I point my gun at her. “Now it’s your baby! Now all of a sudden, you give a flying fuck!”
Her eyes red with tears, her muscles tighten. She’s crying so hard her body is trembling. “Please kill me! I deserve to die for what I’ve done.”
“People like you don’t deserve death. You deserve to suffer and live with what you’ve done.” I turn to my partner. “Donovan, get some agents down here. This place is closed for business. Watch her, don’t you let that fucking bitch leave.”
“You got it, Lobos.”
Elliot is on the far end of the room, slumped down in a ragged recliner, oblivious to me hammering the Mother of the Year’s nose. I storm over to him. “Elliot, it’s me, Devora.”
“Shit, Dev. I did not know yous back in town,” he slurs, smiling.
“Elliot, I need to ask you some questions.”
“Sure… go ahead, girl.”
“Elliot, do you know anything about a DEA agent that turned up dead after meeting my brother or the Harvesters?”
“Oh, no! Dev, leave this shit alone, man. Leave this city now and don’t look back. It will eat your soul. The demons that dwell here will eat your beautiful soul. The demons have many faces here.”
“That’s sweet of you to want to protect me, but I need to know for my brother’s sake.”
He shakes his head. “Your brother is mixed up with the Harvesters?”
“That’s what I need to know. You used to be his guitarist.”
“You listen to me right now.” His face becomes severe. “I ditched your brother when I found out he was mingling with Russian Mobsters. I told him I want to rock out, you know, but not at the cost of selling our fucking souls to the devil. So I told him I was done. I’m going my own way. Then one day, as I was sitting in my condo, Russians broke into my home, killed my wife, and pumped me full of heroin, and the next day I woke up in jail being investigated for my wife’s death. He’s not your brother anymore, Dev. He killed his soul.”
“Did they ever make it stick?” I say, lighting a cigarette. I offer him a smoke.
He takes it and slips it between his lips, lights it, and takes a drag, exhaling smoke. Elliot nods. “No… no, they never convicted me for it, but in show business, accusations are all it takes to ruin you.”
“What the fuck? The courts found you not guilty,” Roy says, walking up after cuffing the junkie mother.
He laughs and glances at me. “Was he born yesterday, Dev?” He turns back to him. “What can I say, man. Showbiz isn’t as fair as the justice system. Guilty until proven guilty is the motto of this industry.”
“I’m really sorry, Elliot. Does Raul know you were found not guilty?”
He tucks his leg up into the chair, resting his arm on his knee. “Yup, and wouldn’t let me back in. Told me my rep is stained and didn’t want it staining the band’s image.” He gestures at me with a cigarette between his two fingers. “You know, you try to do the right thing and be a law-abiding citizen and look where it got me. I should’ve played ball. My wife would still be alive, and I would’ve still had a career.”
“Wrong, you’d be going to prison or dead because Raul and the Russians are being watched by the FBI and DEA.”
“Good. I mean, no offense, Dev, I know he’s your brother and all, but I hope the son of a bitch gets what he deserves for turning his back on me. I mean, I was there with him when we were starting out in a garage, remember?”
I lower my head and nod. “Yeah, I remember. We drove my mom crazy.” I manage a smile.
He laughs half-heartedly. “Those were better days. Better than these days.” He sobs. “I wish I could just hit the reset button and start fresh.”
“You have to make better days, Elliot.”
“Why not go solo?” Roy interjects.
He sobs. “I can’t! Russians told me they’d kill me if I went solo. They said I am to never pick up another instrument again.”
Goddamn it. I want to strangle the shit out of my brother now.
“Back to the Harvesters. Is my brother handing groupies off to them for money?”
Smoke billows from his nostrils and flicks a bit of ash on the floor. “You know… if you’d asked me a few years ago, I’d have said no, but now I ain’t so sure anymore.” He leans forward, shaking his head. “… He’s changed, Dev. I wouldn’t be a bit shocked if he was mixed up in that Black Market organ shit.”
“Alright, Elliot, I want you to get yourself into a rehab clinic and get that shit out of your system.”
