by Paul Levine
“We can’t rule out Benny the Jeweler,” Victoria said.
“No. Benny has always been kind to me.”
“Still, you know about his business, and he’s under federal investigation.”
“You think Benny would harm me? That is crazy.”
“He’s hired a PI to find you.”
“To help me. To make sure I am safe.”
“Please listen, Nadia. Benny knows the feds are looking for you. They need your help to indict him.”
“I know nothing. Not even his full name.”
Victoria didn’t believe her, but what else could she say? She’d given the warning.
“Why do you even care?” Nadia asked.
“I don’t want you to get hurt. Maybe I can even help you with the government.”
“Or are you being nice so I will help the man you love?”
Nadia, it seemed, was a woman who believed that all life was a series of giving and getting based on quid pro quo. Maybe she was right. Maybe altruism was a philosophical ideal, a pretty notion unrelated to real life.
“Elena told you about Steve and me?”
“She liked you. I am sorry about your man. I did not mean for it to happen that way. But I know what you want, and I cannot do it. I cannot help him.”
“Can we talk about that day? Can you tell me what happened?”
“I know what your man told police. It did not happen that way. I am sorry.”
The words were crushing. But were they true?
“Elena told me you are in love, also,” Victoria said. “I would like you to be with your lover, not on the run from Gorev’s thugs and the government.”
“I am with my man now, and it is heaven.”
Where? Oh, how Victoria wanted to ask the question, but she was afraid of going too fast, of scaring Nadia off.
“Tell me about him. Elena said he was a customer at first.”
“Funny, yes? B-girl falls for customer. He was in town for a convention about three months ago. Food products. I picked him up at Clevelander. He spent fifty-three hundred dollars at club. Shocked when bill came, but no protest. I spent night with him at hotel. Big violation of Gorev rules. The next two days, I stay away from club, except to reverse charge for him on credit card terminal. Otherwise, only with him. Now I am at his home. He wants to marry me.”
Nadia sounded proud. And why not? A man wanted her for something more than just her body. Nadia’s tone had softened. Now it was just two women speaking about love. Victoria thought it was time to dig deeper. “Maybe I could come see you, and we could talk face-to-face.”
Victoria heard Nadia sigh, and then: “Why don’t you just ask me directly what you want to know?”
“Did Nicolai Gorev have a gun?”
“Many guns. But that day? In his hand, no.”
Victoria felt as if she’d just been punched in the gut. She had been so sure that Steve had told the truth about that part. Gorev’s gun. The threat. But if Gorev was unarmed, whoever fired would not have acted in self-defense. The shooter—either Steve or Nadia—was not entitled to immunity under Stand Your Ground. Without being threatened with death or great bodily harm—the touchstones of self-defense laws—one of them had simply pulled the trigger and killed Gorev.
Victoria got to her feet and paced in circles on the boardwalk.
“If Gorev had no gun, why was he shot? What happened?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Yes! The truth. Someone shot Gorev with a Glock nine millimeter. I need to know who! I need to know why!”
“The Glock was mine. I brought it in my purse.”
Victoria stopped breathing. That’s what Steve had said. Could there be a glimmer of hope? “Did you shoot Gorev?”
“Your man told the police I did.”
“But is it true?”
“I have said too much already.”
“Nadia, please!”
“Your man does not always tell the truth. That is all I can say.”
Victoria felt her slipping away. “Let me come see you. We can talk. No one has to know.”
“I am long way from Miami.”
“I don’t care.”
“Too dangerous. I am sorry. I wish I could help your man, but I cannot. I am now going to pray for Elena’s soul. Please do not call me again.”
The phone clicked dead, and Victoria’s hopes faded under the glare of the midday sun.
-36-
Tomahawk Steak for Two
I found Manuel Dominguez in the library room with its stained glass windows at The Forge on Arthur Godfrey Road. A few years ago, Shareef Malnik, the owner, gave the fancy old joint a major face-lift. It is still opulent, ornate, and a tad over-the-top. There are still gilt-framed mirrors and exposed brick. But the old mahogany has been replaced with blond woods. There are modern crystal chandeliers, and the whole place is lighter, brighter, and hipper.
