Eli came through the back way, not expecting to see Boris, though his car was parked in the garage. He could tell by the way the man sat that something was wrong. Eli knew him well. Boris rose to shake his hand.
“Boris, something is wrong?”
Boris nodded.
A shock of anger colored Eli’s pale cheeks. “Why you don’t call me if something is wrong, Boris? I sent you to look after Lopez. Did you take care of him?”
Boris nodded. “Lopez is here.”
“I don’t understand, my friend. Here?”
Boris repeated what happened.
Eli nodded. “You shouldn’t have taken your nephew.”
Boris cut in and explained, “He’s young. I felt it would be an easy job. I wanted to show him around.”
Eli walked up to Boris and put his forehead against his, grabbing the back of his neck forcefully. “If I paid you to think, my friend, this wouldn’t have happened. Your nephew, did he shoot the salesman?”
Boris nodded.
“Would you have done so?”
“No, Eli. He made a brash move.”
“You over-stood your bounds. Now I have blood on my hands because of your fucking stupidity.”
Eli’s anger was something not to be taken lightly, but, as he stated, it would be Boris’s fault if repercussions found their way back to Eli. He knew better than to say he was sorry. Eli would put a bullet in his head if he told him that. Sorry was a word for cowards. Boris would take his boss’s wrath like a man. He stood baring his chest to Eli as if to say, Do what needs to be done.
Eli smiled, his dominance over the man reconfirmed. “Walker?”
“I needed to come back to Tampa. There was no choice, no opportunity.”
Eli nodded, pacing the room. “So, we’ve detained Walker’s client. And there can be no question that Robert Lopez must die. I don’t know how smart Walker is, but it wouldn’t take a fucking genius to figure out we might be behind the event. I mean, it’s like two plus fucking two equals fucking four. They will have a search warrant signed tomorrow morning. We can expect them here by early afternoon tomorrow.” He picked up the vodka and poured himself a small glass of the clear fiery liquid. He patted Boris’s cheek. “You will not go against my orders ever again. Do you understand, my friend?”
Boris nodded. He understood
“I don’t give a fuck about your nephew. He possessed promise, but it is your stupidity for bringing him with you that cost him his life—cost me the stress we will now face. You should have killed Walker as well. Now, it’s too late. If we touch him, we will be linked.
“Now, let’s not fuck up what has to happen tomorrow. Make sure the upstairs computers are clean, and there is no way for the authorities to get down here.” He stared at Boris. “Understand?”
“Clear as water, Eli.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE BUS FROM FT. Myers to Tampa took a little over three and a half hours. Solomon made the trip every now and again, usually after he’d experienced “a period of edginess,” as he liked to call it. He didn’t dare buy the stuff online. His internet connection was monitored by the Florida Department of Corrections. He needed hard copies.
He got off at the Greyhound bus lines terminal on East Polk Street, downtown Tampa. From there he took an Uber out to Lumsden Road, where it met I-75. He squeezed out of the back seat, offering the driver a tip if he’d come back to pick him up in an hour.
Aversions existed as a place where things could be had for a price, anonymity virtually guaranteed. Solomon didn’t know the place was being staked out by the local police. Everyone who entered was photographed and cross-referenced with state and federal archives, the order coming straight from the district attorney. Solomon even entering the place was a clear contravention of his parole. It would take a few days for the information to percolate through the system, but Solomon would end up paying the price.
He passed his membership card to the female sitting behind a thick, bulletproof glass window. She looked at the card as he slid it through a small hole at the bottom of the pane. After swiping it through a stripe scanner, she slid it back and nodded, giving him the go-ahead to enter.
Solomon didn’t like the women there; he had no interest in them at all, but he needed to keep up appearances. He sat at a table near the back of the massive room. A waitress, scantily-clothed, asked him if he wanted a drink. He didn’t like fancy drinks. He ordered a Budweiser. He watched the female on stage with passing interest. After ten or fifteen minutes, one of the strippers sauntered up to him. He could tell she found his large frame unattractive. She had no doubt been told to come and see him. He felt sorry for the girls. They lived a dirty life. Sure, they made good money, but it was one of those careers that would always be a dead end, sometimes literally.
