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
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
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