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 charming, intimate and historic, filled with framed pictures of long ago. The back door opened to a vast porch—half filled with dining tables—and then a tiled path led to the pool and beyond down to the ocean.
Jacob started the morning early, out on the sand, watching the sun come up, feeling the ocean breeze and listening to the seagulls cry. The rising sun was shining down on the water, creating a sparkling scene with diamond-like bits of brilliance all around him.
It was a piece of heaven. Sand between his toes, and then a quick dip in the water—cool and yet temperate in the early-morning hour. He loved it. Home for him in the last few years had been Washington, D.C., or New York City. There were beaches to be found, yes, but nothing like this. So, for the first hour of the day, he let himself just love the feel of salt air around him, hear the lulling rush of waves and look out over the endless water.
There was nothing like seeing it like a native. By 9:00 a.m., he was heading along Ocean Drive. The city was coming alive by then; roller skaters whizzed by him and traffic was heavy. Art galleries and shops were beginning to open, and tourists were flocking out in all manner of beach apparel, some wearing scanty clothing and some not. While most American men were fond of surf shorts for dipping in the water, Europeans tended to Speedos and as little on their bodies as possible. It was a generalization; he didn’t like generalizations, but in this case, he was pretty sure he was right.
A fellow with a belly that surely hid his toes from his own sight—and his Speedo—walked on by and greeted Jacob with a cheerful “good morning” that was spoken with a heavy foreign accent.
Jacob smiled. The man was happy with himself and within the legal bounds of propriety for this section of the beach. And that was what mattered.
He stopped into the News Café. It was a great place to see...and be seen. Before he’d been murdered, the famous designer Gianni Versace had lived in one of South Beach’s grand old mansions. He had also dined many a morning at the News Café. Tourists flocked there. So did locals.
Jacob picked up a newspaper, ordered an egg dish and sat back and watched—and listened.
The conversation was all about the shooting of Josef Smirnoff at what should have been one of the brightest moments in the pseudo-plastic environment of the beach.
“You can bring in all the stars you want—but with those people—”
“I heard it was a mob hit!”
“Did you know that earlier, like in the morning, three bodies were found in oil drums out in the Everglades?”
“Yeah. I don’t think anyone had even reported them missing. No ID’s as of yet, but hey...like we don’t have enough problems down here.”
People were talking. Naturally.
“Told you we shouldn’t have come to Miami.”
“Hey, mobsters kill mobsters. No one else was injured. Bunch of shots, from what I read, but only the mobster was killed.”
Someone who was apparently a local spoke up.
“Actually, honestly, we’re not that bad a city. I mean, my dad says that most of our bad crimes are committed by out-of-towners and not our population.”
Bad crimes... Sure, like most people in the world, locals here wanted to fall in love, buy houses, raise children and seek the best lives possible.
But it was true, too, that South Florida was one massive melting pot—perhaps like New York City in the last decade. People came from all the Caribbean islands, Central and South America, the countries that had once comprised the Soviet Union, and from all over the world.
Most came in pursuit of a new life and freedom. Some came because a melting pot was simply a good place for criminal activity.
While he people-watched, Jacob replayed everything he had seen the day before in his mind. He remembered what he had heard.
Witnesses hadn’t been lying or overly rattled when they had reported that it seemed the shots had come from all over. From the bar, he’d had a good place to observe the whole room. And then, as Ivan had muttered that they could go closer and see, they had done so.
The shooter hadn’t been close to Josef Smirnoff—Jacob had been near him and if someone had shot him from up close, he’d have known.
He was pretty sure that the shooters had been stationed in the alcoves on the balcony that surrounded the ground floor, just outside the offices and private rooms on the second floor. The space allowed for customers to enjoy a band from upstairs, without being in the crowd below.
When he’d looked up at the balconies earlier, he hadn’t seen anyone on them. The stairs might have been blocked.
Would Jasmine have known that detail? Or would they have shared that information with a new girl?
Jasmine had, beyond a doubt, drawn attention last night. She had been captivatingly beautiful, and she had played the runway perfectly, austere and yet with a sense of fun. She was perfect for the role she was playing.
The band, the models, the excitement... It had all been perfect for the setup. It was really a miracle that no one else had been hit.
He had thought that Jasmine was going after Josef Smirnoff when he had seen her lunge at him—getting close to see that the deed was done, that he was finished off if the bullets hadn’t done their work. He’d never forget her surprise when he had tackled her...
Nor his own shock when she had thrown him off.
He was surprised to find himself smiling—he wasn’t often taken unaware. Then again, while he’d known that MDPD had police officers working undercover, he hadn’t been informed that one of them was working the runway.
A dangerous place.
But she worked it well. She had an in he could never have.
He pictured it all in his mind again. There had been multiple shooters but only one target—Josef Smirnoff. Create panic, and it might well have appeared that Smirnoff had been killed in a rain of bullets that could have been meant for anyone.
Jacob paid his bill and headed out, walking toward Dolphin Galleries. He felt the burner phone in his left pocket vibrate and he quickly pulled it out. Dean Jenkins, his Miami office counterpart, was calling.
“You alone?”
The street was busy, but as Jacob walked, he was well aware that by “alone,” Dean was asking if he was far from those involved with the Deco Gang.
“I am,” he said.
“They’re doing the autopsy now. Someone apparently had a bead on the bastard’s heart. It’s amazing that no one else was hurt. Oh, beyond cuts and bruises, I mean. People trampled people. But the bullets that didn’t hit Smirnoff hit the walls.”
“They only wanted Smirnoff dead. Kill a mobster, and the police might not look so hard. Kill a pretty ingenue, a pop