to loop you in. I’m sorry—I put you and Wolff both in a bad position. At least you didn’t shoot each other. You know you’re resenting him because he had you down.”
“He did not have me down.”
“Almost had you down.”
“I almost had him down.”
“Ouch. Take a breath,” Jorge warned.
She did, and she shook her head. “I worked with a Fed once.”
“And he was okay, right? Come on, we’re all going in the same direction.”
“He was great. Old dude—kept telling me he had a granddaughter my age. Made me feel like I should have been in bed by ten,” Jasmine said and smiled.
Jorge arched his brow at her.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “I resent the fact he almost had me down. But really, I almost had him, too.” She squeezed his hand in return. “How come we never have discussed our love lives and this stranger knew more about you than I did?”
“’Cause neither of us cares what our preferences are, and we work well together—and we enjoy what we’re doing. And Wolff for sure had all of us checked out before agreeing to work with us. He’d need to know our backgrounds and that we’re clean cops. Also, you’re a workaholic and even when we’re grabbing quick food or popping into a bookstore, we’re still working.”
“Not really,” she told him. “Honestly, not until this operation.”
He nodded. “Mary,” he said softly.
“Jorge, I’m so afraid she’s dead.” She paused. “Even more now. Do you have any details about the oil drums they found today? All I’ve seen is what has been on the news. Captain Lorenzo was even with the cops doing the interviews at the show, but I didn’t get to ask him anything. Obviously, I did my best to be a near hysterical model.”
“You were terrific.”
She laughed. “So were you.” Jasmine tried to smile, but she was searching out his eyes.
“Mary wasn’t in one of the oil drums,” he said.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. The bodies discovered were all men.”
“Oh, thank God. I mean... I’m not glad that anyone was dead, but—”
“It’s all right,” Jorge assured her. “I understand. So, tomorrow will be tense. I’m going to get out of here. Let you get some sleep.” He started to rise, and then he didn’t. “Never mind.”
“Never mind?”
“I’m going to stay here.”
“I don’t need to be protected,” she said. “Bolts on the door, gun next to the bed.”
“You don’t need to be protected?” Jorge said. “I do! Safety in numbers. Bolt the door and let’s get some sleep.”
She rose. “Okay, I lied, and you’re right—anyone can be taken by surprise. And I have been a jerk and I don’t know why.”
“I do,” Jorge said softly. “You really shouldn’t be working this case. You have a personal involvement. And in a way, so do I. I’ve met Mary.”
Jasmine nodded. “I don’t feel that I’m really up to speed yet, despite what we learned from Wolff. I’ll get you some pillows and bedding,” she told him.
“What time are we supposed to be where?” he asked her as she laid out sheets on the sofa.
“Ten o’clock, back at the club.”
“I’m willing to bet half of it will still be shut down.”
“We won’t be going to the floor. We’ll be picking up our pay in the offices, using the VIP entrance on the side to the green room and staging areas.”
“You know that we can get in?”
She nodded. “I wound up with Natasha and the other girls in a little group when the police were herding people for interviews. Natasha asked the lead detective—Detective Greenberg is in charge for the City of Miami Beach—and he told her that they’d cordon off the club area until they finished with the investigation. Owners and operators were free to use the building where the police weren’t investigating.”
“Then go to bed. We’ll begin again in the morning.”
Jorge was clearly thinking something but not saying it.
“What?” she pressed.
“I didn’t know until today that the FBI was in on this case—the briefing was why I arrived late. MDPD found the group operating the Gold Sun Club to be shady, as did the cops with the City of Miami Beach. But there’s been no hard evidence against them and nothing that anyone could do. I know you’ve been talking to Captain Lorenzo about them for a while, but...we just found out today that Smirnoff was about to give evidence against the whole shebang. I’m just—”
“Just what?”
He grimaced. “I like the Feds. They have more resources than we do. They have more reach across state lines. Across international lines. And I don’t know how long I’ll get to be one of the models—if the big show ended in disaster, I could be out fast. And then I won’t be around to help you.”
“I’m willing to bet the Deco Gang will keep planning. Kozak will say that all the people who had been hired for jobs at the club will still need work. He’ll go forward in Smirnoff’s name—Smirnoff would not want to have been frightened off Miami Beach. We’ll be in.”
“You will be. I may not. So, I’m just glad that...well, that there’s another law enforcement agent undercover on this case. Speaking of undercover...” Jorge grabbed his blanket and turned around, smiling as he feigned sleep.
Jasmine opened her mouth to speak. She shook her head and went to the bedroom. Ready for bed and curled up, she admitted to herself that she just might be glad for Jacob Wolff’s involvement, too.
She had assumed the group was trading in prostitution, turning models into drug addicts and then trafficking them.
She hadn’t known about the bodies in the barrels. And she hadn’t suspected that Smirnoff was going to die.
So she was glad she would have backup if she had to continue getting close to these dangerous players. Otherwise she probably should back right out of the case.
Except she just couldn’t. They had Mary. They had her somewhere.
And Jasmine had to pray her friend was still alive.
Jacob could remember coming to South Beach with his parents as a child. Back then, the gentrification of the area was already underway.
His mom liked to tell him about the way it had been when she had been young, when the world had yet to realize the beauty and architectural value of the art deco hotels—and when the young and beautiful had headed north on South Beach to the fabulous Fontainebleau and other such hotels where the likes of Sinatra and others had performed. In her day, there had been tons of bagel shops, and high school kids had all come to hang out by the water with their surfboards—despite a lack of anything that resembled real surf.
It was where his parents had met. His father had once told him, not without some humor, that he’d fallen in love over a twenty-five-cent bagel.
The beach was beautiful. Jacob had opted for a little boutique hotel right on the water. Fisher House had been built in the early 1920s when a great deal around it had been nothing but scrub, brush and palms. It had been completely renovated and revamped about a decade ago and was