by Neil Plakcy
The process never failed to take Biff’s breath away. Farishta’s curly French braid had come undone, and she pulled several bobby pins from her pocket and stuck them in her mouth as Biff collected himself.
As she began to braid her hair again, he asked, “Did you find Laskin?”
She nodded, the pins still in her mouth. “He had some problems with the cargo he was retrieving from a larger boat,” she said, pushing the pins aside with her tongue. Her blouse and harem pants were just damp enough to cling alluringly to her curves, and a few dots of either ocean water or perspiration glistened at her neck. Biff was nearly speechless with desire.
Farishta smiled. “Sadly, the storm pushed the marijuana bales off the boat and into the water, then shredded them so that they could not be retrieved.” She smiled. “So sad, too bad.”
Biff laughed. “Does anybody smuggle marijuana these days?”
“You would be surprised, Bivas.” Farishta finished her braid and used the bobby pins to secure it in place. Then she turned to Raki. “You may take us back to the marina now, please.”
Like a hamster on a wheel, Raki began scampering up the spokes of the steering wheel, and the boat turned slowly. Biff watched and laughed.
“Were you able to trick Laskin into giving up the coin around his neck?” he asked Farishta.
She shook her head. “The amulet is almost like a sentient being. For the moment, it has attached itself to him. I have called it back to me, but it resists. I have tried to influence the Russian’s mind to willingly surrender it, but the amulet works against me.”
The squirrel stopped turning the wheel and resumed his balancing act at the top. Biff noted that the compass was now pointing to the west. “Good job, Raki,” he said.
Raki chittered, then jumped to the power lever and pushed it forward with both his little paws. As Biff was trying to figure out what the squirrel had said, the boat accelerated, and Farishta said, “You had better go below, my love.”
Biff hurried to the stairway as the cigarette boat continued to accelerate. Just to be safe, he wrapped himself in the red plaid blanket once again, curling up so only his baseball cap and his sneakers were exposed to the air, and huddled along the side of one of the lounges in the salon. He stayed that way until he heard the engines power down. When he returned topside he saw Farishta tossing the bow line to a dock hand at the marina.
Ahead of him, the bay stretched in a rippling plane of blue, green and purple, dotted with gently rocking sailboats and powerboats. Condo towers lined the horizon. Behind him were the lush green islands of Oleta River State Park.
The dock hand finished tying up the ropes as Biff hopped onto the dock. Farishta was right behind him. Raki took a big leap and landed flat on the dock. Biff suppressed a laugh as the squirrel stood up and shook himself.
The dock wasn’t quite dry land. Biff’s stomach was still swirling from the rapid trip back, and he hurried up the ramp so that he could feel real earth beneath his feet. The ground was rough and he felt small pebbles through the soles of his sneakers, but he didn’t mind. He smelled dirt and the rotting fibers of a dead palm frond. It was delicious. He closed his eyes and luxuriated for a moment in the terra firma beneath him.
When he opened his eyes once more, the dock hand had already moved on to help another boat dock, and the cigarette boat was gone. “Where did the boat go?” Biff asked.
Farishta shrugged. “Not necessary anymore.”
Not for the first time, Biff was awed at Farishta’s powers. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Many things. Mostly unimportant.”
He looked around. The Miami-Dade police cruiser was still in the same corner of the lot. “I guess I should call Jimmy and let him know Laskin went out for a drug pickup.”
“You can tell him there were two other men with Laskin as well,” Farishta said. “Thugs. I expect Laskin will be back here soon.”
Biff called Jimmy Stein. “Farishta and I believe Laskin left the marina in a boat to pick up some marijuana,” he said. “But he ran into some difficulties and wasn’t able to execute.”
“How do you know that?”
“Call it Farishta’s feminine intuition. My guess is that Laskin’s going to have to report in to his boss about that. So I’d suggest you hold off on arresting him until we see where he’s going.”
“Is he there now?”
“No.” He looked at Farishta. “When do you think Laskin will be here?”
She sniffed the air. “Half an hour?”
