Genie for Hire (10 page)

“So Kiril takes whatever pictures of Douschka he can find,
not knowing about the one at the gym. Maybe he leaves behind some drug stuff to
throw you off the scent. But you’re too good for him.”

“Yeah, yeah, I can do without the stroking.” A pelican on
the piling nearby suddenly took off, soaring through the air and then swooping
down to the water, rising up again a moment later with a silver fish clamped in
his beak.

“Kiril goes home and stews over things on Sunday,” Biff
continued. “Then Monday morning he tracks down Sveta at her condo and demands
the original digital files.”

“At which point our favorite private eye enters the
picture,” Jimmy said. “No pun intended.”

“The detective made a series of puns, hoping at least one
would make his audience laugh,” Biff said. “But no pun in ten did.”

Jimmy groaned. “You’re lucky it’s against the law for me to
shoot you.”

The Crime Scene van pulled up at the marina gate, and they
motioned Loi to park at the end of the dock. Biff, Jimmy and Loi donned rubber
gloves and paper booties.

While Loi sprayed the aft deck and gunwale with Luminol, to
pick up traces of blood, Jimmy and Biff stepped onto the boat. Biff didn’t like
the way it moved gently under his feet, but as long as there was fiberglass,
teak and stainless steel between him and the water of  Biscayne Bay, he could
cope.

They climbed up to the flying bridge, where Biff had a clear
view all the way down the channel to where Biscayne Bay broadened out. On the
left was the barrier island, stacked with high-rise condos and then the flat,
open space of Haulover Park. To the right were the mangrove islands of Oleta
River State Park, and beyond them empty acres of Australian pine that covered
the former Munisport dump and the low-slung concrete campus of Florida
International University.

There was no evidence that Douschka had been up on the
bridge, so they went back down and into the main salon, simply furnished with
two L-shaped built-in couches catty-corner to each other, under a line of
windows all around. The counters, tables and cabinets were all teak, and they
gleamed with fresh polish. “Somebody’s been in here cleaning, very recently,”
Biff said, his sense of smell overwhelmed with lemon furniture polish.

“Could be the guy cares about his boat,” Jimmy said. “Or
he’s covering something up.”

They climbed down to the lower deck, where there were two
narrow bunks in a small cabin at the stern, a single head, and an owner’s cabin
with a queen-sized bed. “Douschka was definitely here,” Biff said, as they
walked in. “I can smell her perfume. She was having her period, too.”

“I don’t even want to know how you know that,” Jimmy said,
wrinkling his nose. “Hell, I don’t even talk to my wife about hers.”

Loi called them back topside. “Luminol shows blood traces,”
he said, pointing to glowing blue spots on the deck and the gunwale. “From the
spatter pattern I’m guessing the victim was hit, probably in the head, then
knocked overboard.”

An officer arrived with a drug-sniffing Belgian Shepherd
named Rex, who was let loose on the Riviera to see if he could sniff out any
illegal substances. He prowled the upper deck for a few minutes, sniffing, then
his handler led him to the cabins below. Rex went directly to a storage locker,
sat down on his haunches, and barked once.

“That’s his alert,” the handler said.

The storage compartment was locked. “You find keys
anywhere?” Jimmy asked Loi.

“Nope.”

“Go for it,” Jimmy said to Loi. The handler took Rex
topside, and Loi got a pry bar, which he used to open the cabinet. There was
nothing inside.

“Damn dog,” Jimmy said.

“The dog knows his business.” Biff sniffed the air. “There’s
cocaine inside. Give me a minute.”

He got down on his hands and knees and peered into the
cabinet. “Hand me a flashlight, will you, Jimmy?”

“Like I’ve got a flashlight in my pocket,” Jimmy grumbled.
He got one from Loi and handed it to Biff. He set it on the floor of the
cabinet and began to feel around the inside. He tapped the sides, hearing a
different, heavier sound from one panel. The light revealed a hidden catch,
which Biff pressed, and the panel popped open. A quart-sized plastic baggy
filled with white powder popped out.

They heard Rex bark once from above. “Yeah, I heard you the
first time,” Jimmy grumbled.