He scoffs. “Why? My career is gone, and so is my wife. Her murderer is walking streets free as a fucking bird, laughing, fucking, eating, and breathing. I love ya, Dev. But my life is fucked, so save your breath.”
I leap in his face. “Goddamn it, Elliot. Do you think your wife would want this life for you? Sitting around wasting away on this shit!”
Tears pool in the corners of his eyes as he takes another drag. “Amelia’s dead,” he says coldly.
You kill a man. You condemn him to death. You kill his heart. You condemn him to a life of hell.
“Listen, Elliot. My agents will be here any minute, so I suggest you get lost. After all, a dead toddler in your drug den won’t look good for you.” I drop my cigarette on the floor, squashing it. “Roy, let’s leave Elliot to his suicide pact.”
That’s the least I can do for an old friend and a damn good CI. I knew Elliot from his days of playing the bass guitar back when my brother was just a garage band. We spent my last night as a civilian partying our asses off. Elliot was so drunk he walked up and kissed me. His girlfriend was not too happy. I ended up going to boot camp with a hangover… fun times.
We exit the building and enter the car. “Let’s go talk to Jerry Dermot,” I call up the PI. The phone rings several times, then cuts to voice mail. “Mr. Dermot, this is Special Agent Devora Lobos with the DEA. We need to talk. Call me back at this number ASAP.” I hang up my phone.
“That’s just fucking great, no answer.”
“So, now what?”
“We go grab a bite to eat and wait on him to call back.”
***
I’m half-way to the diner when my cell rings. It’s my brother; I’m tempted to not answer after all the shit I’ve heard about him, but I’m his sister; I owe him the benefit of the doubt. “What’s up, Raul?”
“Devi, Crimson is dead. My best friend is dead! Oh god, what the fuck!”
Your best friend was also Elliot Hagan, asshole.
“Calm down. Where are you?”
“I’m over on South Pointe Beach where they found the body.”
“I’m on my way,” I hang up the phone.
I glance at Roy. “Raul’s guitarist was just killed and dumped on the beach,” I say, finishing the last of the coffee.
“You think Elliot might have killed him?”
“Doubt it. Elliot is a junkie, but he’s no killer. My money is on someone who hates my brother’s band, a crazed fan, or one of the Russian’s rivals.”
“If your brother wasn’t mixed up in this shit with the Russians, I’d put my money on a crazed fan, but I’m 99.9% sure it’s the Russian’s rivals. Damn, how can he be stupid?”
I glower at him. “Slow your roll, partner.”
“I’m sorry, Devi. I know this has to be killing you inside.”
No fucking shit, asshole.
“Don’t be. He’s fucking stupid. I’m just hoping that’s the only way he got mixed up in this shit is stupidity.”
Chapter 5
11:00am, South Pointe Beach
A Miami PD detective and the Coroner stand inside the yellow crime scene tape examining the body. Exiting the car, we walk up to the crime scene, where we’re stopped by a bicycle cop in a black and yellow uniform. “I’m Special Agent Lobos, and this is Special Agent Donovan, DEA.”
“DEA? Is this a drug-related crime?”
“No comment. Were there any witnesses?”
He places his hands on his hip. “I in
terviewed the people in the area, and nobody saw anything.”
“Thank you, officer,” I say, stepping under the yellow tape. I approach a middle-aged dad bod detective wearing a red dress shirt with a brown leather shoulder rig holster and brown khaki pants. “Special Agent Lobos,” I say, flashing my badge.
He adjusts his Ivory Cuban style fedora. “DEA? Is this murder drug-related?”
“We don’t know that yet; it’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“Look, Agent Lobos. I know your agency and the FBI are trying to connect the Hellraisers with the Volkov Crime organization. So you stop the act.”
“Well, then. Tell us what you have so far, Detective…?”
