by Neil Plakcy
He awoke from his meditation with a start. Douschka was missing, and he recalled that Kiril Ovetschkin’s company owned a boat. Was she on it?
He stood up, stretched, then went online and started checking boat registrations. The boat was a 44’ Riviera called Only the Best, and it was registered at the Sunny Isles Beach Marina.
He dialed the number for the marina, and put on his best Russian accent. “My friend Ovetschkin tell me to come to boat in marina,” he said, when an old man answered. “Boat is there now?”
“I’m lookin’ at it,” the man said.
“Chorosho!” Biff said, and hung up. He was most emphatically a spirit of the air, not the water. Even though South Florida was permeated with canals, waterways, bays and lakes, he did his best to keep his feet firmly planted on land. He avoided everything from a rowboat to a speedboat to the big, noisy airboats that skimmed through the Everglades. But he’d already checked Ovetschkin’s apartment and found nothing, so he felt honor bound to check out the boat.
He made the familiar drive across the causeway and down Collins Avenue to Sunny Isles Beach, then drove around behind the Epicure Market to North Bay Road, past the line of fancy condos that fronted Biscayne Bay. The narrow lane was a marked contrast to the hustle and bustle of A1A, lined with towering palms and flowering plants. He came out on the 163rd Street Causeway, and the vast expanse of the bay spread out to the north and the south. Biff was not happy.
Instead of heading east on the causeway, he ducked the Mini Cooper under the arching bridge and pulled into the Sunny Isles Marina, parking at a space facing the water. Four long, skinny concrete docks stuck out into the bay, with a mixture of boats docked in pairs between even narrower wooden finger piers.
The grizzled old security guard remained in his trailer with the door open, as if he was keeping an eye on the boats, though he was probably dozing. Biff reluctantly got out of the car. The air was much more humid by the water, and it made Biff’s skin crawl. He took a couple of deep breaths and sent a few waves of energy out to his skin for protection against any water that might splash.
He spotted Ovetschkin’s boat down at the end of one of the long fingers. It was sleek and low-slung, a characteristic of fast boats owned in South Florida by drug dealers and rich older men with something to prove. A metal railing ran around the prow, with a wrap-around windshield behind hit. A stubby mast atop the aft end of the cabin looked like it connected to some very sophisticated electronics. There was a swim platform at the stern.
He thought about just standing there. The bridge arched overhead, giving at least the illusion of protection, and he liked the connection to the earth, even though it was through several layers of macadam and coral rock. But he knew he’d have to get a lot closer in order to see if there were any clues to Ovetschkin’s whereabouts on the boat.
Biff stayed rooted to the pavement, opening his third eye and trying to separate out the dozens of scents floating through the air. Salt water, varnish, bait, dead fish, suntan lotion, diesel fumes—so many they threatened to overwhelm his receptors.
A steady, warm breeze blew salty air from the ocean, and the sun glinted off the decks, the condo towers, and the mix of powerboats and sailboats tied up along the finger piers. him with interest. Halyards clanked on the sailboat masts around him, and the bridge reverberated with idling cars and trucks.
Biff identified and isolated each scent. The one he was looking for was so faint, though, and he knew the only way he could be sure was to get closer to the boat. He took a deep breath and stepped onto the concrete dock.
There, that wasn’t too bad, he thought. There was water underneath him, but the dock was sturdy and connected to the land. He walked forward until he came to the finger pier. There was no way he was stepping out on that.
He didn’t need to. He opened his third eye once again and surveyed the boat. There was no one aboard, living or dead. There were strong psychic reverberations of anger and death, though, and it was easy for Biff to pinpoint a pattern of tiny brown specks along the port gunwale, almost but not quite blending into the teak, so it would have been easy for a human eye to miss them. Biff knew exactly what they were, and what they meant.
He walked back to the parking lot and flipped open his cell phone. “You still looking for Douschka Ovetschkin?” he asked, when Jimmy answered.
“You find her?”
“I know where she went. Meet me at the Sunny Isles Beach Marina, all right? Bring Loi with you. Ovetschkin’s boat is here, and Douschka’s blood is all over it.”
