hanging around a real art shop that’s supposedly mine. Dolphin Galleries.”

He handed Jorge a card, then turned to look at Jasmine. “Feel free to watch out for me. In my mind, no one cop can beat everything out there. We all need people watching our backs. I’m more than happy to know I have MDPD in deep with me.”

His words didn’t help in the least; Jasmine still felt like a chastised toddler. What made it worse was the fact he was right. They did need to look out for one another.

She wanted to apologize. They had met awkwardly. She wasn’t brash, she wasn’t an idiot—she was a team player. But despite his words, she had the sense that he was already doubting her.

“I’ll be hanging as close as I can,” he said. “The woman managing the shop, Katrina Partridge, is with us. If you need me and I’m not there, just ask her. I trust her with my life.”

He didn’t look back. If he had done so, Jasmine was certain, it would have been to look at Jorge with pity for having been paired with her.

When Jacob was gone, she strode to the door and slid the bolts. She had three.

“Jerk!” she said. She turned back into the room and flounced down on the sofa.

“Not really. Just bad circumstances,” Jorge said, taking a seat beside her. “I, uh, actually like the guy.”

She looked at him. “I don’t dislike him. I don’t really know him.”

“Could have fooled me.”

She ignored that. “Jorge, how did it happen? We were all there. The place was spilling over with cops. And someone shot and killed Smirnoff—with all of us there—and we don’t know who or how.”

“They were counting on the place being filled with cops, Jasmine. Detectives will be on the case and our crime scene techs will find a trajectory for the bullet that killed him. We do our part, they do theirs. Thing is, whoever killed him, they were just the working part of the bigger machine. We have to get to the major players—Kozak, whoever else. Not that the man or woman who was pulling the trigger shouldn’t serve life, but...it won’t matter.”

“No, it won’t matter,” she agreed. What they needed to do was find Mary. She nodded.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “You’re just thrown. We weren’t expecting to take them all down tonight.”

“We weren’t expecting Smirnoff to get killed tonight. I—I didn’t even know he’d gone to the FBI!”

“I knew but couldn’t tell you. And I didn’t know that Smirnoff would be killed before I had a chance to loop you in. I’m sorry—I put you and Wolff both in a bad position. At least you didn’t shoot each other. You know you’re resenting him because he had you down.”

“He did not have me down.”

“Almost had you down.”

“I almost had him down.”

“Ouch. Take a breath,” Jorge warned.

She did, and she shook her head. “I worked with a Fed once.”

“And he was okay, right? Come on, we’re all going in the same direction.”

“He was great. Old dude—kept telling me he had a granddaughter my age. Made me feel like I should have been in bed by ten,” Jasmine said and smiled.

Jorge arched his brow at her.

“Okay, okay,” she said. “I resent the fact he almost had me down. But really, I almost had him, too.” She squeezed his hand in return. “How come we never have discussed our love lives and this stranger knew more about you than I did?”

“’Cause neither of us cares what our preferences are, and we work well together—and we enjoy what we’re doing. And Wolff for sure had all of us checked out before agreeing to work with us. He’d need to know our backgrounds and that we’re clean cops. Also, you’re a workaholic and even when we’re grabbing quick food or popping into a bookstore, we’re still working.”

“Not really,” she told him. “Honestly, not until this operation.”

He nodded. “Mary,” he said softly.

“Jorge, I’m so afraid she’s dead.” She paused. “Even more now. Do you have any details about the oil drums they found today? All I’ve seen is what has been on the news. Captain Lorenzo was even with the cops doing the interviews at the show, but I didn’t get to ask him anything. Obviously, I did my best to be a near hysterical model.”

“You were terrific.”

She laughed. “So were you.” Jasmine tried to smile, but she was searching out his eyes.

“Mary wasn’t in one of the oil drums,” he said.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. The bodies discovered were all men.”