Biff was glad to get off the boat, but as he walked down the
dock a wind kicked up and sprayed him with salt water. Every bit of exposed
flesh began to sting like a hundred bees had attacked, and within a minute
bright red welts blossomed on his arms and legs. Biff felt his legs weakening,
but he pushed past the pain to get to the dock.

“Jesus, Biff, what’s wrong with you?” Jimmy asked from
behind him.

He always had to be careful around humans when it came to
healing himself. If he tried to explain to Jimmy that his body was merely a
construct of atoms and molecules held together by ancient energy, and that when
a part of it was harmed he had just to marshal the internal resources to
restore structural integrity, Jimmy would call for a psych eval.

As soon as Biff’s feet were on solid ground, he grabbed the
chain link fence to steady himself, closed his eyes, and dug into the reservoir
of power he kept deep inside. His breathing was shallow and he was vaguely
conscious of Jimmy’s concern, but he was focused inward.

Like molasses inching out of a bottle, the healing energy
circulated through his veins and capillaries, and the anaphylactic reaction to
the salt water began to abate. After a minute or two he felt his strength
returning, and the welts fading.

When he opened his eyes Jimmy was staring at him. “You’re a
piece of work, Biff, is all I can say.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Biff didn’t hang around much longer. His strength had
returned and the welts had disappeared, but he knew he’d have to get back to
his lamp soon.

“Thanks for your help today,” Jimmy said. “I know this is
getting off track for your case, and I appreciate your taking the time.”

“All pieces of the jigsaw,” Biff said. “Pleasure to be of
service.” He tipped an imaginary hat to Jimmy and got into his Mini Cooper.

Biff returned to the Aventura Beach Shopping Center shortly
before noon, touched the painted eye on his office door, then walked inside. He
wanted to do some investigating on Viktor Petrov before he checked in with
Sveta. He was hoping to tell her he had something the FDLE either hadn’t found,
or hadn’t been able to use legally.

He’d just gotten his browser open and begun his search when
he heard the shots.

He jumped up and raced down the sidewalk to Sveta’s studio,
his slippers occasionally catching on the pebbled surface. As he passed the
store selling orthopedic supplies, two elderly women, one in a wheelchair, the
other with a walker, stepped out the door and into his way.

He concentrated power in his feet and pushed down against
the air with both hands. As if he was on a pogo stick, he rose right over the
wheelchair, landed a few feet ahead, and resumed his run, leaving the two women
squawking behind him. He didn’t even bother to try to erase their memories; if
they tried to explain that they’d seen a muscular man jump five feet in the air
and sail overhead, people would think it was just dementia.

He hurried past the café, where the Haitian waitress lazily
cleaned the tables in preparation for the lunch rush. She didn’t appear to have
heard the shots, and Biff realized that because of his super-sensitive hearing
he was most likely the only one who had.

The glass front door to Sveta’s studio was locked from the
inside, the curtains drawn over the plate glass storefront. He slipped between
the door and the jamb, not caring if the old women, the waitress, or anyone in
the parking lot saw him.

The studio was empty, and a strong metallic odor of blood
rose from the back. Careful not to enter the workroom, Biff stepped into the
doorway and saw Sveta’s body on the floor. She was lying on her back, and there
was a big hole in her chest, with bright red blood staining her white top. Her
blonde hair was still pulled into an efficient knot at the top of her head, and
her blue eyes were open and unseeing.

She wasn’t breathing, and she had been dead long enough that
her spirit was gone, and there was no possibility Biff could use his healing
powers to bring her back. They were only so strong, and a lot depended on how
long the person had been dead. As well, it was easier to bring back children
and small animals because there was less mass to reanimate.

He was angry, at whoever had killed Sveta, and at himself,
for not being able to prevent her death. He had seen her every few days for the
past couple of years, stood behind her in line at the coffee shop, even flirted
with her now and then. Now she was gone.

He could not stay there; in addition to the harsh coppery
smell of blood, there was a strong sense of absence that disturbed him. The
universe had not yet adjusted to Sveta’s death and a vacuum filled the studio
and the workroom.

He retreated the way he had come in, between the front door
and its jamb, and then pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his sweat pants
and punched out Jimmy Stein’s number.

It must have been Ovetschkin who killed her. But why? Sveta
had given him his files back. It wasn’t her fault that Ovetschkin’s wife had
cheated on him. All Sveta had done was document the evidence.

