James Swain - Bad News Travels

Daniels blinked. “We didn’t ask Sykes about that.”

“We didn’t have to. He already gave us the target.”

She brought her hand to her mouth. “Nicki?”

“Correct. Katya stole your niece’s information off your father’s computer, which I’m sure included Nicki’s physical address. That’s how Carrie plans to rip our hearts out. She’s going to tell the Russians to go after your niece.”

“But they’re blackmailers. Killing kids isn’t what they do.”

“Normally I’d agree with you, but this situation is different. I shot Bogdan’s little brother, and he’s not going to let that score go unsettled.”

Daniels wiped away her tears. “I’ll call my sister now. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

He got a call and answered it. “Hey, Carlo. Some friends of mine need protection. Are you available?” He placed the phone against his chest. “Give me Melanie’s address.”

“Do I look okay?” Beth asked.

They were outside the Booty Call, a sleazy strip club in Fort Lauderdale, basking in the lurid pink neon sign that flashed GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! to passing motorists. It was past midnight, the middle of the week, and business was slow, the lot only a third full. A few miles away, Carlo and his men were guarding Melanie and her family.

Beth had dressed down for the occasion, and wore tight-fitting jeans and plenty of makeup. It made her look sexy in a trashy way, not that Lancaster was going to tell her that.

“Perfect for the occasion,” he said. “Is your team in place?”

“They were the last time I checked.”

“Please check again. I don’t want this blowing up in our faces.”

Beth texted her team, and got an immediate response. “All set.”

He offered her a stick of chewing gum, which she declined. “Think of it as part of your disguise,” he said. She smiled, and moments later blew a large bubble.

They entered the club. A woman with enormous cleavage tried to collect the entrance fee. The music was deafening, and he had to shout in her ear.

“I’m here to see Sergey,” he said.

“Nobody here by that name. Ten dollars a head,” the woman said.

“Tell him Jon Lancaster wants to see him.” He faced the security camera in the ceiling, and waved. “Hey, Sergey! I need to talk to you!” To the woman he said, “We go back a long way. Please tell him.”

The woman slid off her stool and moved to the other side of the lobby. She made a call on her cell phone while her back was turned.

Beth leaned into him. “How do you know this guy?”

“He was a snitch that I used a few times.”

“He won’t be suspicious?”

“On the contrary, he should be happy to see me.”

The last time he’d gotten together with Sergey, the diminutive Russian gangster was being squeezed by a pair of drug-dealing Broward County detectives who were forcing his dancers to move cocaine being stolen out of the sheriff’s stockade. Sergey was a seasoned criminal, and knew the score. While these types of arrangements were lucrative on the front end, they often proved deadly, as bad cops were known to put bullets into their partners if things broke bad. Lancaster had worked his magic, and gotten the smuggling operation shut down, forever earning Sergey’s love.

“We’re buds,” he added.

The woman returned. “Sergey says ten minutes. Go have a drink. You still got to pay me.”

“In your dreams,” he said.

Entering the club was like a descent into hell. The pulsating music made his head throb, and the strobe light hurt his eyes. The girls dancing naked on the elevated stage looked strung out, their faces emotionless.

He did a head count while paying for their drinks. Fourteen guys drank at the bar, six more around the club. There was a bouncer built like a linebacker, and two male bartenders. If his memory served him correctly, two of Sergey’s thugs hung out in back, and would enter the club in case of trouble. The magic number of bad guys was five.

He watched the girls doing pole dances while counting his change. Had their parents envisioned this when they’d signed their little darlings up for gymnastics or dance school? Probably not. He found Beth waiting in a booth.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking glasses.

“What kind of wine is this?” she asked.

“It’s a patriotic place. Red, white, and blue wine. I got you red.”

“Thanks. None of the dancers look like the girls that the Sokolov brothers brought to Saint Augustine to work their scam.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“They aren’t showing any Latin Kings tattoos.”

He sipped his beer. When working a case, they complemented each other; the things he missed, Beth picked up on. If the relationship didn’t work out, he supposed they could open a private investigation firm once she grew tired of the FBI’s bullshit. The Donna Summer song ended, and the stage lights began to flash.

“Fire drill?” she asked.

“They’re about to switch dancers. It keeps the customers interested.”

“Do you have a membership?”

If you wanted to solve cases in south Florida, you had to frequent the bars and clubs. The patrons and employees were great sources of information, and could be persuaded to talk for a few drinks, or a generous tip.

“I get around,” he replied.

The new lineup pranced onto the stage, and started bumping and grinding. His eyes locked on the last girl in the line.

“Lissette Diaz just came in. Last girl on the left,” he said.

“I’m not seeing the right tattoo,” Beth said.

“Hold on.”

He went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. While the bartender did the mixing, he edged up to the stage, holding a twenty in his hand. He motioned to the dancer he believed was Lissette. She came over in a flash.

“This is for you,” he said.

“Want to stick it in my G-string?” she asked.

“From behind. I’m an ass man,” he said.

She giggled and spun around. As he slipped the currency into the purple floss separating her cheeks, he got a good close-up of her back. On her right shoulder was the distinct Latin Kings tattoo, covered by a heavy application of makeup. It made sense. A lot of guys hit on dancers in clubs, but no guy would hit on a girl who was part of a gang.

Lissette spun around, blew him a kiss, and pranced away. He paid for the drink and returned to the booth. Beth wore a wry smile.

“Looks like you made a new friend,” she said.

“It’s her,” he said.

The club bouncer approached their booth. No neck, refrigerator body. It was the same thug whose thumb Lancaster had torn up several months ago during an unpleasant encounter. The cast was gone, which was usually a good sign.

“How’s your hand?” he asked.

The bouncer frowned. “I remember you.”

“I’m Jon. This is Beth. Sorry, but I forgot your name.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Don’t be a hater.”

The bouncer motioned for them to follow him. Lancaster found it amusing that Sergey had sent the same thug that he’d roughed up. He guessed that Sergey was trying to teach the guy a lesson, which seemed to be the Russian way of doing things.

Sergey’s office befitted a corporate CEO. Mammoth desk, a large wall covered in HD video monitors, and the newest addition — a portable bar. The little gangster sat in a swivel chair, staring intensely at the monitors.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” he said without turning around. “Andres, make our visitors a drink. What is your pleasure?”

There was a sitting area next to the desk. Beth plopped down on the leather couch and got comfortable. “I could use a scotch, straight up.”

Lancaster sat next to her. “Beer works for me. A cold glass, if you have it.”