Rick Mofina - They Disappeared

“Listen up. We can take you downtown right now!”

“That’s a lie!”

“It seems your ex says you violated his visitation rights to see your daughter, Trinity. Something about not showing up, disrespecting the terms of what was ordered by the family court judge.”

“That is so much bull-fucking-shit.”

“Seems he filed a petition with the court and you failed to show at the hearing.”

“He’s a drunk and a deadbeat who hasn’t paid a damn penny in child support. What is the court doing about my violation petition? Are you going to help me with that? Jesus, why’re you getting in my face like this? It’s because of him I gotta work here. All my money goes to lawyers. I’m just trying to make a better life for me and my baby girl.”

“Get some clothes on,” Brewer said. “We’ll talk outside in the fresh air.”

“But I got a show in ten minutes.”

“Let’s go now, Florence,” Brewer said.

She closed the door, bustled about the room before emerging in a full-length leather coat with her bag, leading them out the back to the alley. She rummaged through her bag, produced a cigarette and lighter. A flame flickered. She inhaled deeply, leaned against the stone wall, hugged herself and blew a stream of smoke skyward.

“When was the last time you were with Omarr?” Brewer asked her.

“I have the right to remain silent.”

“You’re not under arrest.”

“Then we’re done.”

“I’ll tell you when we’re done,” Brewer said. “You know about Omarr.”

“That he’s dead, yeah. Bummer.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I didn’t kill him, unless dancing on his crotch is a crime.”

A bright light suddenly stung her eyes.

“Hey! What the fuck!”

Klaver had a flashlight aimed at her.

“You stoned, Florence? That could be a violation,” Brewer said. “You want us to take you downtown, jam you up?”

She was shaking her head to avert the light.

“No, fuck you.”

“How about a little cooperation?”

“Shut that thing off.”

The light went out.

“Now, when was the last time you were with Omarr?”

“The night before they found him dead.”

“Where? What did you do?”

“He came to the bar. He’s a regular. I danced for him. He hired me for overtime. We went to my girlfriend’s place. I did him all night for five hundred and he left in the morning. There, we’re done.” She dropped her cigarette and stubbed it. “I have to go.”

“Not so fast,” Brewer said. “When he came to the bar, was he alone or with anyone else?”

“He was alone.”

Klaver glanced over at Brewer. They knew Aimes had a prepaid cell phone. They couldn’t trace any of his calling history, nor could they find it.

“When you were with him, did he make or receive any calls on his cell phone?”

She said nothing.

“Think, Florence. Think.”

“One. He took one call when he was with me.”

“What did he say, who was he talking to?”

“How the hell should I know? Some shit about a job for some guy.”

Brewer exhaled slowly, struggling to hang on to his patience.

“We see from your file with the court that you’re studying to be a court reporter.”

“I told you I was trying to get out of the life, any law against it?”

“You have to have a good memory for that line of work. Prove to us that you have a good memory, Florence, and maybe we can help you.”

Florence looked at Brewer, considered his offer and blew smoke out the side of her mouth.

“Think about the conversation Omarr had-it was hours before he was killed. Can you remember anything about his end of it?”

The back door to the bar opened, a man’s silhouette filled the doorway.

“Get your ass on the stage, Miss Tangiers!”

Brewer flashed his badge, Klaver revealed his holstered gun. “Police business, back off!” Brewer said.

The man retreated, muttering.

“Think about that call, Florence.”

“He was talking to some guy. It maybe had something to do with making a movie, picking something up for him. I don’t know. He sounded like he was talking about what they were going to do near Times Square. Then after he hung up he called somebody else and says that some guy named Zeta, or Rama, some crazy Albanian or Russian, got a job for them. Big easy money.”

As Klaver wrote it down, Brewer pressed further.

“This Zeta, or Rama, you hear him say anything else about him?”

“No, nothing. I swear that’s all I heard. Look, Omarr wasn’t there to talk, you know.”

Brewer and Klaver let a moment pass.

“We’re going to need you to come downtown and make a statement.”

“But I have one more show.”

“We’ll talk to your boss.”

“And you’ll help me, right?”

“If your information checks out.”

Amsterdam, the Netherlands

Most of the travel magazine’s staff had gone out for lunch.

Alone at his desk, Joost Smit twisted the cap from a bottle of pink stomach remedy and swallowed a mouthful. Grimacing, he resumed rereading the disturbing email on his computer. Joost had received it ten minutes ago from a friend in Turkey who’d noticed a small news story.

Yuri Kripovanosk, corporate security consultant and former reporter with Interfax, the Russian wire service, was dead at fifty-two. He’d been found in an alley near a busy market in Istanbul.

Foul play was not suspected, according to police.

Joost never trusted police statements when it came to the deaths of people he knew. He reached into his valise for his secure cell phone and called a friend in Vienna to see if he had more information. As the line rang, worry swirled in Joost’s mind over Yuri’s death. Yes, Yuri drank too much and when he drank he talked too much. He was the one who’d revealed Joost’s past to Aleena. But he was Joost’s most important associate in his global courier operation. Together they’d amassed sizable fortunes and talked of retiring to Aruba.

Yuri’s network was far more extensive and lucrative than Joost’s and far more dangerous, given that many of his clients were terrorists.

It was Yuri who’d arranged the music box delivery, through his people who’d brought it to Joost yesterday, near-frantic with instructions that it be delivered in New York within twenty-four hours. Yuri provided the emergency contact number to be memorized. For this job, Joost’s share was two hundred thousand euros. Cash. In the standard split. Half now, the remainder upon delivery. Joost did not know who the customer was or what the music box contained, only that it would pass easily through any security checkpoints.

Or so he was told.

And so he’d hoped.

In her last text Aleena had indicated that she’d changed planes in London without a problem and was en route to Newark. That gave Joost a measure of comfort on one front. But the unanswered phone in Vienna deepened his anxiety over Yuri’s death.

Joost hung up and swallowed another mouthful of stomach medicine.

His office phone rang.

The number for the receptionist downstairs displayed. Joost answered.

“Two gentlemen to see you, Mr. Smit.”

“I’m not expecting anyone. Tell them I am in meetings all afternoon.”

Joost hung up, removed his glasses and massaged his tired eyes. He needed to send a wire transfer to his bank in the Cayman Islands.

His line rang. The receptionist again.

“They’re from the KLPD.”

KLPD? That’s the national criminal investigations branch. Joost absorbed the update. “Did they say what it was about?”

“They wouldn’t say. They’re on their way to see you.”