Genie for Hire (7 page)

“Maybe you can get Miss Pshkov to explain what happened,”
Officer White said. “I arrived about a half hour ago, and found her in obvious
distress, but she refused to tell me who attacked her, and she won’t go to the
hospital.”

“I’ll take care of her,” Biff said. “Thank you for
responding so quickly.”

Officer White handed a card to Sveta. “If you decide to
press charges, here’s a phone number you can call. You’re sure you’ll be all
right?”

Sveta nodded.

Biff saw the officer to the studio’s front door, then locked
it after she walked out. “Now, Sveta,” Biff said, returning to where she sat in
front of a white canvas backdrop tacked to the wall. “Tell me exactly what
happened.”

“He come to me as I am organizing pictures from bar mitzvah
on Saturday,” she said. “He want me to give him all files of Douschka. I tell
him I still no have them, but I have hired man to find them. He get very angry,
and hit me.”

“I’m so sorry, Sveta. I’m looking for the files. I know who
stole them, but I can’t find them yet.”

“Is way of world. Good news is that Ovetschkin tell me he
going away for one day. I have until tomorrow to get files.”

“I promise you’ll have them by then,” Biff said. “Now let me
look at your eye.”

Sveta leaned back in her chair and Biff gently probed the
tender part of her face. “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken.” He closed his
eyes and focused on the tips of his fingers, sending heat and energy into
Sveta.

“Mmm,” she said. “Feels good.”

Biff stepped back, and Sveta glanced at herself in the
mirror. “My face! Is no more bad!” She looked at him. “Mr. Andromeda, you are
magical!”

“Just a little talent I have,” he said. Then he opened his
third eye and sent the befuddling signals to her brain so that she forgot that
Biff had touched her. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure out a way to get Ovetschkin off
your back for good.”

As he walked back to his office, he wished he felt as
confident as he sounded.

When he returned to his office, he picked up the phone and
heard the stutter dial tone which indicated a message on his voice mail. The
chiropractor at the far end of the mall was hiring a new office manager, and wanted
a background check. Dr. Oppsal had been burned once, when an employee with an
undisclosed criminal record stole medical information on patients and sold it
to a disreputable law firm. Since then, she had paid Biff to do basic checks on
everyone she considered hiring.

Biff walked back outside and along the sidewalk to the chiropractor’s,
where a full-sized plastic skeleton dangled in the front window. It made a
light clanking noise when Biff opened the door. The only patient waiting was a
black man, a dwarf, with kinky hair gelled up into a tall pompadour. He was
reading a magazine and swinging his legs in the air.

The front desk clerk, Sophia, was a short, chunky Latina
with slicked-back dark hair and a row of different-colored studs along each
ear. She wore tight-fitting polyester blouses in brightly-colored prints, and a
rhinestone necklace that spelled out her name.

“You have an application for me?” Biff asked.

“Another loser,” Sophia said. “I can tell a mile away. But
Aunt Rita won’t listen to me. Only you.”

“You get yourself a private eye license, she’ll listen,”
Biff said.

Dr. Oppsal was Sophia’s aunt by marriage, and they had a
love-hate relationship. The good doctor paid so little she couldn’t attract
good staff, and Sophia had such a limited skill set she couldn’t get a better
job.

Sophia stood up and began making a copy of the application
for Biff. “Not me. I’m going to cosmetology school.” She fluttered her
eyelashes at Biff. “See, I did my own makeup this morning.”

It looked to Biff like a spider had landed on her eyelids.
“I thought you were getting a real estate license.”

Sophia shook her head. “Nah, I gave that up. Too much math.”
She pulled the papers from the copier and handed them to Biff. “So, when are
you going to ask me out on a date?”

“I keep telling you, I’m taken,” Biff said.

“Yeah, by this imaginary woman I’ve never met. What’s her
name again? Farfalle? Farfegnugen?”

“Farishta. You never know when she’ll show up.” He took the
papers from her. “Thanks. I’ll get a report together soon.”

He put aside investigating the applicant, though, because
the issue of how he was going to get Ovetschkin to leave Sveta alone was more
pressing. It was clear to Biff that he had to know more about the man. He was
no hacker, but he subscribed to a number of different databases that tracked
everything from birth certificates to criminal records. From the same illegal
source that had supplied Laskin’s driver’s license number, he found Kiril
Ovetschkin’s Social Security number, and that was all he needed to do more
legitimate research.

