Джеймс Паттерсон - Lost

That pissed me off a little bit more.

We walked toward a man in a blue Joseph Abboud suit sitting behind a carved oak desk. He looked to be about fifty-five years old. Before we’d gotten three steps, two other men sprang into action. The tall, muscular one turned to me; an older guy in a suit moved toward Chill.

I held up my ID quickly and said, “This is a police matter.”

The man near Chill said, “I know. It’s called criminal trespass. And you’re going to get arrested for it.”

Chapter 18

I APPRECIATED THE quick comeback by the jerk in the suit.

The tall man closer to me didn’t say anything, which meant he was the one who was going to take action first. He was about an inch taller than me. I’m not used to men with a longer reach than I have, but he didn’t try to punch me. He reached out with both hands to grab me by the shirt. It was like a drill we used to do on the practice fields—someone grabs your jersey, you knock his hands away. In this case, I put my weight into it, and after I knocked his hands away, I gave him an open-handed slap on the back of his head. That is one of the most disorienting blows you can suffer, the good old Gerber slap. It might not cause much damage, but for a couple of seconds you’re knocked stupid.

He stumbled forward, fell onto an expensive Asian carpet, then slid into the decorative baseboard.

I reached for my gun, and the man near Chill started to reach into his suit jacket. This was turning ugly fast.

Just as everyone was about to pull a gun, Roman Rostoff yelled, “Enough!” We all froze. Rostoff said, “Billy, help Tibor up.” He looked at Chill and said, “What can I do for you, Agent Chilleo?”

Chill said, “I’m impressed you know who I am.”

“I always learn the names of people trying to hurt me or my business. But who have you brought with you? He looks more like a professional wrestler than a cop,” Rostoff said. He had almost no Russian accent. I was surprised that he was neither intimidated nor flustered. That was a disappointment. I’d been hoping to scare him a little bit, but mostly I’d just wanted him to know we were watching.

I said, “My name is Tom Moon. I’m a detective with the Miami PD working on an FBI task force.”

“What kind of task force, Detective?”

“International crime. Right now we’re looking into human trafficking.”

Rostoff clucked his tongue and said, “Is there such a thing as human trafficking? There are so many people that wish to come to America, how could there be human trafficking here?”

I knew his smile was designed to annoy me. It worked. I took a moment to size up the other men. The one named Billy looked like he was in good shape. He had dark, thinning hair and a goatee with a blue tinge to it. I guessed he was trying to look younger, but no hipster I’d ever met wore a thousand-dollar Brooks Brothers suit or had hands that looked like they could crush granite.

The other guy was standing now and trying to look tough even though I had just smacked his ass onto the floor. He was younger than the other one and had long hair tied in a ponytail and the sides of his head shaved. A tattoo of a blossoming branch came from under his collar up his neck to the right side of his face. It looked a little like the van Gogh painting of almond branches. I was willing to bet each white blossom represented something, like a person he’d killed. None of these ass-wipes had tattoos for the hell of it.

I said, “Wasn’t the girl found murdered on Hallandale Beach trafficked? Poor Serbian girl was brought to the U.S., thinking she was going to live the dream. Instead, she ends up working at one of your shitty clubs.”

Rostoff kept his smile. “Who are you talking about?”

“Valentina Cerdic.”

He shrugged and said, “Don’t know her.”

Chill said, “She worked at Club Wild.” He looked at the man with the dyed goatee. “That’s one of the places you run, right, Billy? You’re the guy people call Billy the Blade.”

Billy gave him a smile and then looked over to his boss.

Rostoff turned his attention to the ATF agent. “Did you enjoy watching this dead girl dance?”

Chill was far too cool and collected to let a comment like that get to him. Cops who bite at that kind of bait never get much done.

Rostoff said, “Now, why did you gentlemen really come up here? Was it just for the view? Perhaps to practice your martial arts on my associates?”

I said, “I wanted to get a look at what kind of shit-heel murders a girl and stuffs her ID into a hole in her neck.”

“Then I suggest you start searching for the killer.”

“We already are.” I looked at the well-dressed, fit man who had confronted Chill. I said, “Billy, is it? What kind of Russian name is Billy?”

The man lost his smile and said, “One you should remember.”

“No need to worry about that. I remember almost everything. Plus we’ll be keeping a close watch on you.”

Rostoff clapped his hands together. “Excellent. You can never be too safe. Tell me, Detective Moon, do you think you’re safe? Being a police officer is a terribly dangerous job.”

I stepped a little closer and said, “You think you’re smart. Beyond our reach. Let me assure you that you’re wrong. This isn’t a seventies NYPD movie. No one is untouchable. Especially if the FBI is after your ass. You should have learned that from Al Capone. Another Miami resident.”

“We shall see.”

I turned to leave. “We’ll be in touch.”

As we stepped through the door, I heard Billy mumble, “So will we.”

Chapter 19

I SPENT A long, tiring day making sure everything was in order to take the kids back to Amsterdam.

Virtually everything in the police world ran on favors. The more help you gave, the more help you got. So even though I was crazy-busy, when a homicide detective asked me to swing by the PD to help him interview a witness, I couldn’t refuse.

The witness, Hazel Branch, was an elderly woman who lived off Miami Avenue and had known me since my first days on patrol. She was an eyewitness to a drive-by shooting and she said she’d only talk to me.

I had to help, but it wasn’t because of the detective’s request. It was because Miss Hazel had helped me out once. When I was on patrol as a rookie, she’d warned me about a gang-initiation ambush. Two beefy young men with baseball bats were planning to break my legs when I walked through the apartment complex. Thanks to Miss Hazel, I changed my route and walked up behind those two young men while they were waiting for me. I said, “Can I help you fellas?”

They both jumped and turned quickly. One of the men inadvertently whacked the other in the arm with the bat. That started an argument between them, which led to some good swings, and each man took some lumps.

I didn’t make an arrest. I couldn’t risk tipping them off to Miss Hazel. Besides, it was fun watching those two punish each other more than any judge would have. And I never forgot what I owed her. I always came when she called.

I stepped into the comfortable interview room. Miss Hazel, who wore a simple, dignified dress, as she always did, looked up and said, “Hello, Thomas. Would you explain to this young man that I don’t need trouble with any of the local gangs?”

I sat down in the chair across from the elderly woman. “Miss Hazel, he’s just trying to figure out who killed that young man in front of your apartment. I know you said you heard the gunfire, but do you know what time? Did you happen to glance at the clock?”

“Thomas, if I looked at the clock every time I heard gunfire in my neighborhood, I’d never get any sleep.”

I tried not to laugh—I didn’t even know if she was trying to be funny—but I couldn’t help it; the detective and I both broke up. After some casual chatting, I finally got something worthwhile from Miss Hazel. I asked, “Do you have any idea who shot him?”