“Sanz. So far, we know the victim was killed in the wee hours of the morning when people were in their drunk comas that places the time around 3am. The forensics guys told us the killer shot from point-blank range with a 9mm hollow point. Judging by the powder burns on the back of his head, the suspect walked up behind Crimson, put two in the back of his head, and kept strolling down the beach. Poor guy didn’t even see it coming.”
I slip on a pair of latex gloves and kneel at the body and see two dime-sized holes in a tight grouping in the back of his skull burn marks on the edges of the wounds. “Did anyone hear any gunshots?”
“Nah. So it’s safe to say the murderer used a suppressor.”
“Detective, you got yourself an honest to god professional hit here. So who do we know can hire that kind of talent?”
He scoffs. “Hell, Russians, Cubans, Jewish Mafia, Mexican Cartel, take your pick, agents.”
“Does this beach have surveillance cameras?” Roy asks.
“No.”
“Shit! You’d think in a post 9/11 world there’d be cameras on the beach.”
“Si, one would think.”
“Thanks for your time, Detective.”
“No problem, Agent Lobos.”
I walk over to Raul, who is leaning against the rail smoking with a look of dread on his face. He looks me up and down. “Devi, what the fuck? You’re DEA again?”
I glare at him. “You and I need to talk, now,” I say, motioning him to follow me; we head to my car. “So tell me what happened to Crimson.”
“We were at this nightclub called Rage, and we were having drinks, getting hammered, and dancing, and Crimson met this girl. He told me we were going for a walk on the beach, well knowing Crimson like I do that meant he got a ‘hook up’ That was the last I saw him alive.”
“What’s the girl’s name?”
“Giselle, I think.”
I cross my arms, glaring at him. “You think?”
“Hey, don’t look at me like that, okay. These girls come to us to party and get banged out by a rock star. We’re lucky if we even remember to get their first names.”
“Okay, what did this girl look like?”
He closes his eyes. “Um, okay. She was average built, long green hair, Asian chick. She was short, probably 5’3 or 5’4. And damn, she had some nice tits, and boy, she could suck start a—”
“Yeah, I got it, Raul, green-haired Asian chick named Giselle short average built.”
“How old was she?”
“Eighteen, maybe nineteen tops.”
“Well, Roy. Looks like we got someone who may identify our shooter.”
“It’s not actually a lead if we don’t know her last name, Devora.”
Raul laughs at Donavon’s statement. “Shit, my dude. This chick is easy to find, bro. Just go to the Rage club between 9pm and 4am. This chick is a total cock hound.”
My eyes bore into him as if I was trying to set him on fire with my mind. “Now, I want to ask you something, and you better be straight up with me.”
He stares at me, puzzled. “Um, okay.”
“I need you to tell me about Miranda Milton. She was murdered after leaving your hotel.”
Tears fill his eyes. “Oh shit! Miranda’s dead? Wait a minute, how come the DEA is talking to me rather than the cops. I mean, Miranda was just my girlfriend.”
I roll my eyes. “Your girlfriend was DEA, hermano.”
He furrows his brow. “What the fuck was she working me?”
“No,” Donovan adds.
Time to bust down that wall he’s built around his other life. “I want you to look at some photographs and tell me what you think.” I open my car door, pull the pics out of the file, and hand them to him. “These were photos taken of you by some of our agents.”
His eyes become wide with shock. He drops on the ground, sobbing. “Shit,” he whispers.
“Raul, what the hell are you doing with the Russian Crime boss Radomir Volkov?”
“I-I used to play in his club, and he knew about our struggle to get famous, and he agreed to help us achieve stardom if we did some work for him.”
“What kind of work?”
He puts his head down into his legs. “I don’t want to say it’s too horrible.”
“Horrible as in throwing your best friend Elliot to the wolves? All for the sake of your stardom.”
“It’s not my fucking fault his wife is dead, and he’s a junkie! I told him, ride this out; there is light at the end of the tunnel. Let’s just use these guys for now, and then we ditch ’em later on.”
“Raul, you don’t crawl into bed with a man like Volkov and then just crawl back out. Surely you’re not this dumb, bro?”
