Dead in Boca

by Miriam Auerbach

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  I walked to the other side of my desk and laid my gun back on it. We both sat. Lior propped one foot on the knee of the other leg and leaned forward, his eyes not moving from mine.

  “The guy I was with at the club—do you know who he is?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  He ignored my question and went on. “He runs the place. His name is Boris Gelman. He was born in Moscow in 1975. He immigrated with his parents to Israel when he was fourteen. He started working on his rap sheet there. In the mid-nineties he came to the U.S. He settled in Brighton Beach in Brooklyn and became part of ROC.”

  “Rock? What are you talking about? What kind of rock? Punk rock? Shamrock? Chris Rock?”

  Lior’s face remained rock hard.

  “R-O-C,” he spelled out. “Russian Organized Crime.”

  Wait a minute. This wasn’t anywhere in my script.

  “Gelman started out as a low-level thug, torching grocery stores and gas stations that competed with Russian-owned ones,” Lior said. “He moved up the ranks, and a few years ago he came down here to run Raquel’s. Business was okay, but Gelman saw a way to increase profits.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “By bringing over young women from Russia and Eastern Europe under false pretenses—telling them they’d be getting jobs as waitresses and hotel housekeepers—then forcing them to work in the club and turn tricks. They’re called ‘Natashas’ in the trade.”

  Natashas. That part, at least, sounded familiar.

  “Gelman enjoys making examples of women who don’t stay in line,” Lior continued.

  “Like what?” I asked, just as a thunderbolt struck so loud that for a moment I thought the building had been hit by lightning. Apparently Lior thought so, too, because he paused for a few seconds before continuing.

  “One time one of the Natashas ran off with a ‘client,’” he said. “The next day they both turned up in a warehouse, shot execution-style. Another woman refused to perform. A couple days later her grandmother back in Latvia was stabbed to death.”

  My Inner Vigilante, already in high gear, went into overdrive. Whoever this Gelman character was, I’d take him out.

  But Lior wasn’t done. “When Gelman saw you dancing at Raquel’s, he knew you weren’t one of his girls. He was about to have a couple of his goons take you into a back room to find out what was up. But I convinced him I’d take care of you myself.”

  Oh my God—he was here to harm me. I snapped up my gun again and leveled it at him.

  He raised his hands. “No, you don’t understand,” he said. “That was a ruse to keep you out of their clutches.”

  Once again, I put the gun down. My mind buzzed. One part of it was anticipating the arrival of the killer. The other part was trying to make sense of what Lior was saying. Something had just shifted in our relationship. Lior had not only trained me to protect myself—now he had protected me. It was like we’d become . . . partners. But I still didn’t understand why he’d been at Raquel’s with Gelman.

  “What’s your role in this?” I asked.

  “Law enforcement.”

  I stared at him. He stared back.

  “Gelman has a parallel operation going in Tel Aviv, and he wants to expand in Israel,” he said. “I’ve been posing as a prospective partner, getting the goods on him so we can take him down.”

  I could not believe this.

  But it didn’t matter what I believed. What mattered was the truth. And I knew who could get it for me.

  “Just hold it right there,” I said to Lior. Then I took out my cell and called Leonard, hoping his phone service was still functional with the storm raging outside.

  It was. He answered on the first ring.

  “I need deep background on Agent Nice Ass,” I said without preamble. “ASAP.”

  There was a pause.

  “Give me twenty,” Leonard said and hung up.

  “Twenty minutes,” I repeated to Lior.

  “Fine,” he said.

  We sat in silence. Outside, the wind started to howl. It came in short bursts, as though some giant was taking in huge breaths then blowing them out right onto the building. The shutters shook nonstop now. The overhead light flickered, plunging the room into darkness. A few seconds later it came back on again. Leonard had better call soon, before the cell service went out. And before the killer arrived.

  I gazed at Lior. Damn it, he looked good. Despite all the tension I felt—or maybe because of it—something drew me to him. I wanted to feel his arms, his chest, his legs, his back . . .