“Oh, thank God. I mean... I’m not glad that anyone was dead, but—”

“It’s all right,” Jorge assured her. “I understand. So, tomorrow will be tense. I’m going to get out of here. Let you get some sleep.” He started to rise, and then he didn’t. “Never mind.”

“Never mind?”

“I’m going to stay here.”

“I don’t need to be protected,” she said. “Bolts on the door, gun next to the bed.”

“You don’t need to be protected?” Jorge said. “I do! Safety in numbers. Bolt the door and let’s get some sleep.”

She rose. “Okay, I lied, and you’re right—anyone can be taken by surprise. And I have been a jerk and I don’t know why.”

“I do,” Jorge said softly. “You really shouldn’t be working this case. You have a personal involvement. And in a way, so do I. I’ve met Mary.”

Jasmine nodded. “I don’t feel that I’m really up to speed yet, despite what we learned from Wolff. I’ll get you some pillows and bedding,” she told him.

“What time are we supposed to be where?” he asked her as she laid out sheets on the sofa.

“Ten o’clock, back at the club.”

“I’m willing to bet half of it will still be shut down.”

“We won’t be going to the floor. We’ll be picking up our pay in the offices, using the VIP entrance on the side to the green room and staging areas.”

“You know that we can get in?”

She nodded. “I wound up with Natasha and the other girls in a little group when the police were herding people for interviews. Natasha asked the lead detective—Detective Greenberg is in charge for the City of Miami Beach—and he told her that they’d cordon off the club area until they finished with the investigation. Owners and operators were free to use the building where the police weren’t investigating.”

“Then go to bed. We’ll begin again in the morning.”

Jorge was clearly thinking something but not saying it.

“What?” she pressed.

“I didn’t know until today that the FBI was in on this case—the briefing was why I arrived late. MDPD found the group operating the Gold Sun Club to be shady, as did the cops with the City of Miami Beach. But there’s been no hard evidence against them and nothing that anyone could do. I know you’ve been talking to Captain Lorenzo about them for a while, but...we just found out today that Smirnoff was about to give evidence against the whole shebang. I’m just—”

“Just what?”

He grimaced. “I like the Feds. They have more resources than we do. They have more reach across state lines. Across international lines. And I don’t know how long I’ll get to be one of the models—if the big show ended in disaster, I could be out fast. And then I won’t be around to help you.”

“I’m willing to bet the Deco Gang will keep planning. Kozak will say that all the people who had been hired for jobs at the club will still need work. He’ll go forward in Smirnoff’s name—Smirnoff would not want to have been frightened off Miami Beach. We’ll be in.”

“You will be. I may not. So, I’m just glad that...well, that there’s another law enforcement agent undercover on this case. Speaking of undercover...” Jorge grabbed his blanket and turned around, smiling as he feigned sleep.

Jasmine opened her mouth to speak. She shook her head and went to the bedroom. Ready for bed and curled up, she admitted to herself that she just might be glad for Jacob Wolff’s involvement, too.

She had assumed the group was trading in prostitution, turning models into drug addicts and then trafficking them.

She hadn’t known about the bodies in the barrels. And she hadn’t suspected that Smirnoff was going to die.

So she was glad she would have backup if she had to continue getting close to these dangerous players. Otherwise she probably should back right out of the case.

Except she just couldn’t. They had Mary. They had her somewhere.

And Jasmine had to pray her friend was still alive.

Chapter Three

Jacob could remember coming to South Beach with his parents as a child. Back then, the gentrification of the area was already underway.

His mom liked to tell him about the way it had been when she had been young, when the world had yet to realize the beauty and architectural value of the art deco hotels—and when the young and beautiful had headed north on South Beach to the fabulous Fontainebleau and other such hotels where the likes of Sinatra and others had performed. In her day, there had been tons of bagel shops, and high school kids had all come to hang out by the water with their surfboards—despite a lack of anything that resembled real surf.

It was where his parents had met. His father had once told him, not without some humor, that he’d fallen in love over a twenty-five-cent bagel.