“I had a plan, okay. Everything would’ve been fine with Elliot had he stuck to the Goddamn plan!”
“It was a stupid plan, and Elliot saw that, and he tried to walk away, but Volkov wasn’t having it, right?”
He lowers his head. “That’s it in a nutshell, hermana.”
I exhale in irritation. “Raul, I need you to cooperate here, or things go really badly for you in the future.”
“The other horrible things I’ve done are D-drug trafficking, luring healthy groupies to us so the Russians can take them to the Harvesters; then after they empty the bodies, Volkov’s people use the bodies to smuggle drugs in. Oh shit, I really fucked up, Devi. Looking back, I wish I never even picked up a microphone.”
My jaw tightens, my fists clench, a red mist forms over my eyes. It was a mistake coming back to Miami.
He looks up at me. “I’m sorry, Devi.” I belt him in the nose. He falls over, grabbing his beak. “You stupid, pathetic fucking, asshole!” I kick him in the stomach. He burst into a fit of coughs. “Your best friend is a junkie, and people are dead! All because you wanted your precious fame. Your fucking rock star life!”
I’m tempted to let the DEA eat him alive for their dead agent because right now, I’m having a hard time seeing him as my brother.
“Donovan, cuff him and take him back to the hotel and wait for me.”
“What are you going to do?” he says, putting him in irons.
“I’m going to look for this Giselle lady.”
“Devi, you can’t arrest me; I have a concert tomorrow.”
I grab him by the throat. “You got bigger worries than a concert. Get him out of here before I do something I regret,” I say, getting into my Dodge.
“What the hell am I supposed to drive him back to the hotel in?”
“Call an Uber!” I climb into my car and put my brother in the rearview.
I pop open my pill bottle of my Xanax and toss one in my mouth, biting down on the capsule. Now I wait for that sweet, numb feeling.
I had to get out of there before I beat my brother to death. Truth is, I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. Part of me wants to throw him to the wolves, and the other part of me wants to protect him from the Russians and DEA. Either way, this is not something I want to decide on while sober.
Chapter 6
11:30am, The Rage Club
I prop up the bar and sip my glass of rum. The more and more I learn about what my brother has been doing, the more fucked I realize he is. “Bartender! Another glass,” I say, tapping the rim. I take a drag from my smoke; glanci
ng around the club, there’s barely anybody in here except for the bartender and a few early bird drunks.
He sits my glass down in front of me. “Here you go.”
Smoke blows from my nose, and I take a sip of my drink.
“Is there anything else I can getcha?”
I smile at him. “Information would be nice.”
He rests his arms on the bar. “Information?”
“Yeah, you know a barfly named Giselle? She was in here with a rock band called the Hellraisers last night.”
“Maybe, depends on who’s asking.”
“Special Agent Lobos of the DEA.”
“Yes, she was in here last night, took Crimson out to the beach.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“I’ve driven her home a few times when she’s had too much to drink.”
“Can you write down her address?”
He looks at me, worried. “Is she is in some kind of trouble?”
“She may have valuable information on a murder last night, and if she does, she needs protection.”
“One second, let me get something to write on.” He hands me a sticky note with her address and her last name.
Giselle Yang NW 31st turn left on Street B Bright red trailer.
“Thank you,” I say, gulping down the last of my drink and head to the address.
I got to get to her fast because odds are the hitman knows she’s a witness and coming to tie off the loose end.
***
I arrive at Giselle’s house, which sits in the middle of a rundown trailer park ghetto plagued by Latin kings. Advancing to the door.
Someone forced it open.
I draw my gun and push it open with my foot and see a man standing there in a ski mask. The woman falls over dead with a needle in her arm, convulsing, frothing from the mouth. He turns around, glaring at me through his soulless eyes. “Privet, Special Agent Devora Lobos. Unfortunately, you’re too late for poor Giselle. She had a bit too much H. I tried to tell her that stuff was going to be the death of her, but you know kids today they don’t listen.” His Russian accent was heavy, but he articulated clearly.
The Harvesters Page 3