  My phone vibrated in my hand, causing me to jump in my chair. I wished it had vibrated somewhere else. Oh, what the hell was I thinking? I was here to deal with the case climax, not my own climax.

  I looked at the phone. There was a text message. One word: Interpol.

  Son of a bitch.

  I’d been wrong about Lior. But come on, if you see a guy at a strip club, how many possible interpretations are there? Just because I’d been at Raquel’s under false pretenses, how was I supposed to know he was, too? Besides, his cover as a Krav Maga instructor was so good that even Leonard, ex-CIA man, apparently hadn’t caught on. Like all good lies, it was built on truth. Yes, he was from Israel and no doubt he had been a commando in the defense forces.

  “You’re clear,” I told him. “So what do you want from me?”

  “Like I said, I’m filling you in because I don’t want anything to jeopardize my case. Since I know you’re a little quick on the draw . . .”

  “I beg your pardon? Are you saying I’m a hysterical female?”

  “Of course not. I’m saying you’re . . . uh, action-oriented. But sometimes a slow, methodical approach is needed. This investigation has been ongoing for a long time. It’s really tough to bust these international prostitution rings. We’ve never been able to directly tie Boris to the murders I told you about.”

  He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, putting his forearms on the desk. “But we’ve been building evidence now for a couple years, and the assistant U.S. attorney finally thinks we’ve got enough to prosecute Gelman on racketeering, human trafficking, and a bunch of other charges. The takedown is scheduled for a couple nights from now—simultaneous raids here and in Tel Aviv. Since you blew my cover, I didn’t want to take any chances of blowing the whole operation.”

  The lights flickered again then went off. We sat in the dark. Only the dimmest illumination came in around the edges of the wood shutters, casting dusty light beams onto the faded carpet. I could barely make out the shape of Lior’s body.

  “And,” Lior said, “it’s not just about my case.” He let out a long breath. “When you didn’t answer my calls, I got to thinking. About us. I decided that you deserve to know the truth. I told you a few days ago that I want all of you. Now I’m telling you that I want to give you all of me.”

  His voice had gone soft. And as it did, the voice in my head urging me to touch him got louder. I didn’t want to deal with the homicide, with the hurricane, with hesitation. I only wanted to be in this moment, Lior and me in this dark room, together. I wanted him to drive into me and drive everything out of my mind.

  I leaned across the desk on my elbows. Then I rose from my chair and climbed onto the desk on my knees.

  The hard metal surface jarred my joints. Damn, that hurt.

  Trying to ignore the pain, I brought my face to Lior’s and brushed my lips across his.

  “Whatever you want, I want to give it to you,” he whispered.

  I traced the outline of his lips with my tongue. His mouth opened, and we kissed. He raised his hands to cup my breasts, rubbing his thumbs across my nipples.

  As my nipples stiffened, so did my . . . knees. Jeez.


  Yeah, okay, I hadn’t done the dirty since I’d become Dirty Harriet several years back. But I didn’t recall it being painful. Emotionally, yes—which was why I’d resolved to abstain—but physically, no. Could I really have aged that much?

  No frickin’ way. I mean, I was a Krav Maga queen. I wouldn’t let a little discomfort take me down for the count.

  I swung my legs around, one after the other, to sit on the edge of the desk. Okay, I might have let out a little groan in the process. But that could easily be taken for a moan of pleasure. I hoped.

  I put my hands around Lior’s neck, feeling the damp curls of his hair. His face was level with my chest now, and he took one of my nipples in his mouth, biting gently through the cloth of my tank top and bra. I let out another sound—a real moan this time.

  All my senses were on high alert, driven there by the coalescence of turning points—the strengthening of the storm, the impending arrival of the killer, my decision to end my self-imposed celibacy, my deepened connection with Lior. Not to mention his flat-out hotness. Thoughts of everything but him left my mind.