He relayed that information to Jimmy. “Stay there,” Jimmy said. “I’ve got my warrant, and I’m on my way. My case against Laskin is still pretty circumstantial, so I’m going to need everything I can get to nail this bastard.”
16 – Gal Pal
Biff and Farishta sat on a bench in the shade of a tall Australian pine, and Raki scrambled up the tree. Its delicate fronds shook as Raki hopped from one to the next. Another squirrel chased him, and the two of them raced from tree to tree. It was impossible for Biff to tell if they were playing or if the new squirrel was defending its territory.
Raki could take care of himself, Biff thought. And if he couldn’t, he’d turn to Farishta for protection. “How can you get this amulet back from Laskin?” Biff asked. “If you can’t take it by force?”
“I must wait until he removes it voluntarily.” She smiled. “Or until he is dead.”
“But you can’t kill him, can you?”
She shook her head. “That would destroy the amulet’s power. No, he must give it to me of his own volition, or leave it behind. Or die.”
She turned so that her leg was resting against Biff’s. He liked that feeling, though it did tend to short-circuit his thinking. “Do you think Laskin killed the photographer and the other man?” she asked.
He nodded. “His was the only signature in the room besides theirs.”
“Why kill them?”
“I don’t know. Laskin worked for Kiril Ovetschkin. Maybe he wanted to move up in the organization.” The Australian pine shook mightily, and Raki landed at Farishta’s feet, carrying some kind of nut between his paws. Biff looked up to see the other squirrel perched on a frond, making angry, high-pitched noises.
Farishta didn’t seem to notice. “But the photographer? Why kill her?”
“She was there when he killed Ovetschkin,” Biff said.
Farishta shook her head. A single dark curl came loose from her French braid, and Biff longed to reach out and press it back into place. “Why wait until they were at the studio? Surely he could have killed Ovetschkin somewhere else, without involving the photographer at all.”
That was a good point, Biff thought. Was there a clue to that in Sveta’s studio? Had she taken pictures of other Russian women? Perhaps someone had hired Laskin to kill her at the same time he killed Ovetschkin.
He was mulling over those possibilities when Jimmy Stein drove into the parking lot. As Biff and Farishta got up to meet him, Biff noticed a powerboat entering the marina. “Is that Laskin?” he asked Farishta.
“Yes.”
The boat sparkled in the sunshine, water glistening from all sides. The man steering was drenched, as was the one handling the ropes from the stern. Jimmy joined Biff and Farishta as they watched a third man, drying his hair with a towel, step up from below. “That Laskin?” Jimmy asked.
Biff nodded. The Russian body-builder wore a pair of baggy sweatpants and T-shirt that stretched tight over his impressive chest. He was barefoot, carrying a pair of black dress shoes that did not match the rest of his outfit. Biff looked at Farishta, and it was as if she read his mind.
“His beautiful black suit was ruined in the rain,” she said. “Such a shame. Lucky for him those other clothes were on the boat.”
Biff smiled. “Lucky.”
Laskin spoke to the two men in the broken Russian of someone who’d never taken a class in the language or lived in the mother country. Biff could hear it just fine even though th
ey were a few hundred yards away, but it took an extra minute to translate because of Laskin’s awkward American accent. It was hardly worth the trouble; all he told them was to return the boat and tie it up.
As they watched Laskin jumped off onto the dock, Jimmy said, “Well, he’s sure not a happy camper.”
“No, I don’t think he is,” Biff said. “And I think his boss is going to be even more unhappy when he hears what happened.”
Jimmy turned to Farishta. “Tell me more about this feminine intuition of yours. How do you know what’s going on?”
Farishta smiled, and reached out to touch Jimmy’s hand. “It is just a talent I have.”
Biff noticed Jimmy’s shoulders slump and his smile widen, and he was sure that with that touch Farishta had magicked the cop somehow. “Well, you’re such a pretty little lady, I’ll have to listen to you, won’t I?”
Biff smothered a laugh. Whatever it was Farishta had transmitted to the cop, Jimmy had overdosed on it. “Laskin’s heading for his car. Shall we follow him?” Farishta suggested.