“Motherfucker,” Jimmy said. “I’ll get the geek and be there as soon as I can. If Ovetschkin comes back don’t let him see you.”
“I can be invisible,” Biff said, though of course it was an exaggeration.
He went back to the Mini Cooper, pulled into a space in the shade of the causeway, and put the top down. He leaned the seat way back and tried to relax, though being so close to the water made it tough.
It took Jimmy about a half hour to get there. He was alone, though, and Biff realized he probably couldn’t call for a CSI until he’d seen the site for himself.
A multi-level party boat idled just offshore, waiting for the bridge to open, and its wake churned the water as Jimmy pulled up and Biff met him at the dock. “Follow me,” Biff said. Jimmy lumbered out of the sedan, and adjusted the hang of his outdoorsman’s shirt over his slacks. Biff could just see the outline of his gun and holster beneath the shirt.
He led Jimmy up the finger pier, then stepped back. “That’s the boat. Ovetschkin’s not there, though.”
Jimmy stepped forward and called out “Mr. Ovetschkin. Miami-Dade Police.” He stepped onto the wobbling finger between it and its neighbor. He rapped his knuckles against the fiberglass, just above the window.
There was no answer.
The bridge alarms began ringing and traffic slowed on the causeway. The party boat gunned its engine and moved into position to go under the bridge, and as it did its wake slammed into Ovetschkin’s boat and set it rocking. Biff’s stomach lurched.
The party boat took off under the nearly open bridge, and another wake shook the finger pier where Jimmy stood. It looked for a second like he might lose his balance and tumble into the water, and Biff dreaded the idea that he’d have to rescue his friend. But Jimmy grabbed the railing of the boat on the other side and steadied himself.
He looked back at Biff. “What makes you think this is a crime scene?”
Biff pointed at the pattern of specks. “That’s blood. My guess is you’re going to find it belongs to Douschka Ovetschkin.”
Jimmy leaned in close, staring at the spot. “Jesus, how do you do that, Biff?”
It wasn’t the first time Biff had discovered a piece of evidence that helped Jimmy in a case, often in similarly dramatic fashion. He knew that Jimmy suspected there was something not completely human about Biff, but so far he hadn’t pressed for details. “Years of investigative experience.”
Biff neglected to mention just how many years he’d been in the business, and once again Jimmy didn’t ask.
“You talk to the guard yet?”
Biff shook his head. “Don’t have a badge, remember?”
Jimmy raised his right eyebrow. “Hasn’t stopped you yet.” He strode over to the trailer, calling, “Miami-Dade Police. Please step outside the trailer, sir.”
The guard stepped out, carrying a clipboard. He looked to be at least eighty years old—or sixty, with twenty years of hard living. His white hair was disheveled and he had the stub of a long-dead cigar in his mouth.
“You seen Ovetschkin lately?” Jimmy asked.
The guard shook his head. “We keep a log of when people come and go, to make sure nobody’s living on board. Gainst the rules, you know.” He looked at his clipboard again. “Last time he was here was Saturday. Boat left at eleven AM, came back two hours later.”
“You keep a record of who was with him?” Biff asked.
“I ain’t n
obody’s social secretary.”
Biff persisted. “So you don’t know who was with him on Saturday? Or if the same number of people came back?”
The old guy spit on the ground. “What they gonna do, swim off to Bimini?”
“I’ve got enough,” Jimmy said. He opened his cell phone and started pressing buttons. The party boat passed, and the bridge began going down again. The security guard went back into his trailer, and Biff stepped back under the shelter of the causeway, sniffing carefully for any trace of Farishta’s energy.
There it was. She was so closely connected to the water it was hard to separate traces of her, but the longer he remained next to Only the Best, the surer Biff became. Farishta was here in Miami, and involved in this case. But how, and why?
He sensed Jimmy’s anger before he heard the yelling. “What do you mean no probable cause?” he roared into his cell phone. “I’ve got a woman missing since Saturday. Her boyfriend’s dead and her husband’s in the wind.”
