Джеймс Паттерсон: Lost

I asked her, in Spanish, “What do you like to do when you’re not in school?”

“I have Rollerblades and roller skates. I’m faster than anyone in my apartment building.” Her eyes positively shone as she boasted of her skill.

“I bet you are.” I couldn’t hide my smile.

Monnie, the teenage girl from Kenya, turned to fifteen-year-old Jacques from Belgium and whispered in his ear. They both giggled. I smiled to let them know it was okay to speak, but they were happy in their private joke.

I looked over at the Finnish girl, fourteen-year-old Annika, and said, “Hei, kuinka voit.”

Her blue eyes opened wide and she hit me with a slew of Finnish.

I held up my hands. “Whoa, sorry. ‘Hello, how are you,’ is all I know in Finnish.”

She smiled and switched to English. “Where did you learn to say that?”

I said, “‘If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.’” The quote covered the fact that I didn’t remember where I’d learned the Finnish phrase.

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s a famous quote.”

“Who said it?”

“Nelson Mandela.”

“Who’s he?”

“A smart man who changed the world.”

Joseph said, “Aren’t you a policeman? How do you know things like that?”

“A policeman can read and go to college,” I told him. I turned back to Annika and said, “What kind of music do you listen to?”

She fixed her blue eyes on me and said, “Mostly I like Top Forty pop. But sometimes I listen to classical music like Brahms or Mozart.” She looked at Joseph and said, “Joseph played me a Mozart sonata on the piano before we left Amsterdam. He’s really good.”

I said, “My mom plays piano.”

Annika asked, “Did she teach you to play?”

I let out a laugh. “She tried, but in South Florida, there are an awful lot of things for a boy to do that are more interesting than playing piano.”

“Is she a piano teacher?”

“She …” I decided to let that one go.

A short while later, a dark-skinned man wearing a jacket that said DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY INVESTIGATIONS stepped into the room and announced, “Time to get your stuff together, kids. It’s a little bit of a drive to the place where you’ll be housed.”

I looked at the man and said, “Where is that?”

“Krome Detention Center.”

“These kids are victims of a crime, not suspects. You dumb-asses let the damn suspect run. We caught him. Can’t you find a better place than Krome for them?”

The man gave me a hard stare for a moment, then said, “Look, pal, there are certain procedures we follow, and that’s where I’m taking them.”

As soon as the DHS agent stepped out of the room, I gathered everyone together. Joseph looked at me with big brown eyes and said, “What are we doing?”

I smiled and said, “We’re making a break for it.”

Chapter 6

IT WAS A little bit of a challenge to fit all six kids in my unmarked FBI-issued Ford Explorer, which was made less spacious by the steel box bolted to the floor in the back. It held an MP5 machine gun, a few hundred rounds of ammunition, and a ballistic vest.

In the eight months I’d been on the new task force, I hadn’t needed the extra firepower. It still amazed me how much money the federal government had to spend on international crime investigations. It was the hot new flavor of the month, and the FBI wanted all of us to look and act the part.

Even the way they’d selected us was unique. There were actual tryouts for the unit that included a fitness test, reviews by the applicant’s bosses, and a breakdown of his or her three biggest cases. I’d liked the whole challenge, even the fitness test, which was held in the middle of a hot afternoon, maybe to see if anyone complained.

I’d known about half the cops there. One of them was Alvin Teague, a Miami detective like me. The thirty-year-old Florida A and M graduate who never seemed to have a hair out of place and whose wardrobe looked like it would have bankrupted a Wall Street broker had been talking shit to everyone, trying to get in the other candidates’ heads. It looked like it was working on some of them. He called me by my street name, “Anti.” The name the Miami residents had given me was a source of pride.

I said, “Hello, Smooth Jazz.” He was a good enough cop to have earned a street name. His was a nod to how he spoke—like an announcer on a late-night jazz station.

Steph Hall, whom I didn’t know at the time, asked, “How’d you end up with a street name like ‘Anti’? What are you opposed to?”

Before I could answer, Teague looked at the group and said, “Only one other brother and he’s on the stout side. I’ll smoke you all like cheap cigars.”

The heavyset Fort Lauderdale cop looked offended as he glanced down at his stomach. Then he looked up, smiled, and shrugged.

Steph Hall stepped up and said, “I’m black. Did you overlook me because I’m a woman?”

Teague didn’t miss a beat. “I couldn’t overlook someone as beautiful as you. But I ran track in high school. I was the all-county champion in the four hundred meters. There’s no way someone here beats me.”

That’s when Lorena Perez said, “Sounds like you’re worried about the other parts of the tryout. Didn’t you have any good cases to go over? You run your mouth so much, I don’t see how you would ever hear anyone offer you a decent case.”

“I recognize you. You’re that financial-crimes genius from FDLE.” He didn’t hide the fact that he admired Lorena’s curves.

“And you’re the Miami cop that I’m going to bet ten bucks can’t beat my girl Steph here.”

It was a great afternoon and gave me some insight into my new partners. It also gave me a good laugh. I may not have been the fastest one on the track, but I finished the one-and-a-half-mile run within the twelve-minute time limit and I had a great view as Steph Hall’s long, graceful strides wore down Alvin Teague. She crossed the finish line a full ten seconds before he did.

Alvin didn’t have to be reminded that he owed Lorena ten bucks. Being a resourceful detective, he used it to his advantage. He started to hand the ten-dollar bill to Lorena, then snatched it back and said, “Any chance I could pay off the bet with a nice dinner?”

“You can eat all the nice dinners you want. As long as I have your ten dollars to get a pizza later.”

Everyone roared with laughter, even Alvin Teague. He was a loudmouth and a braggart, but he wasn’t a bad guy, and everyone recognized he was one hell of a cop.

But he didn’t get chosen for the task force.

Now, as I ushered the kids through the halls of the Miami Police Department headquarters, I was hoping to avoid Teague and any other cop I knew. I stashed the kids in an interview room with a dispatcher who I knew could handle them.

As I slipped out of the room, the dispatcher said, “Anti, you know you owe me a big favor after this.”

“Anything you want, Tosha.”

I raced up the stairs, wondering if witness services could help me find a place for the kids for the night, and ran into the one person I’d most wanted to avoid.

Alvin Teague, wearing a starched shirt and a blue Vineyard Vines tie with a sailboat design, stood in the middle of the staircase. He gave me a smug smile and said, “Hey, Anti, you still holding my spot on the task force?”

I just stared at him. I didn’t have time to trade burns.

“I’m not joking,” he said. “I’ll be there one day. I hear that if you don’t keep making arrests, you’re rotated off.”

“That’s what they say.”