Genie for Hire (9 page)

He shook his head. It was hell getting old. And he should
know; he’d been around for centuries. When he got back to his desk he forced
himself to focus. He sat down on the oriental carpet beside his desk, crossed
his legs into the lotus position, and rested his palms on his knees. He closed
his eyes and began to chant the mantra a yogi had taught him in Madras long
before.

When he had entered his meditative state, he allowed the
images and thoughts floating in his brain to appear before him. It took a while
to sort through them—rain, Farishta, the Ovetschkins, the
pelmeni
he’d
had for dinner the night before, a beach in St. Kitts where he had once made
love to a beautiful woman, Sveta, the smell of Joy perfume, the boat in the
Keys where he had last seen Farishta…

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 163
^rd
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 nobody’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.

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.