Undercover Connection, page 2
Victor Kozak was there, as well. Victor was apparently the rising heir to receive control of the action. He was taller and slimmer than Josef, and he had bright blue eyes and perfectly clipped, salt-and-pepper facial hair. He was extremely pleasant to Jasmine—so pleasant that it made her feel uneasy.
She knew about them all somewhat because she had talked to Mary about what she was doing. She had warned Mary that there was suspicion about the group on South Beach that ran so many of the events that called for runway models or beautiful people just to be in a crowd. Beautiful people who, it was rumored, you could engage to spend time with privately. Mary had described many of these players before Jasmine had met them.
Before Mary had disappeared.
The club manager was behind the bar; he didn’t often work that kind of labor himself. He usually oversaw what was going on there. He was like the bodyguards—solid, watching, earning his way up the ranks.
Still watching, Jasmine made another of her teasing plays with Jorge—pointing out the next model who was coming down the runway. Kari Anderson was walking along in a black caftan that accented the fairness of her skin and the platinum shimmer of her hair. Jorge stood perfectly still; only his eyes moved, drawing laughter from the crowd.
As Jasmine did her turn around, she noted a man at the bar. She did not know him, or anything about him. He was a newcomer, Kari had told her. A big man in New York City. He was taller and leaner than any of the other men, and yet Jasmine had the feeling that he was steel-muscled beneath the designer suit he was wearing. He hadn’t close-cropped his hair either; it was long, shaggy around his ears, a soft brown.
He was definitely the best looking of the bunch. His face was crafted with sharp clean contours, high defined cheekbones, a nicely squared chin and wide-set, light eyes. He could have been up on the runway, playing “pretty boy” with Jorge.
But of course, newcomer though he might be, he’d be one of “them.” He’d recently come to South Beach, pretending to be some kind of an artist and owning and operating a gallery.
The hair. Maybe he believed that would disguise him as an artist—rather than a murdering criminal.
When she had made another turn, after pausing to do a synchronized turn with Kari, she saw that the new guy had left the bar area, along with the bartender. They were near Josef Smirnoff now.
Allowed into the inner circle.
Just as she noticed them, a loud crack rang out. The sound was almost masked by the music.
People didn’t react.
Instinct and experience told Jasmine that it was indeed a gunshot. She instantly grabbed hold of Kari and dragged her down to the platform, all but lying over her. Another shot sounded; a light exploded in a hail of sparks. Then the rat-tat-tat of bullets exploded throughout the room.
The crowd began to scream and move.
There was nothing orderly about what happened—people panicked. It was hard not to blame them. It was a fearsome world they lived in.
“Stay down!” Jasmine told Kari, rising carefully.
Jorge was already on the floor, trying to help up a woman who had fallen, in danger of being trampled.
Bodyguards and police hired for the night were trying to bring order. Jasmine jumped into the crowd, trying to fathom where the shots had been fired. It was a light at the end of the runway that had exploded; where the other shot had come from was hard to discern.
The band had panicked, as well. A guitar crashed down on the floor.
Josef Smirnoff was on the ground, too. His bodyguards were near, trying to hold off the people who were set to run over him.
It was an absolute melee.
Jasmine helped up a young man, a white-faced rising star in a new television series. He tried to thank her.
“Get out, go—walk quickly,” she said.
There were no more shots. But would they begin again?
She made her way to Smirnoff, ducking beneath the distracted bodyguards. She knelt by him as people raced around her.
“Josef?” she said, reaching for his shoulder, turning him over.
Blood covered his chest. There was no hope for the man; he was already dead, his eyes open in shock. There was blood on her now, blood on the designer gown she’d been wearing, everywhere.
She looked up; Jorge had to be somewhere nearby. Instead she saw a man coming after her, reaching for her as if to attack.
She rolled quickly, avoiding him once. But as she prepared to fight back, she felt as if she had been taken down by a linebacker. She stared up into the eyes of the long-haired newcomer; bright blue eyes, startling against his face and dark hair. She felt his hands on her, felt the strength in his hold.
No. She was going to take him down.
She jackknifed her body, letting him use his own weight against himself, causing him to crash into the floor.
He was obviously surprised. It took him a second—but only a second—to spin himself. He was back on his feet in a hunched position, ready to spring at her.
Where the hell is Jorge?
She feinted as if she would dive down to the left and dived to the right instead. She caught the man with a hard chop to the abdomen that should have stolen his breath.
He didn’t give. She was suddenly tackled again, down on the ground, feeling the full power of the man’s strength atop her. She stared up into his blue eyes, glistening like ice at the moment.
She realized the crowd was gone; she could hear the bustle at the doorway, hear the police as they poured in at the entrance.
But right there, at that moment, Josef Smirnoff lay dead in an ungodly pool of blood—blood she wore—just feet away.
And there was this man.
And herself.
“Hey!” Thank God, Jorge had found her. He dived down beside them, as if joining the fight. But he didn’t help Jasmine; he made no move against the man. He lay next to her, as if he’d just also been taken down himself.
