Джеймс Паттерсон - Lost

Marie said, “This is the De Wallen District of Amsterdam. It’s the largest of the red-light districts, although it’s almost nothing more than a tourist attraction now. No one wants to risk a tourist getting hurt, so everyone makes sure the streets are safe.”

“Is this where most of the human trafficking occurs?”

“The whole city is used as a hub to traffic people, mainly to the U.S. The Amsterdam police joke that we should be classified as an official rest stop for Russians in transit. The local Russian mob is constantly running people through Amsterdam.”

I said, “I wondered if they were causing problems here like they do in the U.S. The northern part of Miami–Dade County has seen a huge influx of Russians over the past few years.”

“Do the Russians in Miami organize in groups to commit crimes as much as they do in Europe? I know the criminal justice system is different in the States.”

“No. They’re like any other immigrant group—they tend to keep to themselves. The problem is the criminals prey on other Russians, and the crimes are difficult to investigate. One crime lord in particular, Roman Rostoff, is engaged in some human trafficking as well as a long list of other crimes.”

“I’m familiar with Rostoff, unfortunately. His brother, Emile, has a smaller operation here in Amsterdam.”

“Is he as big an asshole as Roman?”

Marie smiled and said, “I’m glad we both view the family the same way. But from what I hear, Roman is much more brutal. Emile is vicious, but he tries to keep things quiet. We don’t have the same level of violence as you do in the U.S.”

“But somehow every country has organized crime and people like the Rostoffs who screw things up for everyone else.”

Marie pulled over on a block with a lot of pedestrians. I had to unwedge myself from her VW. We walked down the street to a series of four-story apartment buildings that looked like they’d been there a long time. I stared at a line of people that stretched around the block. “Is this a place where you find a lot of human smuggling?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No, this is the building where Anne Frank lived in hiding. I thought you might like to see some of the history of the city.”

I felt like a moron. I didn’t want to tell her I was too tired to see anything like this, so I just followed along.

I had no idea the day would stretch into the evening. The detective took me through the Heineken factory and on a drive along the IJmeer coastline. She also showed me several dilapidated buildings where the police suspected human traffickers kept people on a regular basis.

“For a party city, I don’t see anyone walking with a beer in their hands like they do in New Orleans,” I said.

“No beer allowed on the street, just in pubs. Alcohol makes people aggressive.”

“Let me get this straight. You can smoke a joint in the red-light district and no one will bother you, but you can’t drink a beer on the street?”

She smiled. “When was the last time you saw a person high on pot punch someone?”

She had a point.

I noticed something on the glass of a decorative street lamp. I stopped to look closer at the image of a man with a guitar. It was remarkably detailed and lifelike.

Marie chuckled and said, “This is a rare treat. Usually when he puts those up, people steal them quickly. The artist is Max Zorn. He makes these incredible images using nothing but packing tape and a razor.”

I studied the figure illuminated by the lamp. It was extraordinary. I murmured, “‘The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.’”

She said, “Excuse me?”

I turned to her. “Picasso said that.”

She smiled. “You are not at all what I expected of an American police officer.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Just surprising.” She started to stroll down the street and added, “I like surprises.”

As we continued on, I couldn’t stifle a yawn. Marie said, “Is a big, tough American police officer like you getting sleepy?”

Her mocking tone made me smile. She sounded like Stephanie Hall or my sister. That meant she was okay. It also meant she was giving me some kind of a test. She might have wanted to see if I would take offense or show me how tough she could be by outlasting me. I didn’t need any convincing.

When I saw the Hilton sign in the Noord District, I knew salvation was at hand.

Chapter 25

IT WAS LATE in Amsterdam, but it was a good time to call home. I wanted to check on my mother and Lila, though I knew my mom didn’t like that I worried so much about her; she always said I needed to get a life.

Lila picked up the home phone on the second ring. The first thing I did was get Lila to talk a bit so I could listen to her speech and make sure she was sober. Then I ran through our regular checklist of concerns: Did Mom have any doctor appointments coming up? Was she getting exercise? Was she staying occupied? That was a big one; we’d learned that her dementia was worse when she wasn’t busy. When she focused on the piano or crochet, she tended to stay grounded. Even reading helped quite a bit.

One thing I’d noticed recently was that my mom tended to read the same books over and over. I thought she was just a huge Brad Meltzer fan until I realized she had read the same book of his, The President’s Shadow, at least four times in a row.

It was tough to deal with my mom’s issues, but I could never put them out of my head. It was part of my upbringing; I’d been raised a good Lutheran and still attended services with my mom. I still believed. But like most humans, I had questions. That’s what had attracted me to philosophy in the first place. That whole notion of the search for truth.

Philosophy came down to opinions. It wasn’t science. It was one man’s or woman’s idea of what life should be. So far, I hadn’t found any answers that would solve all my problems.

I’d read what Plato and Schopenhauer and various other philosophers had said about adversity, but it was former president Bill Clinton who’d said it best: “If you live long enough, you’ll make mistakes. But if you learn from them, you’ll be a better person. It’s how you handle adversity, not how it affects you. The main thing is never quit, never quit, never quit.”

It was that quote that kept me going sometimes. In football, in police work, and especially in dealing with my mother.

Everything at home was fine, and after the call, I conked out almost immediately. In fact, when my room phone started ringing at seven forty-five the next morning, I was still lying on top of the covers in the khakis and blue button-down oxford I had been wearing the day before.

It wasn’t a good idea for a guy my size to cram himself into a tiny airplane seat for a transatlantic flight and then spend the next twenty-four hours walking around town. As I reached for the phone, I heard creaks in my joints that reminded me of every time I’d caught a football and then been knocked to the ground by some defensive back.

“Good morning, Detective Moon,” Marie Meijer said cheerfully. “Are you ready for another day of excitement in Europe’s most interesting city?”

I know I made a sound like a groan before I said, “Please call me Tom, and please call me again in two hours.”

She laughed and said, “I’ll meet half your demands. I’ll be in the lobby waiting for you in about ten minutes, Tom.”

Before I could object, she hung up.

Chapter 26

SOMEHOW, TEN MINUTES later, I was in the lobby wearing clean clothes and searching desperately for a cup of coffee.

Marie bounced into the hotel as if she’d just gotten back from vacation. She greeted the doorman by name and then we hopped in her official VW hatchback.