Джеймс Паттерсон - Lost

The man in the suit cursed at him and kicked him in the ribs several times. When he was finished, he glared around the alley at the other men sitting on broken plastic chairs or stacked boxes. It was a challenge to see if anyone else wanted to cross him.

He disappeared around the corner, and a moment later Magda started to cry.

Chapter 83

AFTER MY RUN-IN with Billy, Marie and I continued searching downtown Miami. I had avoided the calls from my boss, but when Stephanie Hall called, I answered.

Stephanie said, “Are you working?”

“Downtown now.”

“You’ve got to be crazy. Do you know how many policies you’re violating by coming in the day after a shooting?”

“Miami PD policies or FBI policies?”

“You are the most infuriating man I have ever met.”

“Are you telling me you’re not working? Because if you say you’re sitting at home, I won’t believe you.”

There was a pause. “Maybe I’m at the office with Chill. But we’re keeping a low profile. We’ll come down to you right now. I checked on Lorena a few minutes ago. She seems to be doing fine.”

“I checked on her too. She’s definitely doing better than the Russian dude she plugged before he could massacre the rest of us. She better not catch any shit over this.”

Steph said, “She won’t. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Why me?”

Steph said, “I heard the boss talking to some DHS bigwigs. They don’t like you. Sounds like you’ve disrespected them several times in the past few weeks.”

“Actually, it’s only been this past week. Unless they want to count their screw-up at the airport.”

“So you’re not worried about it?”

“The only thing I can think about right now is making sure everyone from the shipping container is safe. I put the word out with all the Miami PD and every snitch I ran into on the street that we’re still looking for a Polish girl named Magda.”

When I finished the call, I turned to Marie, who was just ending a call on her own phone. She looked up at me and said, “My informant in Amsterdam who gets information from Miami says that Rostoff’s Russians kidnapped Hanna Greete’s daughter from their hotel here in Miami.”

“It must have something to do with the way Hanna bungled the offload.”

“And what happened with the diamonds.”

I noticed excitement in her voice. She usually spoke English slowly and clearly, but now her Dutch accent was pronounced. Police were the same all over—they got excited when they thought they were about to make a decent arrest.

I said, “So the reason I ran into Billy was that he’s looking for the diamonds.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got to find that girl Magda first. No matter what.”

Marie said, “My informant also says there may be a tracker in the bag. Even with it, Hanna hasn’t been able to locate her.”

“Then why haven’t the others found her already?”

Marie shrugged.

I said, “Trackers can be finicky. If it’s a cheap one, even a metal roof can block the signal.” That gave me something to think about.

Around Third Street and Fourth Avenue, when we were checking another one of the homeless shelters, I ran into one of my earliest informants, a tall, lean black man named Titus Barrow, whom everyone called Bulldog.

I pointed him out to Marie and her first question was “Why do they call him Bulldog?”

“You’ll figure it out when we talk to him.”

Bulldog was standing at his regular corner. He generally sold pot to tourists and crack to his regular customers, although that wasn’t a hard-and-fast rule; it was more of a guideline.

As soon as he noticed me, he straightened up and tossed a baggie into the scraggly bushes next to him.

I said, “Don’t make me search those bushes, Bulldog.”

He mumbled, “Shit, man.” Then he turned and squatted to recover the plastic baggie. He handed it over to me without any more complaints.

I think that’s when Marie realized how he’d gotten his street name. His lower jaw jutted out and his bottom teeth rested on his upper lip when his mouth was closed, and although he was a thin man, he had drooping jowls.

Bulldog said, “You in narcotics now, Anti?”

“Don’t need to be a narcotics detective to spot a shitty dope dealer.”

“What’s this really about?”

I liked that he was smart enough to realize I didn’t give two shits about a minor street dealer. I said, “If you want me to toss this baggie down a sewer, then help us find a missing girl.”

Bulldog gave me an odd look.

I said, “The description we have is that she’s about sixteen, white, pretty, and blond. She has a thick foreign accent. She’s in a world of shit and I need your help.”

“I’m your man. What neighborhood you think she in?”

“Maybe downtown near the port. You got my number.”

“I’ll get everyone I know in on this.”

“I expect nothing less.”

Now I had a small army helping me find the missing girl.

Chapter 84

HANNA WAS DESPERATE to find her daughter. She couldn’t even think about what Josie might be going through. She didn’t believe the Russians would hurt Josie as long as they thought Hanna was getting them what they wanted. She had to find the Polish girl and the backpack—today.

She and Albert had cruised the streets near the port in an expanding pattern. She just didn’t have enough contacts in Miami to reach out for help.

Albert paced nervously next to her. His hand rarely left the butt of the pistol he’d bought. Near the interstate, in an area that clearly wasn’t visited by tourists, they checked homeless shelters. They had just walked through a shelter for homeless youth. The woman who ran the place wasn’t friendly, but she was efficient. She marched them through the nine rooms used to house young people, four of them per room. She spoke with a drawl that made it difficult for Hanna to understand her.

The woman said, “We get new kids most every day.”

Hanna noted the grimy walls and small, thin mattresses laid on the bare floor. It was spare, but probably better than sleeping in the street.

The woman said, “We don’t ask no questions. That’s why kids come here.”

Hanna thanked her, and she and Albert left.

Outside, a young man with tattoos around his neck and upper arms rushed up to them and said, “I heard you asking about a missing girl.”

Hanna showed him a photo of Magda on her phone. “Where can we find her?”

“Is there a reward?”

“Yes. Cash.”

“How much?”

Hanna rummaged in her small purse and thumbed through the wad of cash Albert had taken from the hotel clerk. She looked up at the young man and said, “Five hundred dollars.”

The tattooed kid turned his head in one direction, then the other. He played with the metal stud sticking out of his lower lip. He reached in his pocket and paused.

When his hand came out of his pocket, it held a knife. He raised it to Hanna’s face. As he moved, the young man said, “Give me the cash. Maybe I’ll find the girl later.”

Before Hanna could answer, Albert had his hand around the kid’s throat. He mashed the barrel of his pistol hard against the young man’s temple.

Without a word, the young man dropped the knife and took a step back. Albert faced him and said, “Tell me the truth. Have you seen the girl? Do you know where she is? Anything other than the truth will be the last thing you ever say. Understand?”

Albert pushed him against a wall. The young man was shaking. The pistol was still pressed against his temple.

The young man swallowed hard, then gathered the courage to say, “I swear to God, I never seen that girl before. I just needed money.”