She seemed a sweet little thing, very black, a sharp contrast to the shocking pink bikini she wore. She ran her hand along his shoulder. “Hey, daddy, can I offer you a dance?”
Solomon smiled. “Can we go to a back room?”
“You got some money to show me?”
Solomon flashed her a hundred-dollar bill with a few twenties. He stuffed one of the twenties into her bikini bottom. “I’m here to buy.”
He couldn’t help but notice her relief. “You just come with me then, daddy.” She gently took his hand and helped him out of his seat, leading him through a black curtain and into a dim hallway. Rooms lined both sides, black curtains covering each one. In the center was a huge man wearing earphones, sitting at a small table with a board full of switches. He monitored the rooms to make sure the girls stayed safe. The stripper led Solomon to a room at the end of the hallway, where she seated him at a table, a catalog open in front of him. He knew the drill. “Good luck, daddy. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” She smiled and sashayed through the curtain.
Straight, he would have found some time for that one. Instead, he delved into the book in front of him while he waited for an attendant to arrive. For a price, there was another catalog. He wasn’t interested in normal, mundane shit. He needed to feed his sick, perverted cravings.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JACK AND JANIE SAT across from Robertson’s desk, listening as he talked to the district attorney on speaker phone. Peter could be polite as all get-out if he wanted to be, and he needed all the guile he could muster with that woman. Nancy Polk was tough as nails and didn’t take anything for granted. She treated her position very seriously, as she should.
“Yes ma’am, I understand we are taking a risk by asking this.”
The voice on the other end spoke slowly, deliberately. “Mr. Robertson, I don’t see how it could be your risk. I’m the DA, and you are defending the felon in this case. To be clear, you are asking . . . a court order to have the police search an establishment, confiscate their computers, and examine the data? What evidence do you have to substantiate your claim? And it better not be circumstantial.”
Peter took a deep breath. “Our client, Robert Lopez, is no angel, even by his own admission. He is a middle man in the Internet porn biz. Again . . . admittedly, some bad stuff passes through his email. His claim: He didn’t have the opportunity to erase the sh—stuff on his computer before being busted.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know, Mr. Robertson.”
“I have in my possession two years of invoices from his company and corresponding bank statements, which show the procession of transactions between sources and the company that sent the questionable material to him. All of the data is backed up on disk for us. It shows on several occasions how he’d received questionable content and refused it, or deleted it, returning it to the sender. The string of business from Lopez’s company and St. Petersburg Limited is consistently moved on to another, bigger distributer, City Productions, out of Eastern Europe. The child porn that found its way onto Lopez’s computer was never moved. Typically, Lopez would move content within three to five days. The questionable content sat on his com
puter for over a week.”
“This is still circumstantial. There could be other motivations in play here, counselor.”
Peter paused. “You’re making the assertion he might be personally interested in the data?”
“I can’t rule it out. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“I pointed that out to him, obviously.”
“I’m sure you did. What I’m saying is there could be other motivations. Lopez was arrested after an anonymous call, one that hasn’t been backed up. What if the data was conveniently left on his hard drive? What if Lopez wanted the data to be discovered?”
“You’re insinuating that we might have been played by Lopez?”
“Not insinuating, just open to the possible notion, as you must be. You’ve indicated Mr. Lopez contacted one of your junior lawyers.”
“Yes, Jackson Walker. He’s here with me now listening to us on speaker.”
“Good morning, Mr. Walker.”
“Good morning, Ms. Polk.”
