Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller) (6 page)

Miller spoke first. “What information do you have to make you think there’s a Russian mob connection?”

“First clue was this dead Russian guy your boy killed the other night,” said Rivera. He unceremoniously opened the folder and dropped the pictures of the dead Russian in front of the agents.

The agents looked at each other as if trying to decide where to go with the conversation. Miller broke the tension first. “OK, here’s the deal. We’re going to need some local resources on this, so we’ll tell you what we can. We want you to be our contact-no information going outside of this group. Your John Doe’s name is Kyle Jackle. He’s been a NOC working deep cover in Italy for the past year as a part of a joint CIA-FBI task force monitoring the trafficking of Russian women for the sex trade in the US.”

“So, what is he doing in Miami and why is he wandering around like a lost ball in high weeds?”

“If you’re referring to the amnesia, we don’t know how that happened. What we do know is we want him back. The guy is one of our best agents and a personal friend of mine,” said Miller. “Going back about fourteen months, he was working undercover in Italy, mainly bouncing back and forth between Rome and Naples. We had heard some vague rumors of a new working relationship between the Camorra syndicate in Naples and the Russian mafia. Most of the traditional Mafia families don’t work with the Russians, but some of the families in Naples are so fragmented, they’ll jump on any opportunity to grab some territory when they see it.”

Rivera interrupted, “ So what do the Russians have that the Italian mob needs? They’ve make lousy wine, bad suits, and have no other redeeming qualities that I know of.”

Miller stared at Rivera in annoyance as he continued his narrative, “You’re forgetting the one resource that the Ukranians in particular are famous for-young, beautiful women. Just to give you a little background on how this whole business got started, back in the 80’s the majority of the sex trade was Asian girls coming into the country. This started to shift in the 90’s when the economy completely cratered in Russia and most of the surrounding countries in Eastern Europe.

The chaos opened the door for anyone with money and that was the Russian mob. They recognized and grabbed the opportunity to exploit women mainly from the villages in the Ukraine, Georgia and the Urals. Most of these girls weren’t very sophisticated-very little education, never been far from their village, and no hopes of any job to support themselves or their families. After the economic crash, the choices went from bad to worse for these women. Ads started appearing in the local papers for models, dancers, restaurant workers, or nannies to work in Europe and the United States.”

“And I’m guessing what they signed up for wasn’t exactly what they found when they got to their destination?” asked Rivera.

“Exactly,” said Miller. “These girls were interviewed in the villages and if they were young and pretty were sometimes smuggled out of the country within hours. Once they arrived, their sponsor informed them he would keep their passports until they could repay the thousands of dollars they owed for travel expenses. Instead of the job they were promised modeling or working in a restaurant, they usually ended up working in a strip club or massage parlor. They could never get ahead-the expenses just kept adding up for food, clothes, and rent. Those initial jobs were on the job training to ease them into the real business.”

“Prostitution,” said Rivera.

“Exactly; after a few months of intimidation, rape and beatings, they would be turning dozens of tricks a day in a whorehouse or if a girl was really pretty, she might be used for escort services for the tourist trade.

Miller cleared his throat and resumed, “We were working with the Italians trying to figure some way to get one of our guys working on the inside. For once, we managed to catch a lucky break-the manager for some clubs owned by the Camorra was nailed with a couple of kilos of coke one night after he accidentally ran over a tourist with his scooter. Usually, he would have beat feet and left the tourist in one of the neighborhood garbage piles. That night, he had the great misfortune to do the deed right in front of one of the few Polizia Municipale who couldn’t be bribed or threatened.”

“We persuaded him that it was in his best interests to make some introductions on our behalf. Kyle was presented as a money man-if someone had fifty or sixty million Euros from dubious sources and needed to have it come up clean on the other side, he was the ‘go to’ guy. Took a few meetings and a lot of documentation to provide his bonafides, but it was beginning to payoff. Kyle started off small, but after a couple of months he was introduced to an Ukranian General named Popov who seemed to be the spider in the center of the web. He started using Kyle for larger transactions and was talking about getting him involved with a new venture in Florida.”

