Chapter Twenty-three
“Fuck, that didn’t go well. I’m going out on a limb here and say she’s going to be a royal pain in our arses for a long time to come.”
Sevastyan moved to his office door and flicked the lock. “Find everything you can. We need answers now.”
“That number you wanted me to look into. The one on the matchbook. It was the case the Detective was talking about. It’s what I came here for in the first place. But I found her on the way up. Thought it better to hold my tongue. See what she had to say. It’s what she said it was. A missing persons case where a group of girls were out partying and one never came home.”
Sevastyan titled his head and Lucian pointed to the paperwork. “That friend I told you about, he recognized the case file. It’s been a cold case where the leads went dead almost immediately. No wonder the detective’s alarms are going off.”
Sevastyan’s gut twisted with disgust so vile his insides mimicked a Shibari knot. They finally had a break. Son of a bitch, it was under their noses and all this time.
What the hell had his brother done?
With a couple of keystrokes Lucian turned the bank of monitors along the wall into a giant extension of his laptop and set to work.
Sevastyan poured them each a tumbler of vodka and passed them around. Another long-ass night ahead of them. He checked his watch. The sun would be up in another couple of hours.
It was a damn good thing he hadn’t allowed Rhia to be at the club because he couldn’t keep all hands off her unless she was with him, and what would he have done with her during the detective’s little visit?
“Any luck with the meet-up you had scheduled?” Lucian talked over his shoulder without pulling his attention away from his screen.
Sevastyan let out a disgusted grunt. “Dead end. The bastard wet his fucking pants before I got past the first question.”
“Sounds like you need to work on your interrogation skills.”
Sevastyan dashed his words away. “Whatever.”
“Doesn’t matter now.” Lucian crossed the room to the desk. “This just might be what we’re looking for.”
Pulling nothing short of a digital miracle, Lucian used every available source at their fingertips and their one viable connection within the FBI to pull all known intel on their new lead less than thirty minutes after the detective took her leave.
Sevastyan wanted everything he could find. He wanted to know if his father knew about Dimitris and Mikhail, too.
“Hold onto your asses, gents,” Lucian’s fingers dashed over the keyboard in a flurry of movement a few seconds longer. “Here we go!”
All six screens were filled with news articles, multiple passports, pictures, and reports from various international agencies willing to share below the radar.
“I give you the man of the hour. One Dominic Dimitris. Russian born, American schooled. And take a fucking look at the fugly red suit.”
Matteo pointed to surveillance videos and snapshots that dated from close to a year ago back.
“It took some digging and lucky for us a few of the surrounding businesses like to back up their security feeds to cloud storage. I found a few that went back a few years as you can see. Ignorance of others is our treasure, men. Check this out. These people have no idea how hackable their networks really are. And, in this case, how easily social media can bring someone down.”
Lucian hit a key and brought an image to the front of a girl posing for a picture with her friends on the beach. Innocent enough to his eyes.
“It looks like the detective was right. This picture was taken in the south of Spain three days ago and posted on social media. I cross-referenced anything on the web with the black and white picture the detective left behind and pulled up this gem. My guess, the girl taking the selfie had no idea who was behind her, which is understandable and lucky for her. And from their oblivious expressions, I’d say Dominic Dimitris and his bodyguards didn’t either.”
Lucian tapped the screen that showed a large barrel-chested man stepping into a black SUV in the background. Hints of his age colored his thick head of hair and beard, a wide nose that looked like it had taken a beating a few times, and sharp eyes that he would bet never missed a detail stood out to Sevastyan.
The target didn’t know he was being photographed; Lucian was right.
“This man is the definition of elusive. From reports I pulled from the local authorities and what our contacts in the FBI passed under the table, say he’s an art broker. If you have the money to back the transaction, he’s your man. Nothing is too small or too outlandish.”
Lucian jumped to another snapshot. This one filled with row upon row of financial details. “But what he does with the earnings from his art dealing is where it gets colorful and catches the eye of authorities. He’s suspected of funneling money through the backdoors of several establishments. Art galleries, bars, and sex clubs to name a few.”
“Basically, he’s not prejudiced against anyone or ideal as long as it can turn a profit for him. With no hard evidence connected directly to him, the main acronyms of law enforcement have nothing to move on. Only suspicion and a couple of very blurry photos. Frankly, I’m surprised by what I was able to find.”
Matteo held up the more recent picture. “He’s either gotten sloppy or wanted his presence known. That said, about five months ago Interpol got close enough to pin a couple of heists on him, but he slipped through their fingers, ghosting the criminal scene since. It’s been radio silence until now.”