Genie for Hire (16 page)

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 they 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 Ovetschkin, 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.”

“Why do you never say ‘hello, Farishta?’” she asked.

Biff’s heart skipped a beat with relief. “Because you use a
different number every time you call. Are you all right?”

“Of course. I learned something very interesting. You know
of this computer drive with pictures?”

“The ones of Ovetschkin’s wife, Douschka? Yes. Laskin stole
the drive from Sveta. But I stole it back from him and returned it to Sveta.”

“You are a fool, Bivas. But I have known that for centuries.
This drive, it had many pictures, correct?”

He looked over at Jimmy, who was nonchalantly sipping his
Frappuccino, though Biff was sure he could hear every word of the conversation.
“Yes, Farishta.”

“Including pictures of a young girl named Natasha? Petrov’s
daughter?”

Biff sat up straighter in the metal chair. “I didn’t look at
the other pictures. Are you saying that Laskin didn’t steal that drive for
Ovetschkin? He stole it for Petrov. Jesus. It just happened to have Douschka’s
photos on it, too.”

“Now you are intelligent. Too late, of course.”

“So Petrov knew that Sveta had taken dirty pictures of his
daughter, and he ordered Laskin to kill Sveta because of it. But we have no
evidence to prove that.”

“Petrov was very angry with Laskin this morning. That
marijuana shipment he lost was quite valuable. So valuable that he took money
from Laskin’s bank account to cover it.”