The beach was beautiful. Jacob had opted for a little boutique hotel right on the water. Fisher House had been built in the early 1920s when a great deal around it had been nothing but scrub, brush and palms. It had been completely renovated and revamped about a decade ago and was charming, intimate and historic, filled with framed pictures of long ago. The back door opened to a vast porch—half filled with dining tables—and then a tiled path led to the pool and beyond down to the ocean.

Jacob started the morning early, out on the sand, watching the sun come up, feeling the ocean breeze and listening to the seagulls cry. The rising sun was shining down on the water, creating a sparkling scene with diamond-like bits of brilliance all around him.

It was a piece of heaven. Sand between his toes, and then a quick dip in the water—cool and yet temperate in the early-morning hour. He loved it. Home for him in the last few years had been Washington, D.C., or New York City. There were beaches to be found, yes, but nothing like this. So, for the first hour of the day, he let himself just love the feel of salt air around him, hear the lulling rush of waves and look out over the endless water.

There was nothing like seeing it like a native. By 9:00 a.m., he was heading along Ocean Drive. The city was coming alive by then; roller skaters whizzed by him and traffic was heavy. Art galleries and shops were beginning to open, and tourists were flocking out in all manner of beach apparel, some wearing scanty clothing and some not. While most American men were fond of surf shorts for dipping in the water, Europeans tended to Speedos and as little on their bodies as possible. It was a generalization; he didn’t like generalizations, but in this case, he was pretty sure he was right.

A fellow with a belly that surely hid his toes from his own sight—and his Speedo—walked on by and greeted Jacob with a cheerful “good morning” that was spoken with a heavy foreign accent.

Jacob smiled. The man was happy with himself and within the legal bounds of propriety for this section of the beach. And that was what mattered.

He stopped into the News Café. It was a great place to see...and be seen. Before he’d been murdered, the famous designer Gianni Versace had lived in one of South Beach’s grand old mansions. He had also dined many a morning at the News Café. Tourists flocked there. So did locals.

Jacob picked up a newspaper, ordered an egg dish and sat back and watched—and listened.

The conversation was all about the shooting of Josef Smirnoff at what should have been one of the brightest moments in the pseudo-plastic environment of the beach.

“You can bring in all the stars you want—but with those people—”

“I heard it was a mob hit!”

“Did you know that earlier, like in the morning, three bodies were found in oil drums out in the Everglades?”

“Yeah. I don’t think anyone had even reported them missing. No ID’s as of yet, but hey...like we don’t have enough problems down here.”

People were talking. Naturally.

“Told you we shouldn’t have come to Miami.”

“Hey, mobsters kill mobsters. No one else was injured. Bunch of shots, from what I read, but only the mobster was killed.”

Someone who was apparently a local spoke up.

“Actually, honestly, we’re not that bad a city. I mean, my dad says that most of our bad crimes are committed by out-of-towners and not our population.”

Bad crimes... Sure, like most people in the world, locals here wanted to fall in love, buy houses, raise children and seek the best lives possible.

But it was true, too, that South Florida was one massive melting pot—perhaps like New York City in the last decade. People came from all the Caribbean islands, Central and South America, the countries that had once comprised the Soviet Union, and from all over the world.

Most came in pursuit of a new life and freedom. Some came because a melting pot was simply a good place for criminal activity.

While he people-watched, Jacob replayed everything he had seen the day before in his mind. He remembered what he had heard.

Witnesses hadn’t been lying or overly rattled when they had reported that it seemed the shots had come from all over. From the bar, he’d had a good place to observe the whole room. And then, as Ivan had muttered that they could go closer and see, they had done so.

The shooter hadn’t been close to Josef Smirnoff—Jacob had been near him and if someone had shot him from up close, he’d have known.

He was pretty sure that the shooters had been stationed in the alcoves on the balcony that surrounded the ground floor, just outside the offices and private rooms on the second floor. The space allowed for customers to enjoy a band from upstairs, without being in the crowd below.