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the apartment. Weiss was digging through Irina Markova’s dresser drawers, checking out her lingerie.
    â€œWhere’ve you been?” he said, scowling at Landry, irritated.
    â€œWhy? You want me to go back out so you can have a moment of privacy to whack off with a dead girl’s underwear?”
    â€œFuck you, Landry.”
    â€œFuck yourself.”
    The latent-prints person didn’t even bother to glance at them.
    â€œYou were with Estes,” Weiss said. “Was she giving you a blowjob or what?”
    Landry wanted to kick him. Hard. Then maybe shove him out a window. He checked the position of the windows. One overlooked the riding arena. He wondered if Weiss had been watching.
    â€œShe was giving me information, dickhead. About our vic’s movements Saturday night.”
    The telephone rang then, and everyone looked at it like it was a bomb about to go off. Landry went to the writing desk next to the bed and squinted at the caller ID.
Private
. No number. When the machine picked up, Irina’s voice told the caller to leave a message, no cutesy girly greeting. After the beep came a whole lot of Russian. A man’s voice.
    Landry waited for a moment, then picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
    The Russian went silent.
    â€œHello?” Landry repeated. “Who is this?”
    â€œWho are
you
?” the voice demanded.
    â€œAre you trying to reach Irina Markova?”
    Another hesitation. “Who wants to know?”
    â€œThis is Detective Landry, Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office. Who is this?”
    â€œWhat are you doing on this telephone?”
    â€œI’m talking to you. Are you a relative of Ms. Markova?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œYes. She is my niece.”
    Landry took a deep breath and let it out. “Sir, I regret to inform you that Irina Markova is deceased.”
    â€œWhat? What the fuck are you talking about?”
    The confusion.
    â€œHer body was discovered this morning in a canal outside of Wellington.”
    â€œThe fuck! No! You are lying! Who the fuck are you, sick bastard!”
    The shock, the denial.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir. The body was positively identified at the scene by an acquaintance.”
    The man’s breathing was shallow and fast. “She is dead? You are telling me she is dead? Irina?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThis was car accident?”
    â€œNo, sir. She appeared to have been murdered.”
    â€œMurdered? What? Who would do this? What kind of animal would do this?”
    â€œWe don’t know. I would like to speak to you in person,” Landry said. “You might be able to help us.”
    Silence. A long silence. He mumbled something in Russian that sounded like a prayer, then, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Irina.”
    The crushing weight of the emotion that came with realization of the terrible truth.
    â€œSir?” Landry said. “I’ll need to get your name and address. I’ll need to speak with you in person about the disposition of your niece’s body.”
    The line went dead.
    Landry put the phone down and used his own phone to call the watch commander at the county jail, to get a line on a Russian interpreter. Drunks, derelicts, and criminals of all nationalities routinely passed through the jail. It was essential to have people available to translate their rights to them, tell them how to manipulate the system, and teach them all the English they needed to know:
I want a lawyer
.
    Landry wanted to know what message the caller had begun to leave. He had no way of knowing whether or not the caller was in fact Irina Markova’s uncle or if he was related by language only.
    The Russian mob had put down roots in Miami in the ’80s and, like kudzu, had spread all over the state, infiltrating every illegal and corrupted business there was. The Russians were smart and ruthless, a scary combination.
    He had no reason to think Irina Markova