 Kiril was born in Kiev in 1957. He left Russia for Israel
in 1986, shortly after Mikhail Gorbachev had instituted his glasnost policy. In
1992 he had made a million-dollar investment in a Miami-based import-export
business and received his green card through Form I-526, Immigrant Petition by
Alien Entrepreneur. After the appropriate waiting period he received U.S.
citizenship. The company, Russia Imports Ltd., traded in gas and oil pipeline
equipment, purchased from manufacturers in Russia and sold to third-world
countries around the Caribbean. Since it was privately held there was little
information available on its profitability.

Douschka was born in a small town outside Minsk on April 12,
1987, making her just thirty years younger than her husband. Biff wondered how
that was working out. She had arrived in the US a year before, on a K-1 visa, a
temporary one for the purpose of marrying a US citizen. She and Kiril were wed
a few days after her arrival, and she received permanent residency status based
on the marriage.

The condo in the Odessa was owned outright by Russia
Imports, Ltd., which also owned a Mercedes S600 sedan and a CLK 350 Cabriolet
convertible, both of which were registered at the home address. Kiril and
Douschka both had clean drivers’ licenses, and Douschka had no criminal record.
Kiril had been charged with several felonies in the past twenty years, but the
charges had always been dropped due to lack of evidence. There was also a
powerboat registered in the corporation’s name.

His cell phone rang with a call from Jimmy Stein. He was
sure the Miami-Dade cop was calling to exact some kind of payment for helping
Sveta out earlier that afternoon. But instead Jimmy said, “You know the Bolshoi
Gym on Collins Avenue?”

“Yeah. I was just there yesterday,” Biff said.

“Good, you’re coming back today. I need you down here ASAP.”

On the off chance he might need a file or Internet access, Biff
tossed his laptop computer into a small backpack. Then he folded his tall frame
into the Mini Cooper for yet another trip over to Sunny Isles Beach, wondering
why Jimmy Stein had summoned him. Sure, he’d slipped into the gym the day
before without buying a guest pass, but he doubted that was a reason to call in
the cops.

It must be Igor Laskin, he thought. Laskin worked out at the
Bolshoi Gym, like most of the other Russian expatriate bodybuilders. And
according to Hector Hernandez, Laskin was subject to roid rage, the irrational
anger that arose from steroid abuse. Had he gotten in trouble somehow at the
gym?

Waiting at a traffic light on Collins Avenue, he saw a van
with “Mobile Grooming” painted on the side, and a phone number and web address.
In small letters, the words “pets only” were in italics. He wondered about
that. Did people call in hopes somebody could come to their house and give them
a manicure or facial? Had the van owner gotten frustrated and put “pets only”
there to discourage those calls? The world had certainly changed over the last
few centuries.

He pulled into the gym’s parking lot and spotted Stein’s Dodge
Charger. With the backpack over one shoulder, he walked across the lot. Jimmy
himself was standing just inside the front door. Today’s microfiber shirt was a
mud-brown color, already stained with sweat, matched with comfort-fit khakis
and black Nike track shoes.

Jimmy was talking to the check-in clerk, a skinny young
Latin with a wispy mustache. When he saw Biff, he pulled away. “I have
something to show you,” he said. “Follow me.”

Biff followed him into the locker room. Once again he had to
consciously shut down as much of his sense of smell as he could, because the
aromas of sweat, soap and cologne were nearly overwhelming.

“These lockers here, they’re for regular clients,” Jimmy
said, pointing at a row of lockers. The door to one hung open. “That one
belonged to a guy named Usnavy Gonzalez.”

Biff noted the use of the past tense but didn’t say
anything.

“We found this in his locker.” He motioned toward an
evidence tech, a slim Vietnamese named Loi, with multiple piercings and a
bright red stripe in the middle of his black hair. He held up a photo of a
beautiful blonde reclining on a sofa. She was naked, with one hand propped
behind her head and the other dangling near her crotch.

Even though she put most swimsuit models to shame, she
couldn’t hold a candle to Farishta, Biff thought. “Let me guess. Douschka
Ovetschkin.”

