Lost(19)

CHAPTER 24





AFTER I’D HAD a sandwich accompanied by an eight-ounce Coca-Cola in a glass bottle that made me feel like a giant, Marie gave me a quick tour of Amsterdam. I didn’t want to explain that I’d been up all night on an airplane and that my circadian rhythms were all screwed up. I just tried to take in the sights and listen to what this sharp detective had to say.

“I heard you had to chase the man bringing the kids into Miami. Do you have many foot chases?” Marie asked.

I shrugged. “Some. I guess it depends on how badly you want to make the arrest.”

“Do you get angry at runners?”

“No. I learned early in my career to keep it in perspective.”

“What happened?”

“I was a rookie in uniform and saw a young man selling crack on Miami Avenue, right in the center of the city. When he ran, I chased. As I ran, I kept screaming, ‘Police, stop,’ like that might help.

“Finally, near a highway underpass, I tackled him. I was mad and yelled, ‘Why’d you run from me?’

“The crack dealer kept calm and said, ‘It’s my job to run. It’s your job to catch me.’ I had tackled a philosopher. He was right and I’ve kept it in mind for every chase I’ve ever been in.”

I liked that Marie found the story funny. She had a beautiful smile and an engaging laugh. I noticed now that her left eyelid looked heavy, half closed over her dazzling blue eye. But her creamy skin was flawless. I was finding her more and more interesting.

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.”