Dominguez, in full dress army uniform bedecked with medals and ribbons, was dining with his lady, the presumably pregnant Rose Marie. At their table was a paunchy middle-aged man who wore a madras sport coat and a slippery jet-black toupee.
“Hey, Sarge!” I called out.
Dominguez looked up and, without blinking, greeted me. “Lieutenant Lassiter.”
I took the fourth seat at the table without being invited. A gigantic steak covered a plate in front of Dominguez. It had to be the dry-aged prime tomahawk, intended for two. Rose Marie had her own entree, a fish dish—I’d guess grouper—covered with bacon in a creamy broth. A black truffle mac and cheese potpie and a plate of asparagus made up the sides. Mr. Madras Jacket didn’t seem to be eating.
“Mr. Torkelson, say hello to Lieutenant Lassiter, my CO in Desert Storm,” Dominguez said. “Lieutenant, Mr. Torkelson is a stockbroker from Toledo.”
“Proud to meet you, sir,” Torkelson the Toupee said.
“Scram,” I said.
“I beg your pardon.”
Dominguez forced a smile. “Lieutenant’s got PTSD,” he whispered.
“Sarge, is that a gold trident on your lapel?” I asked. “You a Navy SEAL now, too?”
Dominguez opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Hello, Rose Marie,” I said. “You look radiant.”
“Thank you, Jake. Would you join us for dinner?”
“Depends who’s paying.” I turned to Torkelson. “Are you still here?”
He eased his chair backward and said, “Perhaps I should join my wife at the bar. Pleased to meet you, Sergeant. Thanks for your service. You, too, Lieutenant.”
“Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker,” I said in my best Bruce Willis.
He retreated hastily, his toupee sliding a bit to starboard.
“Jeez, Jake. What are you doing?” Dominguez fidgeted in his chair, and his medals jiggled. “He hadn’t picked up the check yet.”
“Manuel, tell me everything you know about Benny the Jeweler.”
“Benny? Ah, jeez. I can’t do that.”
I pulled out my cell phone, scrolled to the camera function, and took a picture of him.
“Hey, what’s that for?” he said.
“I’m gonna e-mail it to a very dear friend of mine. Deborah Scolino. Assistant US Attorney.”
“Yeah?”
“Those ribbons and medals. You’re violating the Stolen Valor Act.”
“Bull! I Googled it, Jake. Supreme Court struck down the law. Violates free speech. I know my rights.”
“Well guess what, smart guy? Congress reenacted it, and President Obama signed it. Narrower law. Only applies when the defendant claims the honors to get a fraudulent benefit.” I pointed at his plate. “That steak is about forty ounces of benefit, Manuel.”
“You wouldn’t rat me out. We’re pals.”
I started punching a phone number into my cell. It wasn’t Deborah Scolino’s. It was a take-out pizza place in Wynwood, but Dominguez didn’t know that.
“Hold on, Jake.” He sighed and said, “What
do you want to know?”
“His full name, for one thing. His address. And every word he’s ever said to you.”
While Dominguez talked, I sawed off little pieces of his tomahawk steak. I didn’t order anything because I would doubtless be picking up the tab. Within fifteen minutes I had everything I needed, including about eight ounces of medium-rare beef.
Benny the Jeweler was Benjamin Cohen. He had a retail operation in the Seybold Arcade downtown, an old building with several dozen jewelry shops. He ran a wholesale diamond business in the warehouse district near the airport. And he had a splendid waterfront home on Leucadendra in Gables Estates. Lately, the house had been filled with people. Private investigators a few stripes higher than Dominguez. Out-of-town lawyers. Security guards. Warehouse workers. Benny was scared. His employees were being summoned to a federal grand jury. FBI agents were trying to talk to the B-girls, bouncers, and bartenders at Club Anastasia. Some of them—Russians and Estonians—were quitting and flying home because of threats of immigration prosecutions. As best Dominguez could tell, Benny Cohen was the real owner of the club.
