Lost

Lost by James Patterson



CHAPTER 1





MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT isn’t exactly a tranquil space on a normal day—if there’s such a thing as a normal day at MIA. Now, as I watched a human trafficker strolling toward the immigration portal with six kids in tow, it felt like a hurricane was about to hit indoors. An ill-tempered Customs supervisor from the Department of Homeland Security fidgeted next to me.

The supervisor’s pudgy fingers beat on the tan veneer counter, thumping out a rhythm I almost recognized. The only thing Customs supervisors hated worse than a Miami cop asking for help was a Miami cop on an FBI task force asking for help.

The man stopped tapping out “Jingle Bells”—hey, I got it—and shifted to rubbing his gut, which was hanging over his belt despite the extra holes he’d punched in it. He looked up at me and said, “So what kind of task force is this?”

“International crime.”

“Who from Customs is on it? There’s no way you can have an international crimes task force without Customs.”

He was right, but I ignored the question to concentrate on the operation.

We were acting on a serious tip we’d gotten from the Dutch national police. They were looking at a smuggling group associated with the Rostoff crime organization, and I was now looking right at the suspect, Hans Nobler.

The Dutch national was about fifty years old and dressed like he was trying to impress twenty-year-olds. In his skinny jeans and leather bracelets, the dude was more creepy than stylish. He wore a blue and orange Dutch World Cup jacket with the swagger of someone who’d played, but the colors were too close to the University of Florida’s for it to seem genuine. I had at least eighty pounds on him; he didn’t worry me.

I turned my attention to the children Nobler was herding, four girls and two boys. The two teenage girls looked scared. The two younger girls, a blonde and a brunette with olive skin, were striking; they couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old. When the creepy Dutchman caressed the face of the blond girl, I almost snapped.

But part of police work is patience. Besides, I was in charge of this operation, and it looks bad for the boss to break the law during an arrest. I didn’t want other members of the task force telling the FBI that I was some sort of lunatic.

The Dutchman steered all the kids to the same line for entry.

Why that line? There were seven lines open, and others were shorter or moving faster. Had to be significance to that choice.

The inspector was alert and moving people along reasonably quickly. I checked the roster and saw his name was Vacile. Vacile waved the four older kids through with barely a glance; next up was Nobler with the two younger children. Nobler casually draped his hand over the little blond girl’s shoulders and played with her hair.

My stomach knotted. This wasn’t my usual assignment, some shitty dope deal in the city between lowlifes I didn’t really care about. I desperately wanted to get these kids out of here safely—and, to an extent that surprised me, I wanted this task force to succeed.

I phoned Stephanie Hall. As she answered, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I flinched and turned quickly to see Stephanie herself. She said, “Are you jumpy, Tom Moon? Let’s grab this shithead and call it a day. What else do you need to know about this guy? Remember, curiosity killed the cat. And will make me late.”

I said, “I want to see how he accounts for the kids.” My mind ran through scenarios of what could happen once we made our move. Crowds of tourists, kids in danger—the complications made me shudder.

The other two members of our task force—Anthony Chilleo, who worked for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives (ATF), and Lorena Perez, a Florida Department of Law Enforcement (FDLE) agent—were also lurking in the area. I used my police radio to urge everyone to be alert and gave a detailed description of the suspect.

Stephanie said in a singsong voice, “Sounds like you’re trying to impress someone.”

“You’re the only one I ever try to impress.” That made her smile, which seemed to brighten the whole room.





CHAPTER 2





AFTER I MADE detective, I realized that different law enforcement agencies always talk shit about one another. Here’s the first joke I heard an FBI agent tell: “What’s blue and white and sleeps four? A Miami police patrol cruiser.” (Made me laugh, if I’m being honest.)

But sometimes the suspicion among agencies came from genuine issues, like the one I was having now with Customs. These agents at the airport had their own little fiefdom; they didn’t care about how we gathered evidence for different crimes. They liked things quick and simple: You’re smuggling contraband; we seize it; you plead guilty; case closed.

I tried to keep things pleasant. I turned to the Customs man and said, “Someone from the task force needs to lay hands on him before you guys.”

“Ah, politics. I guess I shouldn’t be shocked the FBI wants to get some publicity from this.” The supervisor gave me a dirty look, yanked a radio from his belt, and said, “Raoul, pull the guy with the two kids out of line three. The guy who looks like a reject from some half-assed American Bandstand, the one wearing the wannabe Gators jacket.”

I guess he showed me.

I looked out over the crowd. At least I had a good view of the room. There were only a few people as tall as me, and we all stuck out like giraffes. There were Europeans eager to get out in the sun, Americans returning from vacations in Europe. And rising heat in a room where too many people had been pushed in too quickly.