“Stop! FBI, meet MDPD. Jasmine, he’s undercover. Jacob... Jasmine is a cop. My partner,” Jorge whispered urgently.
The man couldn’t have looked more surprised. Then, he made a play of socking Jorge, and Jorge lay still. The man stood and dragged Jasmine to her feet. For a long moment he looked into her eyes, and then he wrenched her elbow behind her back.
“Play it out,” he said, “nothing else to do.”
“Sure,” Jasmine told him.
And as he led her out—toward Victor Kozak, who now stood in the front, ready to take charge, Jasmine managed to twist and deliver a hard right to his jaw.
He stared at her, rubbing his jaw with his free hand.
“Play it out,” she said softly.
The Feds always thought they knew more than the locals, whether they were team people or not. He’d probably be furious. He’d want to call the shots.
But at least his presence meant that the Feds had been aware of this place. They had listened to the police, and they had sent someone in. It was probably what Jorge had been trying to tell her.
Jacob was still staring at her. Well, she did have a damned good right hook.
To her surprise, he almost seemed to smile. “Play it out,” he said. And to her continued surprise, he added, “You are one hell of a player!”
Chapter Two
“Someone knew,” Jorge said. “Someone knew that Smirnoff came in—that he was selling them all out.”
“Maybe,” Jacob Wolff said. He was sitting on the sofa in Jasmine’s South Beach apartment.
She didn’t know why, but it bothered her that he was there. So comfortable. So thoughtful. But it hadn’t been until now, with him in her apartment, that she really understood what was going on.
Two weeks ago, Josef Smirnoff had made contact with Dean Jenkins, a special agent assigned to the Miami office. Jenkins had gone to his superiors, and from there, Jacob Wolff had been called in. Among his other talents, he was a linguist, speaking Russian, Ukrainian, Spanish, Portuguese and French, including Cajun and Haitian Creole. He also knew a smattering of Czech and Polish. And German, enough to get by.
Maybe that’s why she was resenting him. No one should be that accomplished.
No, it was simply because he had taken her by surprise.
“Maybe someone knew,” Wolff said. He added, “And maybe not.”
“If not, why—?” Jorge asked.
Wolff leaned forward. “Because,” he said softly, “I believe that Kozak set up that hit. Not because he knew about anything that Smirnoff had done, but because he’s been planning on taking over. Perhaps for some time.
“Smirnoff came in to us because he was afraid—he’d been the boss forever, but he knew how that could end if a power play went down. He was afraid. He wanted out. Kozak was the one who wanted Smirnoff out. And he figured out how to do it—and make it look as if he was as pure as the driven snow in the whole thing himself. He was visible to dozens of people when Smirnoff was killed. He played his cards right. There were plenty of cops there today, in uniform. What better time to plan an execution, when he wouldn’t look the least guilty? In this crime ring, he was definitely the next man up—vice president, if you will.”
“The thing is, if Kozak figures out something is up, we’re all in grave danger,” Jorge pointed out. “Undercover may not work.”
“Jorge, undercover work is the only thing that might bring them down,” Jasmine protested.
She was leaning against the archway between the living-dining area of the apartment and the kitchen. It was late; she was tired. But it had been the first chance for the three of them to talk.
After the chaos, everyone had been interviewed by the police. Stars—the glittering rich and famous and especially the almost-famous—had done endless interviews with the press, as well. Thankfully, there had been plenty of celebrities to garner attention. Jasmine, Jorge and Jacob Wolff had all managed to avoid being seen on television, but still, maintaining their cover had meant they were there for hours.
She’d been desperate to shower, and her blood-soaked gown had gone to the evidence locker.
In the end, they’d been seen leaving together, but that had been all right. Everyone knew that Jorge was Jasmine’s friend—she’d brought him into the show, after all.
And as for Jacob Wolff...
“You shouldn’t have made that show of going off with us in front of Victor Kozak,” she said, glaring at Wolff. She realized her tone was harsh. Too harsh. But this was her apartment—or, at least, her cover persona’s apartment—and she felt like a cat on a hot tin roof while he relaxed comfortably on her rented couch.
She needed to take a deep breath; start over with the agent.
He didn’t look her way, just shrugged. “I told Ivan, the bartender, I wanted to get to know you. They believe I’m an important player out of New York. Right now, they’re observing me. And they believe if they respect me, I’ll respect them, play by their rules. I’m supposed to be a money launderer—I’m not into many of their criminal activities, including prostitution or any form of modern slavery. My cover is that of an art dealer with dozens of foreign ties.
“Before all this went down tonight, I was trying to befriend Ivan, who apparently manages the girls. I’m trying to figure out how the women are entangled in their web. Apparently, they move slowly. Most probably, with drugs. Before all this went down tonight, I’d asked about you, Jasmine, as if taking advantage of the ‘friendship’ they’ll offer me. He said you weren’t available yet, but that all good things come in time, or something to that effect. He’ll think I took advantage of the situation instead—and that I’m offering you all the comfort a man in my position can offer.”
“Really?” Jasmine asked. “But I was with Jorge.”