Dominguez flipped open his cell phone and gave me Cohen’s private numbers.
“Is he still looking for Nadia Delova?” I asked.
“Like 24-7, Jake.”
“To hurt her or help her?”
“That’s above my pay grade, Lieutenant.” Dominguez took a forkful of his mac and cheese and between bites said, “What are you gonna do, Jake?”
“Visit Benny, of course.”
“He’s a nice old guy. But he’s surrounded himself with muscle, and he’s nervous, so don’t piss him off.”
“I’ll try to keep my PTSD under control.”
“I’m serious, Jake. Don’t cross him.”
“You think he’s capable of ordering a hit?”
Dominguez patted his lips with a napkin. “You’re talking about that B-girl on the beach the other night?”
I nodded.
“Benny had nothing to do with it.”
“And you know this how?”
“’Cause he had me following her off and on.”
“Why?”
“Benny was thinking maybe she’d lead me to the other one, Natasha.”
“Nadia.”
“Yeah. The friend was his path to Nadia, so no way he would have her killed.”
“If you were really following Elena, Manuel, you’d know where she was last Wednesday night. Late. After work.”
“I wasn’t following her that night. But I know where she was.”
“How?”
“I was following you. That’s the night you and the lady lawyer met with her in the Russian church.”
That rocked me. Manuel was telling the truth, almost a first for the con man. “The gray Range Rover?”
“That’s me. When I wasn’t following her, I was tailing you.”
“Damn, I should have known. You tell Benny about the meeting at the church?”
“Nah.”
“Why not? You’re working for him.”
“’Cause me and you are pals. You never did wrong by me. Till tonight, anyway. I didn’t tell Benny because I didn’t want you to get messed up.”
“Thanks, Manuel.”
I peeled three hundred-dollar bills out of my wallet and put them on the table. Dominguez frowned. “Will barely cover the wine, Jake.”
I emptied my wallet and headed home, happy I’d parked at a meter, because I couldn’t afford the valet.
-37-
Let’s Make a Deal
I was sitting in my office the next morning, speed-reading the state’s discovery documents. Skimming the autopsy report on Nicolai Gorev, I could nearly hear the bored, matter-of-fact voice of the medical examiner dictating his notes: “The missile proceeded through the frontal pole of the brain, perforated the cerebral peduncle, then impacted with the occipital bone.”
All the while, I was planning my visit to Benny the Jeweler.
Benjamin Cohen.
The true owner of Club Anastasia. Boss of the Gorev brothers. Target of the federal investigation. Someone I would not be able to intimidate with my in-your-face tactics. Which is why I would take Victoria along. She had a talent for getting people to talk, winning them over with sincerity and trust.
Victoria.
My gut was still tied in knots when I thought how close she had come to being killed. I could not have lived with that. In the aftermath of Elena’s death, my feelings were all jumbled. I’d pushed Victoria to the back of my mind, telling myself for the umpteenth time that she was my client’s lady.
We’d formed a bond through a shared, horrific experience. The bond was steeped in emotion and dipped in blood. A danger there. The emotional connection transitioning to the sensual. No way! Friends, yes. Possibly close friends. Even that, I sensed, would not be a happy prospect for Solomon.
The phone rang. My secretary, Cindy—she had not yet graduated to “assistant”—told me it was the State Attorney.
“You mean an assistant state attorney?” I said.
“Nope. The one and only Raymond Pincher.”
I picked up the phone and cried out, “Sugar Ray! Sugar Ray! Who’d you frame today?”
It was my imitation of his very own singsong, preacher’s voice.
“Wrong Way! Wrong Way! Who’d you score for today?”
Damn, he was good.
“The Jakester, my man!” he continued. “The mouthpiece who took the shy out of shyster and put the fog into pettifogger.”
I should never have let him get started.
That Ray Pincher became chief prosecutor of Miami-Dade County was something of an upset. He had fought his way out of the Liberty City projects. Literally. He boxed middleweight in the Police Athletic League and won a bunch of Golden Gloves fights. Then, a U-turn to a Baptist seminary for a year, but that didn’t seem to be his destiny.
