Lost(14)

I looked down at her pretty, lifeless face. Somehow I felt responsible. At the same time, I was pissed. Who did this asshole think he was?

I stood up and backed away from the body. I looked at Chill and said, “How do you feel about doing something the FBI wouldn’t approve of?”

“To tell you the truth, I do that every day. Just on principle.”

I smiled. The ATF agent didn’t say much, but I was getting the idea that he’d be useful in an insurrection. People like that are hard to find.





CHAPTER 17





A FEW HOURS later, I found myself on Biscayne Boulevard in front of a beautiful skyscraper overlooking the bay. It housed the headquarters of AEI Enterprises, and I cringed when I realized that it also housed the law offices of Robert Gould, the man who was now married to my ex-fiancée.

Chill met me in the lobby. He’d thrown on a sports coat and looked remarkably professional. I was still wearing my 5.11 Tactical pants with my gun on my hip. We were in the city of Miami now. This was my territory.

Chill said, “I worked a case in front of here once.”

“The Che Guevara shirt?”

He smiled. “Exactly. You were on it too?”

I hadn’t been, but I remembered it well. A Cuban immigrant had taken deadly offense to a tourist’s Che Guevara T-shirt. “I had just come on the PD and was working patrol,” I said. “When I heard someone had been shot in this area, I was curious. I guess that hipster from Chicago learned his lesson the hard way; even I knew you didn’t praise Castro or Che in Miami.”

Chill nodded. “People who don’t understand shit like that shouldn’t be allowed to leave home. I was surprised the jury even convicted the Cuban shooter.”

“Of manslaughter, not murder. He was a hero in the city when he came home three years later. I heard he never has to pay for a meal on Calle Ocho.”

I glanced around the opulent lobby and said to Chill, “What does AEI stand for?”

“American Entertainment and Investment. It’s Rostoff’s supposedly legitimate business, the one that handles his nightclubs, alcohol-distribution companies, and foreign investments. He’s listed as the president, and there are half a dozen other Russians in the top corporate spots.”

“Hiding in plain sight.”

“Roman Rostoff doesn’t even try to hide. He just donates truckloads of money to the county and city commissions. One of the state senators in the area has stepped in four different times to help him out with business licenses and real estate issues. He’s an old-time gangster who brings in money from a dozen ventures and understands that he needs politicians in his pocket to keep going. They’re giving him some kind of award in Miami Beach soon.”

We rode the elevator up to the forty-first floor. All of the offices here were occupied by AEI Enterprises. A sharp-looking receptionist who wore superthin glasses, probably as a fashion statement, asked if she could help us.

I said, “We’d like to speak with Mr. Rostoff.”

She looked us over, and we clearly didn’t pass the test. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rostoff’s schedule is quite filled today.”

“When does he have some time?”

She glanced at her computer, hit a few keys, then smiled and said, “Unless you have an appointment that he’s agreed to, his next free time is in April of next year.” She smiled again and somehow made it seem sincere.

That was my cue to walk past her. If you’re not making some kind of effort, I don’t have time to deal with you.

Chill let out a low chuckle as he followed me to the giant double doors that I assumed led to Rostoff’s office. I opened both doors to make our entrance seem more spectacular. But our entrance couldn’t compare to the incredible view of Biscayne Bay, South Beach, and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. It might have been the best view I’d ever seen in Miami.

That pissed me off a little bit more.

We walked toward a man in a blue Joseph Abboud suit sitting behind a carved oak desk. He looked to be about fifty-five years old. Before we’d gotten three steps, two other men sprang into action. The tall, muscular one turned to me; an older guy in a suit moved toward Chill.

I held up my ID quickly and said, “This is a police matter.”

The man near Chill said, “I know. It’s called criminal trespass. And you’re going to get arrested for it.”





CHAPTER 18





I APPRECIATED THE quick comeback by the jerk in the suit.

The tall man closer to me didn’t say anything, which meant he was the one who was going to take action first. He was about an inch taller than me. I’m not used to men with a longer reach than I have, but he didn’t try to punch me. He reached out with both hands to grab me by the shirt. It was like a drill we used to do on the practice fields—someone grabs your jersey, you knock his hands away. In this case, I put my weight into it, and after I knocked his hands away, I gave him an open-handed slap on the back of his head. That is one of the most disorienting blows you can suffer, the good old Gerber slap. It might not cause much damage, but for a couple of seconds you’re knocked stupid.

He stumbled forward, fell onto an expensive Asian carpet, then slid into the decorative baseboard.

I reached for my gun, and the man near Chill started to reach into his suit jacket. This was turning ugly fast.