Jimmy listened for a minute. “Let me speak to the DA myself.” To Biff, he said, “Pissant assistant DA doesn’t want to get me the warrant without probable cause. Probable cause my ass. How the hell do these pimply-faced suits think we solve crimes out here in the real world?” He ranted on, more angrily the longer he stayed on hold. His face reddened and Biff worried he was going to have a heart attack.
Jimmy snapped to attention, and Biff could tell that the DA had picked up. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Mr. Ovetschkin took this boat out on Saturday afternoon. Visual inspection of the boat’s exterior indicates the presence of blood. And this afternoon we discovered the body of a man we believe was having an affair with Mrs. Ovetschkin.”
He listened, then said, “No, sir, we don’t have a witness yet who can put Mrs. Ovetschkin on the boat with her husband. But I have evidence she was having an affair with Usnavy Gonzalez, whose body was found this morning. And she’s missing.”
He listened again, this time smiling at Biff. “Yes, sir, that’s just what I thought. Thank you.”
Jimmy slapped the phone shut. “You want something done, you have to talk to the man in charge. So what else can you tell me based on your years of investigative experience?”
“Can’t say much more until I can get inside.” As he said it, he shuddered, unhappy to even set foot on a boat. But there was no getting around it.
9 – A Piece of Work
It was a gorgeous day to be outside, even if the reason for the trip was a gruesome one. As long as Biff stayed away from the water, and out of any wind-borne spray, he was all right.
“You know anything about a guy named The Professor?” Biff asked.
“Just the name. Some kind of big shot in the Russian Mafiya. Why? You think he’s responsible here?”
“Don’t know. But I know Ovetschkin’s afraid of him, and I’m hoping to use that to get Ovetschkin off Sveta’s back.”
Jimmy called Hector Hernandez and asked about The Professor. Biff listened in on the call. “Don’t know much,” Hector said. “He’s been good about keeping his name out of things. Probably scares the underlings too much. His real name is Viktor Petrov, and he lives in the Odessa, that Russian condo in Sunny Isles Beach.”
“Where Ovetschkin lives,” Biff said.
“Yeah, but Petrov’s in a penthouse. Has a wife and two daughters. His money comes through some legit-looking businesses that we think are laundering money for the Organizatsiya, but we don’t have any evidence yet. Let me know if you dig up anything on him.”
Biff and Jimmy agreed. The security guard brought them a couple of white plastic chairs and they relaxed in the shade of the causeway above them while they waited for the CSI. Biff understood why Jimmy favored those microfiber shirts with the mesh inserts—Jimmy seemed to be keeping cool in his, while Biff’s Hawaiian shirt was collecting sweat.
“What kind of time line you think we’re working with here?” Biff asked, stretching his legs and wiggling his toes inside his cross-trainers. There was just no substitute for his slippers, he thought.
“We know that Igor Laskin was at the gym on Friday morning with Usnavy Gonzalez,” Jimmy said. “Let’s say he shows the picture of Douschka to his gym buddy, brags about banging her. Igor recognizes Douschka, and tells Kiril, who arranges a boat trip for his wife on Saturday.”
“You have a time of death for the valet?”
“Saturday night between ten p.m. and two a.m.”
“That gives Kiril time to take care of Douschka and then pay a visit to her boyfriend,” Biff said. “Usnavy’s apartment get tossed?”
Jimmy shrugged. “Hard to say. Guy wasn’t exactly a neat freak.”
No boats were moving, and Biff wondered why the water moved so restlessly, a series of small eddies in the middle of the navigation lane, disconnected waves slapping against the finger piers.
“So Kiril takes whatever pictures of Douschka he can find, not knowing about the one at the gym. Maybe he leaves behind some drug stuff to throw you off the scent. But you’re too good for him.”
“Yeah, yeah, I can do without the stroking.” A pelican on the piling nearby suddenly took off, soaring through the air and then swooping down to the water, rising up again a moment later with a silver fish clamped in his beak.
“Kiril goes home and stews over things on Sunday,” Biff continued. “Then Monday morning he tracks down Sveta at her condo and demands the original digital files.”
