Джеймс Паттерсон - Lost

She said, “I can probably take care of Mom on my own, but it’s a scary prospect. I thought the reason you went with the Miami Police Department instead of a federal agency was so that you could help me.”

“You’re right. If you really think I need to stay, I’ll work it out.”

She thought about it for a moment, then said, “I can handle it. I think it’s great you want to take these kids home personally.”

“I’m glad somebody thinks it’s great.”

Lila cocked her head and said, “I’ve never heard Mom play Beethoven before. She’s more of a show-tune-and-pop-music kind of gal.”

We walked back into the parlor and I was surprised to see Joseph sitting next to my mother on the bench playing Beethoven’s Piano Sonata no. 4. It was the first time my college music-appreciation class had come in handy. It was haunting.

All of the kids stood around the piano, and my mother looked positively thrilled.

And that made me positively happy.

Chapter 16

I WAS GROGGY the next morning as I pulled over by the park in Hallandale Beach, right next to the county line. It was so early that the presence of police cars and a crime scene still hadn’t attracted many onlookers.

Hallandale’s South City Beach Park used to be referred to as “Needle Junction” and “Body Drop Park.” It had been cleaned up a lot since then, but there was still room to do shit without anyone seeing you.

The phone call from Anthony Chilleo at 5:15 that morning had startled me out of a sound sleep. I’d raced over here from my house, twenty-five miles to the northwest.

I held up my badge to the young patrol officer who was maintaining security around the perimeter of the crime scene. She seemed like a kid to me even though she was probably in her midtwenties. That’s what six years of police work in Miami can do to you.

I followed her directions and carefully walked along the path marked by tiny flags. Crime scene people were busy combing the area on both sides of the path, and I could see Chill talking with a Broward County Sheriff’s Office homicide detective.

Chill made the introductions, and the homicide detective reminded me that we’d met once in a class on money laundering.

After the small talk, I asked, “So did you think I needed to come down to the beach so early?” I said it with a smile, even though I was confused.

Chill said, “I told you about the rumors of Roman Rostoff being involved in everything, including human trafficking.”

“I remember.”

“I think he’s showing his displeasure with how we interrupted his shipment of kids being smuggled into Miami International.” He pointed to a set of screens hiding something that a crime scene technician was photographing.

I stepped over to the screens and looked behind them. I knew there was going to be a body. There wouldn’t be this much commotion over cocaine that washed up on the beach or some recovered stolen property. But the image shocked me, and I knew it would haunt me for a long time.

The young woman, a teenager, lay sprawled on the sand, naked. She had blond hair and a beautiful girl-next-door face. Her blue eyes were still open and staring straight up at the sky.

There was a neat slit in her throat with dried blood on both sides leading to the sandy ground. I squatted down to make it look like I was getting a better view, but in fact the scene disturbed me. I needed to wrap my head around this nasty business. She reminded me of some of the girls I’d rescued from the Miami airport.

Chill squatted down next to me and held up a plastic evidence bag.

I struggled to see past the spatters of blood on the inside of the bag. “What am I looking at, Chill?”

“Someone stuck her Florida driver’s license as well as her ID from Serbia into the wound on her throat. We’ve already done some quick background on her. She was a dancer at one of Roman Rostoff’s clubs. The two IDs and a talk with a coworker indicate that she was smuggled into the United States. Rostoff wants us to know that if we screw with his business, someone is going to get hurt.”

I looked down at her pretty, lifeless face. Somehow I felt responsible. At the same time, I was pissed. Who did this asshole think he was?

I stood up and backed away from the body. I looked at Chill and said, “How do you feel about doing something the FBI wouldn’t approve of?”

“To tell you the truth, I do that every day. Just on principle.”

I smiled. The ATF agent didn’t say much, but I was getting the idea that he’d be useful in an insurrection. People like that are hard to find.

Chapter 17

A FEW HOURS later, I found myself on Biscayne Boulevard in front of a beautiful skyscraper overlooking the bay. It housed the headquarters of AEI Enterprises, and I cringed when I realized that it also housed the law offices of Robert Gould, the man who was now married to my ex-fiancée.

Chill met me in the lobby. He’d thrown on a sports coat and looked remarkably professional. I was still wearing my 5.11 Tactical pants with my gun on my hip. We were in the city of Miami now. This was my territory.

Chill said, “I worked a case in front of here once.”

“The Che Guevara shirt?”

He smiled. “Exactly. You were on it too?”

I hadn’t been, but I remembered it well. A Cuban immigrant had taken deadly offense to a tourist’s Che Guevara T-shirt. “I had just come on the PD and was working patrol,” I said. “When I heard someone had been shot in this area, I was curious. I guess that hipster from Chicago learned his lesson the hard way; even I knew you didn’t praise Castro or Che in Miami.”

Chill nodded. “People who don’t understand shit like that shouldn’t be allowed to leave home. I was surprised the jury even convicted the Cuban shooter.”

“Of manslaughter, not murder. He was a hero in the city when he came home three years later. I heard he never has to pay for a meal on Calle Ocho.”

I glanced around the opulent lobby and said to Chill, “What does AEI stand for?”

“American Entertainment and Investment. It’s Rostoff’s supposedly legitimate business, the one that handles his nightclubs, alcohol-distribution companies, and foreign investments. He’s listed as the president, and there are half a dozen other Russians in the top corporate spots.”

“Hiding in plain sight.”

“Roman Rostoff doesn’t even try to hide. He just donates truckloads of money to the county and city commissions. One of the state senators in the area has stepped in four different times to help him out with business licenses and real estate issues. He’s an old-time gangster who brings in money from a dozen ventures and understands that he needs politicians in his pocket to keep going. They’re giving him some kind of award in Miami Beach soon.”

We rode the elevator up to the forty-first floor. All of the offices here were occupied by AEI Enterprises. A sharp-looking receptionist who wore superthin glasses, probably as a fashion statement, asked if she could help us.

I said, “We’d like to speak with Mr. Rostoff.”

She looked us over, and we clearly didn’t pass the test. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rostoff’s schedule is quite filled today.”

“When does he have some time?”

She glanced at her computer, hit a few keys, then smiled and said, “Unless you have an appointment that he’s agreed to, his next free time is in April of next year.” She smiled again and somehow made it seem sincere.

That was my cue to walk past her. If you’re not making some kind of effort, I don’t have time to deal with you.

Chill let out a low chuckle as he followed me to the giant double doors that I assumed led to Rostoff’s office. I opened both doors to make our entrance seem more spectacular. But our entrance couldn’t compare to the incredible view of Biscayne Bay, South Beach, and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. It might have been the best view I’d ever seen in Miami.