James Swain - Bad News Travels

Andres’s eyes flared, and he started to say something. His judgment got the better of him, and his angry response stayed buried. Sergey told him to shut the door after the drinks were served. Andres gave them a parting scowl.

Lancaster raised his glass to his lips. A tiny particle dislodged off the bottom and rose to the top, where it fizzled and popped. It could have been nothing, or it could have been a knockout drug. Revenge being a dish best served cold, he placed the glass on the coffee table. Beth did the same with her drink.

“How’s business?” he asked.

“My employees are robbing me blind,” their host replied. “The bartenders steal from the till, the girls take whatever isn’t nailed down. I’d like to shoot all of them, but then I’d have to shut down. Who is your lady friend? What does she do?”

“My name’s Elizabeth, and I’m a dancer,” Beth said.

“Wonderful. Two dancers quit at my other club. When can you start?”

“How about tomorrow night?”

“You have yourself a deal.”

Lancaster had thought the Booty Call was Sergey’s only operation. Perhaps the other members of the Latin Kings were dancing at the second club, instead of here with Lissette. He grabbed his beer and edged up to Sergey’s chair.

“I thought this was your only club,” he said casually. “Did you expand?”

“Yes, and I’m getting ripped off there as well.”

Sergey pointed a remote at the monitors. One by one, the screens changed, showing the interior of the second club. It was smaller, with a horseshoe-shaped stage, and a bar running against the wall. Two Hispanic dancers were bumping and grinding for the sparse crowd. It was all about tips, and their G-strings were hurting for cash. In desperation, one girl got on her knees, and ran her tongue against her partner’s buttocks. Her shoulder turned to the camera, exposing the Latin Kings branding.

“What’s your new club called?” Lancaster asked.

Sergey did not respond. Lancaster waited a beat before looking at his host. The Russian gangster was staring at Beth with a murderous intensity.

“She’s a cop, isn’t she?” he said, seething.

“How could you tell?”

“She doesn’t look like a slut.”

Beth rose, and flashed her credentials. “FBI. Jon tells me you’re a reasonable guy. Play ball with us, and we’ll go light on you. Our interest is with your partners.”

“You come into my club, and threaten me? Big mistake.” Sergey’s hand fell onto the laptop on his desk. His fingers were a blur. “I’m alerting my men.”

“So am I.” Beth sent a text on her cell phone. “You lose. See for yourself.”

Sergey switched monitors back to the Booty Call. The patrons had subdued the bouncers and bartenders, and were handcuffing them. They’d slapped badges onto their shirts, and several were wielding firearms. Sergey’s men were outnumbered three to one.

“Those are your men,” Sergey said.

“Good deduction,” Beth said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“And lose the element of surprise? I wasn’t born last night, asshole. You’re under arrest. Put your hands where I can see them.”

Andres entered the office without knocking. “We are under siege.”

“Go in there and fight them!” Sergey roared.

“I quit,” the bouncer said, and walked out.

The willingness of a suspect to talk was directly related to the number of charges against them. In Lissette Diaz’s case, this included blackmail, extortion, and prostitution, which combined could land her ten to fifteen years in the big house.

Lissette was led out of the Booty Call with the other dancers, and made to get into a van. She wore a baggy sweatshirt and shorts, her wrists shackled. She looked scared.

“What do you think? Will she talk?” Daniels asked.

They were standing in the parking lot beneath the cloudless night sky. Jon had grabbed a fresh beer from the bar in Sergey’s office, and it was nearly gone. He waited until Lissette was in a van before replying. “It all depends on how we squeeze her.”

“You have something in mind?”

Jon explained his plan. It was sneaky, and just might do the trick.

“I’m in,” she said.

“Let her sit for a few minutes. Then pull her out.”

“Why? To torture her?”

“She’s done time. Let her remember what it’s like not to have your freedom.”

They took her to a swanky gastropub that stayed open late and served pricy pub grub and endless refills of a local brew called Funky Buddha. They let her order off the menu, and she picked the calamari tower and beef sliders appetizers. It was an hour before closing, and the place was quiet. The waiters and waitresses stood at the bar, chatting away.

Their drinks came. Lissette had ordered an IPA with a high alcohol content. Daniels hated the bitter taste of IPAs, and she’d decided that they were popular because they got you drunk quicker. Her phone vibrated. It was Melanie. She excused herself and walked away to take the call.

“Hey! Are you okay?” she asked.

“We’re fine. Carlo handed us off to your team, and they put us in a suite at the Bahia Mar,” Melanie said. “Nicki keeps sneaking outside to the hallway to talk to the agents standing guard.”

“About what?”

“She wants to become an FBI agent. Please tell me you’ll talk her out of it.”

“Do you really think she’ll listen to me?”

“Well, she certainly won’t listen to me.”

“I’ll try. Is that why you called?”

“Always cutting to the chase. No, I called because I wanted to see how your investigation was going. Are we going to be able to go home anytime soon?”

“I sure hope so. I’m interrogating a suspect right now. I’ll call you in the morning, and give you an update.”

“Our father really screwed up, didn’t he?”

Daniels wiped away a tear. “Dad got caught up in a bad situation. I’m not going to blame him for what happened, and neither should you. He was human.”

“Thanks, Beth. Good luck with your interrogation.”

Daniels returned to the table. The food had arrived, the calamari a tower of fried seafood doused in a magic sauce, the sliders sizzling hot. Lissette ate her fill and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I’m twenty-five years old, and I’ve been in jail four times,” she confessed. “You tell me what you want to know, and I’ll give it to you.”

It was a wonderful opening line, but Lissette’s sincerity was in doubt. Taking out her cell phone, Daniels pulled up a video of Sykes giving a taped confession at the FBI’s Jacksonville office. Sykes’s clothes were rumpled, and he sported gray stubble on his chin that clashed with his jet-black hair. She stuck the phone in Lissette’s face.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Daniels said.

Lissette’s playful demeanor evaporated. “You arrested Sykes?”

“I’ll ask the questions. But yes, we did arrest Sykes. And he was smart enough to give us a full confession. You’re in a world of trouble, Lissette.”

Lissette placed her hand against her chest in surprise. “What did I do?”

“You brought those girls from the Latin Kings gang to Saint Augustine for the purpose of blackmailing a bunch of rich old men,” Daniels said. “That’s human trafficking. Each girl you brought will bring you ten years in prison. Add five more years for extortion and prostitution, and you’re looking at over thirty years.”

Daniels had overstated the crimes against Lissette, which was part of the ruse. Lissette brought her napkin to her mouth. She looked ready to puke. “Did Sykes tell you that?” she asked accusingly.

“Yes. He said you were running the operation, ” Daniels said.