“Who was Popov involved with in Florida?” asked Rivera. “Other Russians or the Columbians?”

“Columbians. This guy was a freakin’ one man, multinational corporation,” said Miller. “We were getting regular weekly reports from Kyle while he was in Italy, but he cut back the flow of information after he came back to the states-said he was getting word of some cops being paid off in South Florida. All just rumors the low level guys talked about after a few drinks, but it sounded like information was being leaked from law enforcement back to Popov.

Miller paused to let the implications of that sink in. “Kyle’s been here for about two months working his way into Popov’s operations-mainly the strip clubs and new operation with the Columbians. He thought he could get enough information to shut down the entire network on both continents. Everything moving smoothly until last week when he completely dropped off the radar.”

Miller nodded at Davis. “Agent Davis works out of our Miami office-I’ll let him pick up the story from here.”

Davis cleared his throat and took over the conversation. “Our local office really wasn’t really in the loop until ten days ago, because we had pretty much been left in the dark on the details of the operation.” Miller fixed Davis with an icy glare and Rivera was amused to see the beginnings of a nervous tic developing in Davis.

Miller interrupted. “We started this investigation in three different countries. The fewer people who knew the story, the better.”

Rivera raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to continue.

“In Italy, it was strictly a Russian mob and Camorra problem-very bad characters, but no direct effect on us in this country. Once Jackle hit the scene in Miami, he found the Russians and Columbians like this,” Miller said as he intertwined the fingers of both hands. “Sex, drugs, extortion, money laundering-apparently they figured there was an advantage to working together. Apparently all is not coming up roses-there’s beginning to be a mounting body count in Miami and South Florida. At first it seemed isolated, but so far we’ve identified at least five guys associated with the strip clubs or escort business who have been killed in the past two months. There were also a couple of out of town businessmen who were found dead in what might be referred to as ‘compromising positions’. The last one was killed three weeks ago down in Key West-an enforcer working for Popov who died very, very badly.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Rivera with genuine curiosity. “I haven’t heard anything about this.”

“No reason you would-on the surface it looks like several random killings spread out over all of South Florida. Jackle actually pointed us in this direction, because it was Popov who initially started to connect the dots. Turns out the dead guys were all either associates of his or clients. He was going nuts trying to figure if it was the Columbians playing him or whether there was someone else involved trying to send him a message. This was definitely personal though-in every case, these guys were mutilated, usually before death. In the case of one of the businessmen, he was found strapped naked to a bed missing the ring finger on his left hand. They found the missing finger and attached wedding band during the autopsy of his stomach contents. A very nasty business-that one was in West Palm and we buried the details of the investigation.”

Rivera leaned back in his chair as he stretched and tried to figure out where to take the conversation. “So how do you figure those are related?”

“I’m not even sure they are related,” said Miller. “I just know that there are too many unexplained deaths surrounding these guys and the one man who might actually shed some light on it is missing.”

“OK, background I got,” said Rivera. “ And the short version is we don’t want these guys for neighbors and we need to close them down. So what do you need from me and the department?”

“To start, we need a BOLO issued in Miami for Jackle,” said Miller leaning forward with his palms on the table. “If one of your guys spots him, call us and I’ll bring him in personally. There’s no telling how he would react if one of your officers tries to arrest him. I can’t stress enough-we want to bring him in safely, but he’s the most dangerous man I know and right now he can’t tell his friends from his enemies.”

I flipped the thick business card back and forth in my fingers. Indecision. The VIP card from the Platinum Club was a definite link-it told me the Russian had been there and apparently was a regular. The risks for me were huge. I was walking onto their home turf, and I could be dead without even knowing why.

