Lost(54)

After Marie had been sewn up, she turned to me and asked, “How do I look?” Her sly smile broke the tension and I laughed.

“Beautiful.” I wasn’t kidding. But even with the scrapes and stitches, she was ready to get back to work. After the visit to Jackson Memorial, we searched the streets of Miami for the people who had fled from the ship. We managed to find six young women, two young men, and two older women. Most were wandering around the port area. Two were at a shelter.

Once back in the station, we began taking statements from the victims who spoke English. Their accounts of traveling over the Atlantic in the shipping container were harrowing.

About five days into the trip, they said, the older of the two men from India had fallen asleep and never woke up. The younger women, who spoke the same language and appeared to be friends, said they believed that the younger Indian man had had some sort of cardiac event when he discovered the other man was dead.

The two dead girls, they said, were from somewhere in Belgium. One of them had started getting sick a few days earlier, and the other girl, who never spoke to anyone and whose name they didn’t know, began throwing up as well. They had both died about a day ago.

It was heartbreaking. Marie, for all of her toughness, had a hard time dealing with it. She clearly felt like she had personally let them down.

I gave her a few minutes. She composed herself, but it wasn’t easy. Cops aren’t robots, and few civilians can comprehend what police officers see on a regular basis. It’s a miracle that there aren’t cops breaking down all the time.

I said, “It’s not your fault. It’s the traffickers and people like Rostoff. They don’t care about anything but money.”

“It’s just so sad,” Marie said. “Society has forgotten these people. I’ve seen it in Amsterdam. Young girls think they can make their fortune by coming here, but it’s all lies. I wish we could do something to hurt predators like the Rostoff brothers. The death penalty would be too good for them.”

I nodded and said, “We’ll do something. I can’t let Roman Rostoff sit up in that luxury office like he’s an earl.”

Marie took a moment to wipe her tears and blow her nose on a paper towel. Then she looked at me with bloodshot eyes and said, “Let’s get back to work.”

I don’t even know what time I got home that night. When I woke up in the morning, after only a few hours’ sleep, I was still exhausted. The smell of pancakes and bacon drew me out of bed. I felt like I was a character in a fairy tale wandering into a trap.

My sister, looking very professional in a dark, fitted dress, was in the hall, getting ready to head to the school where she worked as a speech pathologist. She tilted her head toward the kitchen and shrugged. That’s when I realized it was my mother cooking. This was phenomenal; she almost never cooked in the morning.

My sister and I sat down at the small dining-room table and before we could say anything, my mom plopped down two plates piled with eggs, pancakes, and bacon. She looked like a waitress at a Denny’s.

Why couldn’t it be like this every morning?

I asked a few of my normal questions, trying to figure out if she was in our current reality or a former one. She seemed fine. She called me Tommy and asked Lila some specific questions about her job.

Finally, I had to say, “Mom, what’s going on? What’s with all the food?”

She eased down into the chair next to me and took a sip of her coffee. “You think I’m not aware of what’s been happening, that I just live in my own little world and expect you guys to cater to my every need? It’s terrifying. Not because I’m losing my grip on reality, but because of everything I’m putting you through.”

Lila reached across the table and grasped my mother’s hand. They both had tears in their eyes. I almost did the same, but I wanted to hear what else my mom had to say.

She flicked a tear off her cheek and said, “You both do so much for me, I just wanted to do a little something for you.”

Lila stood up and hugged her. “We do it because we love you, Mom.”

“And I’m doing this because I love you. No one realizes how much a mother loves her children. She really will do anything for them. I’m just sorry you have to do so much for me now.”

I stood up and kissed her gently on the forehead. There was nothing else I could add to this conversation.





CHAPTER 80





BEFORE I PICKED Marie up at her hotel, I stopped by the Miami Police headquarters to put the word out about what had happened at the port. The oddly shaped five-story building on Second Avenue had seen its share of history. Over the years, Miami had witnessed all kinds of riots, shifting demographics, mass immigration from Cuba, and even a visit from the pope. Through it all, the police department—at least the building—never changed. And even the department’s critics always knew they could run to us when things in the neighborhood got out of control.

Most people had no idea how things really worked on the streets. I remember a crack dealer named Walter Slates from back when I worked patrol just west of the downtown. He’d shoot a bird at me every time I drove past in my cruiser. He made fun of my record with the University of Miami’s football team.

That’s why, when he approached my patrol car one day, I was suspicious. He said, “I need help.”