Wolff finally looked at her, waving a hand in the air. “Yes, and they all know you two are friends, and that it’s normal you would have left with Jorge. But Jorge is gay.”
“That’s what you told them?” Jasmine asked.
“I am gay,” Jorge said, shrugging.
Jasmine turned to him. “You are? You never told me.”
“You never asked. Hey, we’re great partners. I never asked who you were dating. Oh, wait, you never do seem to date.”
Jasmine could have kicked him. “Hey!” she protested. Great. She felt like an idiot. She and Jorge were close, but...it was true. They’d been working together for a while, they were friends. Just friends. And because of that, she hadn’t thought to ask—
It didn’t matter. They’d both tacitly known from the beginning as partners they’d never date each other, and neither had ever thought to ask the other about their love life.
She had to draw some dignity out of this situation.
“At least we did the expected,” she said. “I guarantee we were watched. Oh, and by the way, Ivan Petrov controls the venue. But Natasha really runs the models. She gives the assignments, and she’s the one who hands out the paychecks.”
Wolff looked at her. “You’re going to have to be very careful. From all that I’ve been told, she’s been with this enterprise from the beginning. She may be almost as powerful as Kozak himself. When Natasha got into it, she wasn’t manipulated into sex work. She used sex as an investment. She came into it as a model, slept with whomever they wanted—and worked her way up to Kozak.”
“I am careful,” Jasmine told him. “I’m a good cop—determined, but not suicidal.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So, this is all as good as it can be,” Wolff said, shaking his head. “What matters most here tonight is that we’ve lost Smirnoff, our informant. And we’ve still got to somehow get into this and take them all down. We have to take Kozak down, with all the budding lieutenants, too. My position with this group is pretty solid—the Bureau does an amazing job when it comes to inventing a history. But the fashion show is over. The opening is over. The club will be closed down for a few days.”
“I’ll have an in, don’t worry. The last words from Natasha this evening had to do with us all reporting in tomorrow—for one, to return the clothing. For another, to find out where we go from here.” Jasmine hesitated.
“They haven’t asked you to entertain anyone yet?” Wolff asked.
“New girls get a chance to believe they’re just models. After that, they’re asked to escort at certain times, and, of course, from there...”
“We’ll have this wrapped up before then,” Jorge assured her.
“And if not, you’ll just get the hell out of it,” Wolff said.
“You don’t have to be protective. I’ve been with the Special Investigations Division for three years now, and I’ve dealt with some pretty heinous people,” Jasmine told him.
“I’ve dealt with them, too,” Wolff said quietly. “And I spent this afternoon up in the Everglades, a plot of godforsaken swamp with a bunch of oil drums filled with bodies. And I’ve been FBI for almost a decade. That didn’t make today any better.”
“I’m not saying anything makes it better. I’m just saying I can take care of myself,” Jasmine said.
She really hadn’t meant to be argumentative. But she did know what she was doing, and throughout her career, she’d learned it was usually the people who felt the need to emphasize their competency who were the ones who weren’t so sure of their competency after all. She was confident in her abilities—or, at least she had thought she was.
With this Fed, she was becoming defensive. She hated the feeling.
“Guys, guys! Time-out,” Jorge said.
Wolff stood, apparently all but dismissing her. “I’m heading back to my place. Most days, I’ll be hanging around a real art shop that’s supposedly mine. Dolphin Galleries.”
He handed Jorge a card, then turned to look at Jasmine. “Feel free to watch out for me. In my mind, no one cop can beat everything out there. We all need people watching our backs. I’m more than happy to know I have MDPD in deep with me.”
His words didn’t help in the least; Jasmine still felt like a chastised toddler. What made it worse was the fact he was right. They did need to look out for one another.
She wanted to apologize. They had met awkwardly. She wasn’t brash, she wasn’t an idiot—she was a team player. But despite his words, she had the sense that he was already doubting her.
“I’ll be hanging as close as I can,” he said. “The woman managing the shop, Katrina Partridge, is with us. If you need me and I’m not there, just ask her. I trust her with my life.”
He didn’t look back. If he had done so, Jasmine was certain, it would have been to look at Jorge with pity for having been paired with her.
When Jacob was gone, she strode to the door and slid the bolts. She had three.
“Jerk!” she said. She turned back into the room and flounced down on the sofa.
“Not really. Just bad circumstances,” Jorge said, taking a seat beside her. “I, uh, actually like the guy.”
She looked at him. “I don’t dislike him. I don’t really know him.”
“Could have fooled me.”
She ignored that. “Jorge, how did it happen? We were all there. The place was spilling over with cops. And someone shot and killed Smirnoff—with all of us there—and we don’t know who or how.”
“They were counting on the place being filled with cops, Jasmine. Detectives will be on the case and our crime scene techs will find a trajectory for the bullet that killed him. We do our part, they do theirs. Thing is, whoever killed him, they were just the working part of the bigger machine. We have to get to the major players—Kozak, whoever else. Not that the man or woman who was pulling the trigger shouldn’t serve life, but...it won’t matter.”
“No, it won’t matter,” she agreed. What they needed to do was find Mary. She nodded.