“Smart guy,” Jimmy said.

“Any computer files with it? Disks? Drives?”

Loi shook his head. “Only this picture.” He motioned Jimmy
over to the locker, and Biff leaned back against a locker to wait. A photo of
Douschka showed up in the locker of a man he was pretty sure was dead, based on
Jimmy’s use of the past tense.  What did that have to do with the theft of the
original digital files?

As he was mulling these questions over, a slim, blond
Russian who was at least two inches taller than Biff’s 6’2 walked into the
locker room.

Biff put his foot up on the bench as the Russian walked to a
neighboring locker and began to disrobe. “You know the guy whose locker the
police are looking at?”

The Russian shrugged. “To say hello. Puerto Rican guy, big
talker.”

As the guy changed into his workout clothes, Biff
established that he had belonged to the gym for about a year, and that he was
usually there around the same time a few days a week.

“Usnavy ever talk to you about his girlfriend?” Biff asked.

“Pretty girl. Showing pictures around.”

“That picture over there?” Biff asked, pointing to the one
Loi had placed in a clear plastic evidence folder.

“
Da
. I mean yes.”

“He show it to a lot of the guys here?”

The Russian looked at Biff. His shirt hung open, displaying
a tank top with Cyrillic writing on it advertising a soccer team in Moscow.
“You are with the police?”

Biff nodded. He was, after all, there at Jimmy’s request. “You
remember anyone in particular who showed an interest in her?”

“Lots of guys. Very pretty girl, nice breasts. But married,
and not to this guy.”

“Really? You know who she’s married to?”

The Russian lowered his voice. “Mafia guy. Ovetschkin. I am
seeing at parties sometimes. But I don’t say anything.” He tucked his T-shirt
into his workout shorts and walked out.

When Jimmy was finished with Loi, Biff told him what he’d
discovered from the Russian, and then the check-in clerk came into the locker
room  with a printout of all the clients who had been in the gym the last time
Usnavy was there. Biff looked over Jimmy’s shoulder and they scanned the list
together.

“I don’t see Ovetschkin here,” Jimmy said.

“But look there,” Biff said, pointing at a name. “Igor Laskin.”

From the printout, they established that Laskin and Usnavy
had been at the gym together on Friday morning. They left Loi in the locker
room and walked out to the gym, where Jimmy spoke to men and women working out.
None of them were happy to be interrupted, and only a few recognized a picture
of Usnavy. None had much to offer.

“So who’s this guy?” Biff asked Jimmy, when they were
finishing up. “Usnavy, you said? That’s a Puerto Rican name.”

“Come on,” Jimmy said. “You can buy me a Starbucks and we’ll
talk.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Biff said, as they crossed the
parking lot to the coffee shop at the shopping center entrance. “You ever
actually pay for any food yourself?”

“Not when you’re around. I’ll take a venti caramel Frappuccino
with an extra shot.”

Biff ordered the coffees and joined Jimmy at a small round
table to wait for them. “Spill,” Biff said. “Who’s the guy, and why did he have
Douschka’s picture in his locker?”

“Valet at the Odessa. Building where the Ovetschkins live.”

“That’s why you called me? Because of the Ovetschkin
connection?”

“Like I always say, you’re a sharp guy.”

The barista announced their drinks, and Biff picked them up.
When he returned to the table Jimmy said, “So Douschka’s humping the valet, and
she orders a set of nudie shots for him. Kiril finds out, and he’s not happy.
Next thing you know, we’re getting a call about a dead body in an apartment off
Ives Dairy Road.”

“Which would be said valet,” Biff said.

“There’s some cocaine residue on the kitchen counter, so
we’re thinking it’s drug-related,” Jimmy said, after sipping his coffee. “Find
a locker key which brings us down here, and maybe there’s going to be some blow
stocked here. But instead, there’s just some sweaty gym clothes and a picture
of Douschka Ovetschkin.”

“Which puts a whole different complexion on the murder.”

Jimmy nodded. “So being an experienced detective, first
thing I do is try and get hold of Mr. and Mrs. Ovetschkin. No dice. You’re the
next best thing, because I know you’re looking for the originals from the photo
shoot. I’m figuring you might be able to supply some of your unique insights
and help me get this case wrapped up. You know where Ovetschkin is?”