  I reached between his legs. Suddenly, our movements became frantic.

  He leaned into me. I pushed aside the gun and lay down on the desk, perching my feet on the edge.

  The hard metal surface felt no better to my spine than it had to my knees.

  Lior unzipped my pants and slid them off my waist when I lifted my butt off the desk. He moved down, pulled my boots off my feet and then the pants. Then he came back up, trailing his tongue along my bare leg. With a hand he moved aside the crotch of my thong and then plunged a finger inside me.

  My back arched . . . and spasmed. Okay, this was not going to work.

  I pushed myself up so that I sat on the edge of the desk again. My back thanked me immediately.

  Lior moved his fingers deeper as he kissed my mouth.

  I moved one hand to the zipper of his jeans and tugged. It didn’t budge. I tugged again. Nothing.

  Okay, I guess this was a two-handed deal. I grasped the waistband with one hand while I tugged on the zipper with the other. Success! But it was all I could do not to lose my precarious balance.

  I reached inside the zipper. He was hard. I pulled him to me.

  He pulled away. “We can’t,” he said.

  We can’t? After all this time, after the journey we’d traveled together to get to this point in our relationship, where he’d bared his soul and I’d let down my guard? We can’t?

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I don’t have any protection on me,” he said.

  Oh, man. I’d been abstinent for so long that I’d forgotten about this aspect of the act. I slumped in disappointment and frustration. But then something clicked in my mind.

  “Just a sec,” I said. I slid off the desk and fumbled in the dark inside a drawer until I found a flashlight that I kept there. I turned it on. It cast a feeble beam of light. I should have changed those batteries. But I’d never expected to be in my office during the storm.

  I grabbed a small knife that I kept in the drawer for use as a letter opener. Shining the flashlight ahead of me, I went to the back corner of the office. There lay the huge cardboard case that Virginia Stubbs had given me in lieu of a retainer for my work on the sex toy scam. The one with “KeepItUp Kondoms” in big bold black lettering on the outside.

  I sliced the tape that sealed the box, opened the top, and took out one foil package. I walked back and resumed my position on the desk. I laid the flashlight atop it so that the beam shone at the ceiling, providing bare illumination to the room. I handed the packet to Lior.

  “I’m not even going to ask what that box is doing here,” he said as he unwrapped the sheath and slipped it on.

  He hooked his fingers around the sides of my thong and pulled it off, then positioned himself between my legs and thrust. Nothing happened. He thrust again. Still nothing. God, how embarrassing was this? The angle just wasn’t right. It wasn’t gonna happen, not in this position. I guess desktop sex only referred to Internet porn.

  Apparently, Lior grasped the problem as well, because he grasped my ass with one hand, my back with the other, lifted me off the desk, and laid me onto the floor. Ahhh. Cheap carpet. Way better than cheap metal.

  Then he got on top of me, cradling my face in his hands. And thrust. My whole body slid backwards. He thrust again. I slid again. Man, this was Cringe City.

  But then . . . he burst out laughing. And then I did, too. Now, this was something new. Humping with humor. I liked it.

  And then a rhythmic beat started in my head. A pulsation that repeated over and over.

  Jeez, this had never happened before either. I mean, yeah, I had experienced rhythmic pulsations—but down there, not in my head. Was this what they meant by mind-blowing sex?

  But wait. The beating wasn’t inside my head. It was outside. On the door.

  Someone was knocking. And this time, it really had to be the killer.

  Chapter 20

  “SOUNDS LIKE YOUR guest has arrived,” Lior said. He rolled off me, grunting. Was that an expression of discouragement—or discomfort? Could it be I wasn’t the only one having aches and pains?

  He didn’t say. And this wasn’t the time to ask.

  I grabbed my thong and pants, put them on my feet, stood up, and pulled them over my ass. Then I shoved my feet into my boots. In the meantime, Lior had zipped up. Damn, guys had it easy.