I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw. Earlier that day, I sent the bellman out with a shopping list and some cash. After cutting my hair to a short buzz cut and liberally applying a little ‘hair color in a bottle’ I went from dark brown to blonde. The five-day growth of beard helped further change my look and the sunglasses added the final touch of the transformation. No way it would fool anyone who knew me well, but it would be close enough for the casual observer.

The whirlpool in my mind was another matter. Still no clarity, but random flashes of events, of faces, of events. Almost like looking at half a jigsaw puzzle. It gave me some hope that it would improve with time-more than likely it wouldn’t matter, because I would be dead before the week was out.

“Platinum Club in Lauderdale,” I told the driver showing him the address written on the card.

“You know that’s about an hour cab ride?” he queried as he fiddled with the radio dial until he found some nice Reggae.

“Yeah, that’s fine, not a problem.” I said as I settled in for the ride ahead. He took A1A North, probably not the fastest route, but definitely a scenic one. I’d been having more flashbacks as we drove. Just snippets of memory like sun-faded Polaroids that kept popping into my head. Buildings that looked familiar, flashes of the faces of people I had known. An earlier life-was I in the military? We slowly made our way through the Art Deco hotels on South Beach and wended our way north through Aventura with its towering condo projects that appeared almost deserted until we finally arrived at the club.

I saw the place from a mile away-all flash and neon on the outside. The parking lot was full of cars-everything from pickups to Bentleys. The driver dropped me under the canopied awning and I slowly unfolded myself from the backseat.

The dingy red carpet led straight to double red leather doors flanked by two huge bouncers wearing polo shirts with SECURITY emblazoned across them. These guys were big, used to intimidating by their presence. Both had that bored, detached look that came with the job. The biggest challenge these guys would face during the night was strong arming drunk college kids or out of town businessmen who thought that twenty bucks entitled them to cop a quick feel from one of the dancers-forty bucks, maybe, but never twenty.

I strode in past them and took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness of the club. Paid my ten bucks at the counter just inside the door. The music hit me in the face as soon as I stepped in-pounding, raw techno that vibrated you down to your bones. Smoke machines, lasers, and pulsating lights completed the picture. Strip clubs are like casinos-every element calculated to thrust you into an alternate reality and then separate fools from their money as quickly as possible.

The main stage dominated the room. It started at a velvet curtained door in the rear of the club and extended out thirty feet before forming a T shape. Every foot of the stage was surrounded by low comfortable chairs and about half were already filled with guys leaning back trying to look casual as they flashed their rolls of bills-usually a bunch of ones with a hundred rolled around the outside. There were two brass stripper poles, one already occupied by a tall, dark haired girl who leaped straight up, grabbed the pole with her leg and flipped upside down as she spiraled down the pole.

I quickly stepped through the illuminated pools of light surrounding the stage and found a small curved couch hidden in the deep shadows at the side of the club. A perfect place to watch everyone coming in and not be seen in the cloak of darkness.

Less than a minute later and the waitress showed up. “What can I get you?” she asked flipping a cocktail napkin on the table in front of me. The waitress was dressed in a checkered skirt and white top-kind of a slutty Catholic schoolgirl look. Worked for me. She looked pretty damned bored. Either she wasn’t good looking enough to dance or she had just started at the club and hadn’t worked up the nerve to take to the stage with the courage fueled by booze and pills.

“Myers and Coke,” I said. Automatic response-I couldn’t remember that being a favorite, but I guess it was. While I waited, I watched. Lot of action-fifteen or twenty girls rotating around the room hustling guys for dances. My drink showed up about the same time the first girl showed up. Touched the back of my chair and leaned over me flashing a well-rounded set of tits overflowing from the tight lace top.

“I’m Misty,” she said. “We’re having a two for one special-would you like a dance?”

“Thanks Misty, but I just got here. Let me finish my drink and we’ll save the dance for later.”

She was gone with a swish of fabric swirling the smell of cheap perfume through the air. I wouldn’t see her again-in that quick conversation, she had already figured out that I was either broke or wasn’t spending-either one an unforgiveable sin in a strip joint.