“At which point our favorite private eye enters the picture,” Jimmy said. “No pun intended.”
“The detective made a series of puns, hoping at least one would make his audience laugh,” Biff said. “But no pun in ten did.”
Jimmy groaned. “You’re lucky it’s against the law for me to shoot you.”
The Crime Scene van pulled up at the marina gate, and they motioned Loi to park at the end of the dock. Biff, Jimmy and Loi donned rubber gloves and paper booties.
While Loi sprayed the aft deck and gunwale with Luminol, to pick up traces of blood, Jimmy and Biff stepped onto the boat. Biff didn’t like the way it moved gently under his feet, but as long as there was fiberglass, teak and stainless steel between him and the water of Biscayne Bay, he could cope.
They climbed up to the flying bridge, where Biff had a clear view all the way down the channel to where Biscayne Bay broadened out. On the left was the barrier island, stacked with high-rise condos and then the flat, open space of Haulover Park. To the right were the mangrove islands of Oleta River State Park, and beyond them empty acres of Australian pine that covered the former Munisport dump and the low-slung concrete campus of Florida International University.
There was no evidence that Douschka had been up on the bridge, so they went back down and into the main salon, simply furnished with two L-shaped built-in couches catty-corner to each other, under a line of windows all around. The counters, tables and cabinets were all teak, and they gleamed with fresh polish. “Somebody’s been in here cleaning, very recently,” Biff said, his sense of smell overwhelmed with lemon furniture polish.
“Could be the guy cares about his boat,” Jimmy said. “Or he’s covering something up.”
They climbed down to the lower deck, where there were two narrow bunks in a small cabin at the stern, a single head, and an owner’s cabin with a queen-sized bed. “Douschka was definitely here,” Biff said, as they walked in. “I can smell her perfume. She was having her period, too.”
“I don’t even want to know how you know that,” Jimmy said, wrinkling his nose. “Hell, I don’t even talk to my wife about hers.”
Loi called them back topside. “Luminol shows blood traces,” he said, pointing to glowing blue spots on the deck and the gunwale. “From the spatter pattern I’m guessing the victim was hit, probably in the head, then knocked overboard.”
An officer arrived with a drug-sniffing Belgian Shepherd named Rex, who was let loose on the Riviera to see if he could sniff out any illegal substances. He prowled the upper deck for a few
minutes, sniffing, then his handler led him to the cabins below. Rex went directly to a storage locker, sat down on his haunches, and barked once.
“That’s his alert,” the handler said.
The storage compartment was locked. “You find keys anywhere?” Jimmy asked Loi.
“Nope.”
“Go for it,” Jimmy said to Loi. The handler took Rex topside, and Loi got a pry bar, which he used to open the cabinet. There was nothing inside.
“Damn dog,” Jimmy said.
“The dog knows his business.” Biff sniffed the air. “There’s cocaine inside. Give me a minute.”
He got down on his hands and knees and peered into the cabinet. “Hand me a flashlight, will you, Jimmy?”
“Like I’ve got a flashlight in my pocket,” Jimmy grumbled. He got one from Loi and handed it to Biff. He set it on the floor of the cabinet and began to feel around the inside. He tapped the sides, hearing a different, heavier sound from one panel. The light revealed a hidden catch, which Biff pressed, and the panel popped open. A quart-sized plastic baggy filled with white powder popped out.
They heard Rex bark once from above. “Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Jimmy grumbled.
Biff was glad to get off the boat, but as he walked down the dock a wind kicked up and sprayed him with salt water. Every bit of exposed flesh began to sting like a hundred bees had attacked, and within a minute bright red welts blossomed on his arms and legs. Biff felt his legs weakening, but he pushed past the pain to get to the dock.
“Jesus, Biff, what’s wrong with you?” Jimmy asked from behind him.
He always had to be careful around humans when it came to healing himself. If he tried to explain to Jimmy that his body was merely a construct of atoms and molecules held together by ancient energy, and that when a part of it was harmed he had just to marshal the internal resources to restore structural integrity, Jimmy would call for a psych eval.