  I grabbed the flashlight, and we went into the bathroom, where Lior flushed the Kondom down the toilet, and we quickly washed our hands. After I looked us both over to ensure we bore no telltale signs of amorous activity, we returned to the office.

  I laid the flashlight back on the desk and picked up my Magnum. Holding it up once again, I strode to the door. Lior stood with his back against the wall on the opposite side of the opening, ready to execute a Krav Maga maneuver if necessary.

  I unlocked the door and swung it open.

  Judge Trey Harrison, clad in a khaki trench coat with the collar turned up, stood in the rain. His dark eyes had lost their feverish glow. In its place was only sadness, which deepened when he saw my gun.

  “Harriet, you know I would never hurt you,” he said.

  Yes, in my core, I did know that. It was part of what had led me to Trey as the killer—throughout this case, I’d never been attacked or endangered. That was a striking contrast to the previous murders I’d worked, where the killers had been out to get me. So I’d realized this killer had to be someone who didn’t want to harm me—a friend. I had saved Trey from death row before. I knew he felt he owed me—maybe even loved me—for that.

  I lowered the gun and put it in my boot. For good.

  “Come in,” I said. I stepped aside, and a burst of wind blew in, carrying debris from the parking lot—fallen palm fronds, shreds of shrubbery, dirt, discarded soda cans.

  Trey entered. I shoved the door closed behind him and locked it. Then he caught sight of Lior.

  There was no need for introductions. My social circle was a small one, and the paths of those in it had crossed before. In fact, the last time they had was when I’d exonerated Trey in the other murder. This time was different. There would be no exoneration.

  “Oh,” Trey said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize . . .”

  “I’m going to go,” Lior said.

  “No, it’s all right,” Trey said. “There’s nothing I have to say that won’t soon be public, anyway. Harriet, I’m going to turn myself in. I just figured I owed you an explanation first.”

  This wasn’t how I’d envisioned my encounter with the killer. I’d figured it would be just the two of us. I hadn’t expected a witness to the confrontation—or maybe, the conspiracy.

  “Let’s just sit down and talk,” I said. “We can decide later if . .
.” If what? I felt myself slipping, yet again, into that miasmic abyss of moral ambiguity. I was in danger. Not from the killer. From myself.

  Trey took off his coat and looked around in the dim light for a place to put it. There was none, so he folded it and draped it over the doorknob. Rivulets of water ran down the folds of the fabric, dripping onto the floor. The storm had come inside.

  We all sat down, Trey and Lior on one side of the desk, me on the other, the beam of the flashlight casting all our faces in shadow. The wind started whistling through the space between the plywood shutters and the window, threatening to burst in.

  “I killed Junior,” Trey finally said, clearly for Lior’s benefit.

  Lior showed no reaction. He merely asked, “Why?”

  “Because justice needed to be served. And it wasn’t going to happen in a court of law.”

  To say I could relate would obviously be a gross understatement. This was like finding a soulmate—one Inner Vigilante connecting with another.

  “It started in Overtown, more than forty years ago,” I said. Or rather, my Inner Vigilante did.

  Trey nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Last night as I was riding my Hog, it all came together in my mind. That’s the way it’s happened with all my murder cases. When I ride, I enter some kind of alternate reality—I call it being High on the Hog. Suddenly I make connections, and everything becomes clear.”

  Another thunderbolt struck. Our eyes traveled from one person to another. We all must have been thinking the same thing—what would the storm bring next?

  After a few seconds of apparent calm, Trey asked, “So what did you connect?”

  “Many things,” I said. “For one, yesterday I spoke with a nemesis of Junior’s, a guy in the environmental movement. He mentioned what happened to Overtown—how it was destroyed when I-95 was built—and Junior’s role in that. Then last night as I rode, I remembered the newspaper article about you that came out a few months back. The story said you were born and raised in Overtown.”

  Trey compressed his lips and lowered his head. Lior remained expressionless.