Quick with the quip as well as his fists, he set his eyes on lawyering. Scholarships to Florida State and Stetson Law School followed. He was a decent young prosecutor with spellbinding closing arguments. He ran for state attorney while still in his thirties. His slogan, of course, was “Elect a Real Crime Fighter.” Billboards featured Pincher, in shaved head, bare chest, and boxing gloves. He won easily and these days never even faced opposition for re-election.
We were friendly but hardly friends. I used to see him in the gym. Once he invited me to spar, wearing puffy gloves and headgear. I outweighed him by seventy-five pounds, and I’ve never lost a bout against the heavy bag, but he had this pop-pop jab that blackened both my eyes. Quick sneaky hands.
He also caught me with a left hook to the groin that bent me double.
“Too tall, too tall, gets whacked in balls.”
His explanation.
“You calling to apologize for indicting my client?” I said now.
“I incite. Grand jury indicts. I also invite. How’s about lunch?”
Now that was a first.
“You paying, Sugar Ray?”
“No sass, fat ass. This is your lucky day.”
“Yeah, why?”
“A friend of mine over on Northeast Fourth Street wants me to charge you with something, but we can’t seem to find a crime.”
“Your friend being Deborah Scolino.”
“Jakester, just what did you say that got her federal panties in such a bunch?”
“Only that the theme of my case would be to blame her for Gorev’s murder.”
“Well, she’s a little high-strung, so that would do it. Anyway, the lady and I met yesterday evening. You’d probably call it a ‘conspiracy of sovereigns taking place in the shadows,’ except we had dinner on the patio of the Biltmore.” He chuckled to himself. “I do appreciate a man who can turn a phrase, and you, Jake, are second only to me.”
“Get to the point, Ray. I’ve got mobsters to visit.”
“Soho Beach House. One hour.”
He hung up, and I put on a tie.
; The Soho Beach House is a fancy oceanfront hotel, private club, public restaurant, and spa. A few months ago, it’s where LeBron James, Dwyane Wade, and Chris Bosh ate salads and guacamole as they decided their future . . . and that of the Miami Heat. Maybe LeBron didn’t like the salad dressing.
I got there on time and found Pincher in the courtyard of the Italian restaurant on the hotel grounds. His table was under a silver buttonwood tree laced with pin lights. Glass lanterns hung from wooden trellises overhead. Three of the four seats at the table were taken. Pincher, of course. Plus Assistant US Attorney Deborah Scolino and Miami Beach Detective George Barrios.
“In one corner,” I said, taking the empty chair, “the city, the state, and the federal governments. In the other corner, little old me. Doesn’t seem like a fair fight.”
Only Pincher cracked a smile. “Jake, you’re gonna like what we’ve got to say.”
I ordered a Peroni, fried anchovies, and meatballs, and listened.
“What’s the biggest weakness in the state’s case against Solomon?” Pincher asked.
“Motive,” I said. “Barrios has some bullshit theory that Solomon was having an affair with Nadia Delova and got talked into doing the crime.”
“Or tricked into it,” Barrios said. “Either way, he’s guilty.”
“Except it’s not true. The Russian woman was a client, nothing more.”
“Well, sir,” Pincher said, “today we’ve got a dead-solid perfect motive.”
I sipped my beer and said, “Wake me up when you get to the part I’m supposed to like.”
Pincher nodded toward Barrios. “Detective, you do the honors.”
“Jake, remember when I told you we traced the Glock to a guy in New Jersey.”
I chewed a spicy meatball and said, “Owns a courier service. No record. Name is Littlejohn.”
“Does business as Littlejohn Couriers, Inc. We looked into it. Little family corporation, but it doesn’t really own anything but the name. The trucks are registered to a Florida corporation whose stock is owned by a Bermuda trust. The trustees are officers of a bank in the Cook Islands. Are you following me?”
“Not really. I don’t even know where the Cook Islands are.”
“A bit east of New Zealand, and that’s where the feds come in.”