“It’s not unheard of for a young and eager attorney, such as yourself, to be taken advantage of. Mr. Lopez exists in a world much larger than Southwest Florida, with much more at stake than a child pornography charge. I don’t mean to belittle the crime, as I do find it repulsive and a blight on humanity—something which needs to be eradicated at all costs. I want you to be cognizant of the fact . . . there could be more in play than the obvious. Now, the attorney general doesn’t take this crime lightly either, which is the reason I’m speaking to you this morning. Please continue.” The district attorney was clearly in control of the conversation.
Peter said, “Your perspective is noted. The story gets better. St Petersburg Inc. is owned by Eli Romanov, who also owns a string of strip bars from Tampa all the way through to New Orleans. We have verified the information. The rumor is that Romanov is also a low-level producer of pornography.”
“Circumstantial.”
“I’m not sure if you heard or not—yesterday there was a shooting in North Ft. Myers.”
“Mr. Robertson, this is a normal occurrence. If I had to keep track of every shooting in the state of Florida, I wouldn’t be able to find enough time in the day to take phone calls from people like you.”
“I appreciate that. The shooting occurred at a car dealership where Lopez’s car was found sitting on the lot. The salesman, who Lopez was scheduled to meet, had his brains blown out in the same parking lot. Lopez’s appointment with the salesman is verified by the dead man’s day timer. A man was seen carrying a body across Cleveland Avenue, stuffing it into the back of a BMW 7 Series. The witness was able to take down the license. It’s registered to Romanov Inc., a subsidiary of St. Petersburg Inc. We think our client has been either killed or detained by the owner of this company.”
“Okay, Mr. Robertson, you’ve substantiated your argument. I can’t promise you’ll get your search warrant, but I can tell you I will contact the chief of police in Tampa and make sure there is an eye kept on the place.”
Pete nodded to Jack and Janie and smiled. “That’s all we could hope for, ma’am.”
“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Robertson, if we decide to grant a search warrant.”
“Thank you!” Peter hung up.
Janie spoke. “So what now, Pete?”
“We have to act on two possible assumptions. One, Lopez is who he says he is and the Russians really did frame him. Or Lopez is the one doing the framing. I don’t understand why.” He paused. “I’m going to speak with my contacts at the Lee County Sheriff’s Department and see if I can’t pick up a few scraps. I want the two of you to check out Lopez’s home, see if he’s still around. In fact, it might be prudent to give the man a call, though I have a strong feeling you won’t get an answer.”
Janie frowned. “What you really want us to do, Pete, is break into the place?”
“No. I’d say watch it, see if he comes back. If there’s no activity by sundown, take a look inside.”
Jack took an uptight breath. “So, we’re going to break in?”
Pete smiled. “Yes. That’s what I’m saying. Janie’s done this before; she’s quite good at it. Don’t get caught. You can assume the police already have an eye on the place.”
Janie put her hand on Jack’s. “Don’t worry, Jackie boy, I’m an old pro at this.”
Jack shook his head and smiled at Janie. “Oh, those famous last words!”
Peter slapped Jack on the back. “Don’t look so worried, Walker.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BONITA BEACH ROAD CAME upon him quickly and he swerved into the double left-hand turn lane to exit Highway 41. He dared the old couple he cut off to give him the finger. Evidently, his nasty glare was enough to make them back off. Mason found himself in one of those moods that bad people got into now and again. He knew the evening could end in conflict; thus, he ratcheted up his anger, letting its energy simmer just under a boil.
Once off the stop-and-go coastal highway, he cruised along at 40 mph, the speed limit. He didn’t need to get pulled over. After five minutes, Bonita Beach Road veered to the right at the coast. The stretch between the turn and the next bridge was packed with impressive homes both on the gulf and the back bay. Mason found it hard to keep to the reduced 30 mph speed limit, but eventually it picked up as he left the residential area and entered Lovers Key, a beautiful drive crossing three bridges before it reached the lift bridge at Big Carlos Pass leading to the southern tip of Ft. Myers Beach.
