Lost(10)

Both men sat perfectly still, like statues. A thin trickle of blood dripped from the tiny cut Albert’s knife had made.

Even Hanna flinched at the suddenness of the action and the sight of blood. But she held steady as Heinrich whimpered.

Albert acted as if nothing had happened and smiled as he said, “A name?” He lowered the knife.

Heinrich hyperventilated as he lifted his left hand to feel his neck. He mumbled, “Detective Marie Meijer.”

Albert said, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”





CHAPTER 11





HANNA CALLED FOR a cab, then turned to her brother and said, “Was that really necessary?”

Albert put on an innocent look. “What? You mean the shave I gave to fat boy? People are beginning to take advantage of us. They no longer fear us. Something’s got to change.”

“You have a point. But threatening a public official, no matter how petty or corrupt, could come back to haunt us.”

“If you weren’t with me, I would’ve sliced off one of his fingers or an ear. Just to show that we mean business.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that we’re facing scrutiny by the national police as well as the Koninklijke Marechaussee. We have to be careful.”

Albert said, “I trained with the Koninklijke Marechaussee when I was in the army. They’re mostly muscle. They don’t really investigate. This all has to do with that one detective, Marie Meijer. She has it in for us.”

Hanna nodded. He was right.

“I have no idea what we ever did to her,” Albert said. “Maybe we should offer her a cut of our profits.”

“I don’t think so. She’s a true believer. A bribe won’t work this time.”

“I could deal with her. Permanently. I could even make it look like an accident, although that’s more work and less fun. Drop her in the Markermeer.”

“No. Bodies always wash up on the shore eventually. Besides, cops never give up chasing someone who’s killed another cop.”

Albert looked down the road at the approaching cab and pouted like a little boy. “You don’t let me have any fun at all.”





CHAPTER 12



Miami


THE TASK FORCE was officially called Operation Guardian, mostly because when it was known as International Criminal Investigations, ICI, everyone referred to it as “Icky.” Now we had an okay name and office space in North Miami Beach, a few miles from the main FBI office.

No one outside of law enforcement seemed to understand that Interpol didn’t make arrests. Interpol was just a global organization that shared information. For instance, if there was a jewelry heist in Paris that was somehow connected to Miami, a French detective would fly to Florida and work with either the FBI or the Miami police.

That was one of the rationales for taking the best investigators from the most active agencies—now there was a single unit that took on the biggest international crimes. And we had to make a name for ourselves. Make a big splash.

The problem with an active unit, though, was that the office was always busy. It was hard to find a space where six kids could hang out.

I’d moved my laptop into the conference room so that I could work at the end of the table and also keep an eye on my new posse. No one in the office had shown much interest in helping me babysit.

The kids were a distraction, but only because they seemed like they were having fun and I didn’t want to be left out. I abandoned my report to play the Monopoly game someone had brought in to keep them occupied.

Monnie said, “I’ve never seen this game before.”

Jacques was amazed. “It’s old. I saw a TV show where they said the British POWs in World War Two played it.”

Olivia said to me in Spanish, “Can I play?”

I hugged her. “Of course. We’re all a team. We all play or no one plays.”

And that’s how one of my best days started.

Forty minutes later, while I was considering putting houses on Ventnor Avenue, Anthony Chilleo stepped into the room. Sometimes, dealing with Chill was like dealing with a wild animal; he might disappear or he might eat out of your hand. I hadn’t quite figured out the quiet ATF agent yet.

Chill was about average size, but he was solid. He also had a certain intensity to him that made everything he said seem vital. I hated to generalize, but that was a characteristic I’d noticed in all the ATF agents I’d worked with—they brought this intensity to everything they did. I figured it was one of the reasons they had such a high conviction rate. And I guess if I worked for a small, underfunded agency whose main task was getting illegal guns off the street, I’d develop the same kind of determination.

He placed a black camera bag at the end of the table. All he said was “This is for you.”

As he started to leave the room I called out, “Whoa, Chill, what are you trying to give me? That doesn’t look like a gift.”

The wiry forty-five-year-old ATF agent said, “It’s a bag of electronic-surveillance shit. As the second in charge of the unit, you’re supposed to keep it in your car in case we need it in the field. A couple of recorders, a camera, and a tracker. Usual stuff.”

He hesitated like he had something else to say, then motioned me out of the room so the kids wouldn’t hear us. He said, “I heard something that might be related to your new case.”