Jimmy smiled and nodded, but when he turned to Biff, he was all business again. “I know that despite your varied backgrounds, of which you only ever allude to, you’ve never attended a police academy in any jurisdiction. Are you familiar with standard following procedures?”
“Jimmy, you hurt my feelings,” Biff said. “I’ve been following people since before you were toddling around behind your mommy.”
Jimmy cocked his head in confusion, the way Raki did sometimes, and that only made Biff and Farishta laugh more. Jimmy gave up and said, “Then let’s get to it. I’ll take the lead, you back me up. For a change, try to remember that I’m the cop here.”
He stalked off to his county-issued sedan. Biff, Farishta and Raki got into the Mini Cooper, but Biff kept the top up to be a bit less noticeable. Laskin took his time exiting the marina, turning left at the traffic light to head north
on A1A. Jimmy cruised through on a yellow; Biff hit the red and stayed behind.
It didn’t matter. Laskin was taking his time, and Jimmy was having a hard time going slow enough to stay behind him. “What’s this yutz doing?” Jimmy complained into his phone. “I’m going to have to pass him.”
“I’m on A1A now,” Biff said. “Just keep going. I’ll catch him. I have a feeling he’s going to the Odessa anyway.”
“I’ll make a U and come back around,” Jimmy said.
By the time Biff reached the Odessa, he saw Laskin pulling slowly up the sloping drive to the Odessa, the high-rise condo full of Russian émigrés. As Biff stopped at the traffic light, he saw a smartly dressed valet in a white uniform with red epaulets open the driver’s door of the Porsche. Laskin stepped out and accepted a ticket.
“I’m going to park at the shopping center across the street,” Jimmy said. “Meet me there.”
Before Biff could move forward at the traffic light, Farishta lowered the passenger window, took on her whirlwind form and vanished. “You could have waited to talk this over with me and Jimmy,” Biff said to the empty seat beside him.
From the back seat, Raki chirped merrily.
When the light changed, Biff continued ahead a block, then turned into the shopping center, pulling up next to Jimmy, so their driver windows faced each other. “Where’s Farishta?” Jimmy asked.
“Following Laskin.” He held up his hands. “Don’t blame me. The woman does what she wants.” Then his cell phone buzzed with an unknown number. “Biff Andromeda.”
“He is visiting a man named Petrov,” Farishta said. “On the penthouse level. I will follow.”
“Farishta? You have a cell phone?”
“Who needs phone?” she said, and disconnected the call.
“What did she say?” Jimmy asked.
“She’s following Laskin. He’s going up to Petrov’s apartment.”
“Are you kidding me? You know how dangerous that is? She’s just a civilian. And Petrov is a dangerous guy.”
“How dangerous?” Biff asked. “I started looking into him, when I was trying to find leverage over Ovetschkin, to protect Sveta. I couldn’t find much, and once she was dead, I gave up.”
“This is what happens when amateurs butt into police work,” Jimmy said. “I’ve got my warrant. I should probably just go in there right now and pick him up.”
“But you told me yourself that your warrant is circumstantial,” Biff said. “All you can do right now is place Laskin at Sveta’s studio when she and Ovetschkin were murdered. And that you doubt the ballistics will match the gun that Laskin has registered. You need something more.”
Jimmy didn’t say anything, just growled.
“Face it, Jimmy, this is what you need people like me and Farishta for. We can do things and go places and ask questions that the police can’t.”
Raki hopped from the back to the seat to the front. Biff picked up a faint emanation from the squirrel, something like Go, you. He resisted the urge to smile.
Neither of them said anything for a while. An ambulance siren passed on Collins Avenue. Traffic entered and left the shopping center. Finally, Jimmy said, “So, Biff’s got a girlfriend. Always wondered if you were, you know. With the funny shoes and all.”
“What’s wrong with my shoes?” Biff asked, looking down at the Nike cross-trainers he was wearing.
“Not those. Those little slippers of yours.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“She live here in Miami?”
Biff shook his head. “She’s a free spirit—she comes and goes.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Too bad for you. She’s a fox. And I can see you’ve got it bad for her.”
