The Naked Murderess: Thriller

By Henry Rohmer

The Naked Murderess: Thriller

by Henry Rohmer

 

The size of this ebook is equivalent to 140 paperback pages.

 

A big mafia deal is to be brought across the stage. It involves unimaginably large sums of money - and unimaginably dirty deals. An undercover investigator has been infiltrated and is risking his neck. When he confronts a naked showgirl at a party of the syndicate boss, he has no idea that he is facing a ruthless killer...

 

Henry Rohmer is the pseudonym of the well-known fantasy and young adult author Alfred Bekker, who also co-wrote numerous suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, John Sinclair and Kommissar X.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BEKKERpublishing
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215611463

Book preview

1

The dark-haired girl was almost naked. She wore thigh-high boots and a tiny thong. In addition, an open leather vest, which exposed the view of the breasts.

Her dainty hands clasped the grip of a Heckler & Koch submachine gun.

The barrel was aimed at my upper body.

Fins up! came mockingly from the curved lips of the beauty. Or you'll have a few holes in your belly...

I followed the invitation.

Two more girls came over.

They were also armed and wore the same scanty clothing as the dark-haired woman, who eyed me with a cat-like look.

Doesn't Mister Kamarov buy you anything to wear?, I asked, unable to stifle a grin.

The dark-haired woman contorted her face.

You'd be the first to regret that, mister...

Wood, I introduced myself. Randy J. Wood from Atlanta, Georgia.

That was the cover name I, Special Agent Jesse Trevellian of FBI Field Office New York, was wearing in this sting operation. I stood with my hands up and the armed girls groped me under my dark tuxedo jacket.

I was prepared for it.

For once, I carried my SIG Sauer P 226 service weapon on my foot, while otherwise I preferred a belt holster.

What the girls were doing didn't have much to do with a real search. It was part of the show. But it was quite pleasant.

One of the beauties had grabbed my ID card and took a look at it with mock severity.

Randy J. Wood, she muttered, At least the name is right...

And is also on the list of invitees, I added.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the girls taking care of my red sports car. Be careful with the good piece!, I shouted.

The girl who had squeezed behind the wheel giggled.

All right! the dark-haired woman said. You can go!

Thank you very much, I replied, and walked through the glass doors into the foyer of the Johnson Plaza Hotel in Brooklyn.

At the entrance stood the real bodyguards in dark suits. The girls were part of the show that Jossif 'Big Joe' Kamarov had arranged for this evening. The Heckler & Koch MPis were real, but unloaded, as our informants assured. Rumor had it that Big Joe had borrowed the MPis from the prop fund at the Bellmore Theatre on Broadway, where a gangster musical was being staged.

Kamarov subsidized the Bellmore with large sums of money. A hobby of 'big Joe', which he financed from his petty cash. Perhaps it also served him incidentally for money laundering.

I doubted that even one of the young women had learned to really handle an MPi. Kamarov had probably hired all the strippers in Lower Brooklyn for the evening. Big Joe was known for such frivolous productions.

No wonder, he was from the industry, so to speak.

The sex business was his world.

Kamarov was the boss of a syndicate of White Russians that by now controlled much of the prostitution that was illegal in New York. He also had his fingers in the girl trade and collected protection money from clubs.

He smuggled in young women from Eastern Europe, got them false papers and sold them to the pimps he controlled.

But his days as a great godfather in the background were numbered. Even if he himself had no idea of this.

We wanted to put a stop to him. That night, Kamarov was planning to wrap up a big deal. And we would be there. With microphones, cameras and a number of agents, some of whom had been undercover for months. Kamarov had no idea of the trap we were setting for him. Above all, he did not know that we had 'turned' Basil Jordan, a Harlem pimp. The prosecutor had convinced him, with more or less gentle pressure, that it was better for him to help us and testify in court as a key witness.

I entered the foyer.

Kamarov had rented the entire Johnson Plaza for the evening. And not for the first time. The Belarusian loved lavish parties. His debauched parties were the talk of the town in Brooklyn.

I let my eyes wander. Everywhere were the half-naked girls with their MPis. The foyer was full of festively dressed people. The men in tuxedos, the women with diamond jewelry.

Big Joe made a point of wearing a stylish outfit. A couple of sinister guys were easily recognizable as bodyguards because they kept murmuring something into their radios.

When it came to arrest, we had to pay special attention to these men.

But it was all meticulously planned.

For every one of these gorillas, there were at least two G-men.

And the bodyguards would certainly be smart enough not to pull a gun on us. After all, a battle with the FBI was something different than some skirmish with the people of a recalcitrant pimp.

A little off to the side, I saw my friend and colleague Milo Tucker just getting a drink from one of the lightly dressed killer girls.

We looked at each other for a moment.

Otherwise, we didn't let on that we had anything to do with each other.

I wore a tiny radio on my shirt collar, which I used to contact my colleagues when necessary.

A booming laugh filled the room. The invited guests turned around. Big Joe Kamarov was standing there with his head up, one of the half-naked girls in each arm. Basil Jordan was with him. The two bodyguards accompanying Jordan had learned their trade at the FBI Academy at Quantico. Agent Jellico and Agent Carrington played their roles so convincingly that you'd think they'd never done anything but escort a pimp.

Jordan was sweating.

One of the girls rushed up to me, an MPI in one hand, a tray of drinks on the other. The view of her bare breasts I distracted myself for a moment.

I now had to stay on the ball as far as Kamarov was concerned. The operation could enter its decisive phase at any time.

A drink? the beauty asked.

Thank you.

I took a glass and sipped it while the girl walked away with a breathtaking swing of her hips.

I looked over at Kamarov and Basil Jordan.

Jordan was visibly uncomfortable in his skin. He loosened the first shirt button. I hoped he didn't ruin his microphone, then it was all for nothing.

Heh, I know you! a female voice to my left called out.

I turned around. Madeleine Kamarov was coming toward me.

She was in her mid-thirties, wore a low-cut dress that made her look very sexy. She was Kamarov's third wife and her real name was not Madeleine either. But that was the name under which Kamarov had naturalized her in the United States.

Her gait was unsteady. She had been drinking.

Wait, I remember, you're.... My goodness, my head is so empty!

Randy J. Wood, I helped her up.

My husband does business with you, doesn't he?

Yes.

Her face contorted as she looked toward Big Joe. Her eyes narrowed. Hate stood in her features for a moment. Jossif is too greedy, she hissed as Kamarov just grabbed the bare chest of one of the girls. In every way... This is going to kill him again!

Madeleine's hand clenched.

The glass shattered.

A short murmur went through the crowd. Kamarov looked toward her for a moment. A hotel attendant rushed over to sweep away the shards.

I'm bleeding! wailed Madeleine Kamarov.

I'll take care of it, the hotel clerk said.

I took the opportunity to break away from Madeleine. I knew her from my recent undercover investigations. She had a drinking problem, but was probably only involved in her husband's business to the extent that she spent his money.

At some distance, I saw our colleagues Agent Orry Medina and Clive Caravaggio standing. They were also watching Kamarov and his entourage closely.

I kept to the sidelines and inconspicuously stuck a button in my ear.

What was now spoken between Kamarov and Jordan, each of us G-men got.

In addition, it was also recorded.

Basil Jordan turned