The sun began to drop into the gulf, but Mason wanted total darkness for what he intended. Pulling into Santini Plaza, he looked for somewhere busy to lose himself for an hour or so. He spotted a place on the right called Runaways that looked pretty busy. Not wanting to be right in front of the place, he parked a few hundred feet down, in front of a used bookstore.
Pushing the bar door open, he was hit by music from a live band, and the crooning singer sounded remarkably like Rod Stewart singing “Maggie May.” He pulled a stool up to a large square bar and was promptly greeted by a bartender with waist-length dreadlocks. He felt almost relaxed and ordered a scotch and water with lots of ice.
Watching the band and the older ladies having a good time dancing, Mason wondered if people ever pondered the wild-ass idea they could be sitting in the same bar as a repeat killer. An escaped convict. Somehow the thought made the drink go down smoother. Tonight, they would all be safe, as there were bigger fish to fry. Tonight, they were lucky.
After an hour, he could no longer watch the shenanigans of the ladies dancing, drawing the line when he was propositioned. He retrieved his car and pulled onto Estero Boulevard, heading north. The drive to Ibis Lane took only a few minutes and he might have walked, but he didn’t want his car too far away if he needed to get away quickly. Estero Island had two ways in and out; both could be blocked off within minutes. He parked at the Beach Theater and walked up Ibis toward Jack Walker’s house at the end of a canal, at the entrance to Estero Bay. Mason frowned. The sniveling turd moved up in the world.
He cradled a bottle under his arm containing a complex potion within the thin glass. He’d put a lot of effort into the talisman. All that was needed for the curse-bearing concoction to be effective was a strand of Walker’s hair. Mason would break into his house and hopefully find a few on a brush in his bathroom. The spell would guarantee his demise, its power along with the curse placed in New Orleans more than potent enough to stop the strongest mortal in his tracks. The final touch would be maneuvering Walker within a chalk circle created and consecrated by Mason, again using some of Walkers hair.
Without hesitation, he ambled to the back of the house. Seeing lights on and hearing music, he started past the screened-in lanai covering the pool area but was hit by a wafting cloud of pot smoke. One whiff and he could identify the music playing inside the house: classic rock, “Killer Queen.” How appropriate!
Peering around a stucco corner into the lanai, he spied a single male sitting in a deck chair beside a lar
ge, round glass table. While it wasn’t Walker, there was a resemblance. He wouldn’t be able to get inside the easy way.
He walked back to the front of the house, making sure that no one appeared to be looking, and stepped up to the front door. Before pulling out his lockpicks, he tried the knob. It was unlocked. How convenient.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he opened the door, peering inside. There didn’t appear to be anyone in the front. The music from the lanai softened coming through the house but still hid any noise Mason might possibly make upon entry. Still, he didn’t take things for granted and took his time to move carefully. Tiptoeing like a cat to where he assumed the bedrooms were located, he entered the bathroom that divided two medium-sized rooms. Smiling, he found a brush in one of the drawers. Eyes wide with glee, he plucked off a pinch of hair and dropped it into the blood-colored bottle, re-sealing the lid. Taking another pinch, he put it into a ziplock plastic baggie. He opened the cupboard below the sink and hid the bottle behind a bunch of boxes that looked as if they hadn’t been moved in months. It would be better to bury the bottle, but Mason didn’t want to risk discovery.
****
Josh stirred from his chair, not knowing why, but he did know he felt damned thirsty and he headed to the kitchen. The front door was slightly ajar. He forgot his thirst and pushed it shut. When he passed it not twenty minutes ago, he was positive it was closed.
Josh turned to the bedrooms. “Naw, gotta stop smoking that shit,” he said, and doubled back to the kitchen, helping himself to one of Jack’s assorted beers. He chose something Hispanic-looking, the country of origin not clear. He cracked the can and headed back to the lanai and his comfy chair. He didn’t know why he glanced at the bedroom hallway again but was glad he did. The bathroom door stood halfway open. His eyes were not fooling him—it had been shut two minutes ago. He veered into the lanai, reaching for the gun under his chair.
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