“Thanks for the input, Dr. Phil.”
“Long as we’re being friends again,” Jimmy said. “And we’re just sitting here waiting to see what Farishta comes up with. I could use a cup of coffee. You want Starbucks?”
Biff looked at his watch, a cheap Swatch with a bright red plastic band. He liked a little flair in his clothing and accessories. Was that what had made Jimmy Stein think he was gay? Not that he had a problem with gay men, or alternative sexuality. He had done a lot of things in his long life and he wasn’t in a position to criticize anyone.
He realized that Farishta had been in the Odessa for nearly twenty minutes. Should he call her, see where she was and what she was doing? But he knew her, and the way she operated. Like he’d told Jimmy, she was a free spirit. She didn’t want or need Biff to check on her. And if he worried about her? Well, that was his problem.
“Coffee sounds good,” he said.
They parked their cars in the shopping center lot and walked over to the coffee shop at the edge of Collins Avenue. Raki followed, remaining outside while they ordered. Biff got him a hazelnut cookie, and they carried their venti Frappuccinos outside, to a spot under the awning with a view of Collins Avenue.
“Any idea why Laskin would have killed Sveta Pshkov and Kiril Ovetschkin?” Biff asked Jimmy, as he handed the cookie to Raki.
“Bunch of reasons for killing Ovetschkin. No idea about the lady.”
“What kind of stuff was Ovetschkin into?” Biff asked, as he stuck the straw into his coffee cup. He surreptitiously glanced at his watch again. Thirty minutes now.
“Ovetschkin owned a couple of bars on South Beach,” Jimmy said. He sipped his drink and then sighed with pleasure. “That’s good. The scam was, he had these pretty Russian babes hanging around at some of the fancier nightclubs. They’d zero in on rich guys—gold chains, diamond watches, spiffy shoes. Convince the guys to go with them to one of Ovetschkin’s places. Then they’d order thousand-dollar bottles of vodka, run the guy’s credit card up. Get them so drunk they wouldn’t pay attention to the bills until too late.”
“And that’s illegal?”
“It is if there’s an organized effort to defraud behind it,” Jimmy said.
Biff checked his phone display again. Why hadn’t Farishta called by now? “Why didn’t the cops arrest Ove
tschkin, then?”
“Complicated. Lots of inter-jurisdictional issues, first of all. Every agency wanted a piece of it. Tourist victims are tough—married, out of state, out of the country, need a translator, and so on. And the corporate ownership is a tangle. I can tell you I know Ovetschkin owns a club, but it takes a team of forensic accountants to prove it.”
“Was Laskin involved in this club business?” Biff asked.
“Laskin was Ovetschkin’s muscle. Some guy didn’t want to pay his bill, call Igor.”
“You think Laskin wanted to be more than just muscle?”
Jimmy shook his head. “He’s not that sharp. Guy uses up all his brain cells figuring out what to wear, how many pounds to put on the weight machine.”
Biff picked up his Frappuccino and sucked the last bit through the straw. As he did, he checked the time. Forty minutes now. What were Petrov and Laskin talking about that was taking so long? Why hadn’t Farishta slipped away to give Biff a progress report? Was she all right?”
Biff realized that Jimmy had been talking. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” he said. “Can you say that again?”
“I said that Ovetschkin also had his fingers in a couple of different operations,” Jimmy said, stirring the straw around in his frothy drink. “A little gun running, a little drug smuggling, some prostitution. But always small time.”
“If Ovetschkin’s a small operator, then who’s the boss?” Biff asked.
“Viktor Petrov,” Jimmy said. “They call him the Professor because he used to be one, teaching economics back in Russia somewhere.”
“So maybe Laskin killed Ovetschkin so he could move up the ladder, report directly to Petrov?” Biff asked.
“Laskin’s always been working for The Professor,” Jimmy said. “With Ovetschkin gone, he’s more of a direct report now.”
Biff’s cell rang, another blocked number. “This may be Farishta,” he said to Jimmy. “Or it could be some robo-caller.” Into the phone he said, “Biff Andromeda.”