could make or break a person’s day, and truly seeing people was one of the most important talents anyone could have in life.
Declan Adair, Jasmine’s dad, was mostly Irish-American. He’d been a cop and had taught Jasmine what that meant to him—serving his community.
They had both taught her about absolute equality for every color, race, creed, sex and sexual orientation, and they had both taught her that good people were good people and, all in all, most of the people in the world were good, longing for the same things, especially in America—life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
They sounded like a sweet pair of hippies; they had been anything but. Her father had also taught her that those who appeared to be the nicest people in the world often were not—and that lip service didn’t mean a hell of a lot and could hide an ocean of lies and misdeeds.
“Judging people—hardest call you’ll ever make,” he’d told her once. “Especially when you have to do so quickly.”
He’d shaken his head in disgust over the result of a trial often enough, and her mother had always reminded him, “There are things that just aren’t allowed before a jury, Declan. Things that the jury just doesn’t see and doesn’t know.”
“Not to worry—we’ll get them next time,” he would assure her.
Jasmine scanned the crowd. Members of this group, the so-called Deco Gang, hadn’t been gotten yet. And they needed to be—no one really knew the full extent of their crimes because they were good. Damned good at knowing how to game the justice system.
Fanatics came in all kinds—and fanatics were dangerous. Just as criminals came in all kinds, and they ruined the lives of those who wanted to live in peace, raising their children, working...enjoying their liberty and pursuing their happiness.
That’s why cops were so important—something she had learned when sometimes her dad, the detective, hadn’t made it to a birthday party.
Because of him, she’d always wanted to be a cop. And she was a damned good one, if she did say so herself.
At the moment, it was her mother’s training that was paying off. As a child, Jasmine had accompanied her mom to all kinds of fund-raisers—and once she was a teenager, she’d started modeling at fashion shows in order to attract large donations for her mom’s various charities. She had worked with a few top designers who were equally passionate about feeding children or raising awareness when natural disasters devastated various regions in the States and around the world.
So as Jasmine strutted and played it up for the audience, she also watched.
The event had attracted the who’s who of the city. She could see two television stars who were acting in current hit series. Alphonse Mangiulli—renowned Italian artist—was there, along with Cam Li, the Chinese businessman who had just built two of the largest hotels in the world, one in Dubai and one on Miami Beach. Mathilda Glen—old, old Miami society and money—had made it, along with the famed English film director, Eric Summer.
And amid this gathering of the rich and famous was also a meeting of the loosely organized group of South Beach criminals that the Miami-Dade police called the Deco Gang.
They had come together under the control of a Russian-born kingpin, Josef Smirnoff, and they were an equal-opportunity group of very dangerous criminals. They weren’t connected to the Italian Mafia or Cosa Nostra, and they weren’t the Asian mob or a cartel from any South American or island country. And they were hard to pin down, using legitimate business for money laundering and for their forays into drug smuggling and dealing and prostitution.
Crimes had been committed; the bodies of victims had been found, but for the most part, those who got in the way of the gang were eliminated. Because of their connections with one another, alibis were abundant, evidence disappeared, and pinning anything on any one individual had been an elusive goal for the police.
Jasmine had used every favor she had saved up to get assigned to this case. It helped that her looks gave her a good cover for infiltration.
Her captain—Mac Lorenzo—probably suspected that she had her own motives. But he didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell. She hadn’t let Lorenzo know that her personal determination to bring down the Deco Gang had begun when Mary Ahearn had disappeared. Her old friend had vanished without a trace after working with a nightclub that was most probably a front for a very high-scale prostitution ring.
She could see Josef Smirnoff in the front of the crowd; he was smiling and looking right at her. He seemed to like what he saw. Good. He was the man in charge, and she needed access to him. She needed to be able to count his bodyguards and his henchmen and get close to him.
She wasn’t working alone; Jasmine was blessed with an incredible partner, Jorge Fuentes.
Along with being a dedicated cop, Jorge was also extremely good-looking, and thanks to that, he’d been given leeway when he’d shown up at the Gold Sun Club, supposedly looking for work. Jasmine had told Natasha Volkov—manager of the models who worked these events or sat about various places looking pretty—that she’d worked with Jorge before and that he was wonderfully easygoing. Turned out the show was short a man; Jorge had been hired on for the day easily. They’d cast him as Adonis and given him a very small costume to wear.
Jorge had been trying to get a moment alone with her as preparations for the fashion show had gone on. Jasmine had been undercover for several weeks prior to the club’s opening night, and briefings had been few and far between. The opportunity hadn’t arisen as yet, but they’d be able to connect—as soon as the runway show part of the party was over. She was curious what updates Jorge had, but they were both savvy enough to bide their time. Neither of them dared to blow their covers with this group—such a mistake could result in instant death, with neither of them even aware or able to help the other in any way.
Her cover story was complete. She had a rented room on Miami Beach, which she took for a week before answering the ad for models. She’d been given an effective fake résumé—one that showed she’d worked but never been on the top. And might well be hungry to get there.
After a lightning-quick change of clothes backstage, she made another sweep down the runway. She noted the celebrities in attendance. South Beach clubs were like rolls of toilet paper—people used them up and discarded them without a thought. What was popular today might be deserted within a month.
But she didn’t think that this enterprise would care—the showy opening was just another front for the illegal activities that kept them going.
She noted the men and women surrounding Josef Smirnoff. He was about six feet tall, big and solidly muscled. His head was immaculately bald, which made his sharp jaw even more prominent and his dark eyes stand out.
On his arm was an up-and-coming young starlet. She was in from California, a lovely blue-eyed blonde, clearly hoping that Smirnoff’s connections here would allow her to rub elbows with the right people.
Jasmine hoped that worked out for her—and that she didn’t become involved with the wrong people.
Natasha was with him, as well. She had modeled in her own youth, in Europe. About five-eleven and in her midfifties, Natasha had come up through the ranks. One of the girls had whispered to Jasmine that Natasha had always been smart—she had managed to sleep her way up with the right people. She was an attractive woman, keeping her shoulder-length hair a silvery-white color that enhanced her slim features. She kept tight control of the fashion