“Stein, Homicide.”

“You’d better get out here,” Biff said, rounding the corner
of the shopping center. “Sveta Pshkov’s dead.”

He came up to the studio’s back door and noticed that it was
ajar, but didn’t touch it.

“I’m still working on Ovetschkin’s boat,” Jimmy grumbled.
“Jesus, this case is a runaway train. Where are you, exactly?”

“Back service drive behind her studio. She’s in the
workroom.”

“I’m on my way. But as I’m walking quickly to my
department-issued vehicle, please tell me how you know she’s dead if you’re
outside the studio and she’s inside.”

“I heard the shots, and I came running. Saw the back door ajar,
and I used my shoulder to nudge it open a bit more. I saw Sveta lying there,
not breathing. Then I called you. I didn’t touch a thing.”

“Fingerprints will tell me that,” Jimmy said. “Stay put.”

For once, Biff did as he was told. He might unknowingly
contaminate the crime scene, and for now he could focus on looking for clues
outside. He stepped close to the door, doing his best to isolate the metallic
tang of the blood and ignore it. There was a confusion of other scents there,
including sweat, feces, urine and cologne. He assumed that in death Sveta had
lost control of her bowels and bladder.

The sweat and cologne were clues, though. He recognized the
echoes of Igor Laskin’s Italian cologne, but there were two kinds of sweat,
both male. Who was with Laskin? The aroma was faintly familiar but he couldn’t
place it. Was it Kiril Ovetschkin? But he was in Nicaragua, wasn’t he?

Biff paced backward from Sveta’s door to the parking spaces
beneath the stand of Australian pines. A squirrel resented the invasion of his
privacy and chittered noisily above Biff’s head. Absently he flicked a finger
at the little monster, basically a rat with a fluffy tail and good PR, and the
squirrel toppled from the tree to a pile of pine needles.

“Oops,” Biff said. He hadn’t meant to kill the creature,
just knock him around. But at least he could do for the squirrel what he hadn’t
been able to do for Sveta. He twirled his index finger in the squirrel’s
direction, and it sat up on the ground and looked at him, its head turned
quizzically. “I’m sorry, all right? Now go about your business.”

The squirrel didn’t move, just sat there on its haunches
staring at Biff.

A Miami-Dade police cruiser pulled into the service drive
and parked behind the studio, and the same uniformed female officer who had
come to investigate Sveta’s theft complaint stepped out. She gave a brief wave
to Biff and adjusted the gun and nightstick on her equipment-laden belt.

Biff and the squirrel stayed where they were as Officer
White walked up to the studio door and knocked. “Miss Pshkov? Are you in there?”
she called.

After getting no answer she looked over to Biff. “You’re the
one called this in?”

He nodded. “She’s on the floor in the back room.”

Officer White pulled a rubber glove from the pocket of her
black polyester slacks and put it on. She gently pushed the back door open. She
stuck her head inside, looked around, then backed away. “You got that right,”
she said. “There any other entrances to this place?”

“Glass door into the mall. Locked.”

They looked at each other for a minute. He saw her shoot a
glance at his black slippers. “You’d better wait here until the detective
arrives,” Officer White said.

Jimmy Stein’s unmarked sedan pulled in behind the cruiser.
“I’m seeing an awful lot of you lately, Biff,” he said, getting out. He rubbed
one hand over his brush-cut hair.

“And there’s no food involved this time.”

“Watch the mouth.” He turned to Officer White. “You checked
inside?”

She nodded. “Mr. Andromeda says the front door is locked.”

“First lesson,” Jimmy said. “Don’t trust anything a witness
says. Check it out for yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

She stepped up to the back door of the studio.

“Don’t walk through the crime scene, numb nuts,” Jimmy said.
“Go around.”

“Yes. Sorry, sir.” She took off at a trot to the end of the
center, and Jimmy pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” he said. He sniffed the air.
“Nasty. You stay out here. I’m going to want to talk to you.”

Biff leaned up against one of the skinny Australian pines in
his sweatpants and muscle T. He could feel the roughness of the dirt through
the soles of his slippers. His emotions were jumbled, after seeing Sveta’s
body. He tried to focus on the area again, but there was little evidence so far
from the crime scene. He kept remembering things Sveta had said or done.