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  He slid off the pallets and lay on the garbage-covered ground, whimpering. Flies were already swarming around his bloody face. One fly stuck in the thick blood on the man’s cheek.

  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.”

  Albert said, “Then give me a reason not to blow your head off.”

  The kid said, “There are a bunch of other homeless shelters. That’s where I’d look.”

  Albert pulled the pistol back to smack the would-be robber in the face, but Hanna caught his wrist and said, “We have other things to do. C’mon, Albert.”

  Chapter 85

  THEY TOOK THE tattooed kid’s advice and started searching south of the port. It was now stretching into the afternoon, but Hanna was far too panicked about her daughter to give up.

  On almost every street, Albert constantly swiveled his head, looking in every direction. He was afraid they were being watched.

  Hanna said, “Who would be watching us?”

  “I don’t know. The police. The Russians. This is not paranoia.”

  “You’re right. It’s gone past paranoia. I agree we can’t trust anyone, but the police don’t know we’re here, and the Russians already have Josie.” She hadn’t meant to raise her voice so much, but she was losing patience with her brother.

  Behind one homeless shelter in downtown Miami, they noticed an alley where several people were lying on blankets or sitting on pallets. Hanna couldn’t pass it by. When she stepped into the alley, the first thing she saw was a man who had been savagely beaten recently. He was holding a bloody towel to his forehead. His nose looked like it had been broken. Both of his eyes had swollen almost shut. His lower lip was split and clearly needed stitches.

  No one there seemed too concerned about the man’s injuries.

  Hanna looked down the wide alley at the makeshift beds and chairs lining the walls. A rat crossed the uneven asphalt with no fear of the humans. The smell of urine and alcohol washed over her. She gave an involuntary shudder. She looked up at the six-story building with cheap air conditioners jammed into its windows. This was not where the rich people of Miami lived.

  A round-faced older black man wearing a red military beret with the emblem ripped off looked up at her from his seat.

  She stepped over to him and said, “Excuse me, we’re looking for a missing girl.” She held up her phone with the picture of Magda.

  The man studied the photo on the small phone, then nervously glanced over at the man with the bloody face. Then he looked up at Hanna and said, “Why are you looking for her?”

  The question surprised Hanna.

  Albert snapped, “Why are you asking? Have you seen her or not?”

  The older man studied the photo for a moment, then said, “No young women come here. You might want to check over on Miami Avenue. That’s where most of the runaways go.”

  Albert stared at the old man, trying to intimidate him.

  The man in the beret gestured at the bloody man and said, “A nasty Russian dude has already been here looking for her. She’s a popular young woman. Good luck.”

  Hanna nodded her thanks.

  Chapter 86

  MIAMI IS A compact city with an easy street-numbering system. It’s not until you’re looking for someone that it seems vast.

  In the middle of the afternoon, my phone rang. The name that came up on my screen was BULLDOG.

  I looked at Marie and nodded as I answered the phone. “Talk to me.”

  Bulldog said, “Meet me over on Biscayne between Fifth and Sixth where the hot-dog vendor in the bikini sits.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “Toss that baggie now.” He let out his signature laugh. It sounded like a small pig grunting.

  Bulldog was there waiting for us when we got to the meeting point. When I saw him, I said, “If this is some kind of prank—”

  Bulldog held up his hand. “I get it. You don’t trust me much. I done you right this time.”

  “How’d you find her so fast?”

  “I know people. Kinda like you, but I don’t scare them shitless just by showing up.”

  “Where’s the girl?”

  Bulldog said, “Behind them pallets. She’s safe and sound. My man Reggie, the older dude in the red beanie, looked after her. He said all kinds of people been by asking for her today. One of them was a nasty Russian who slapped around one of the other homeless guys.”

  Marie walked past us straight to the rear of the alley. She weaved between makeshift beds, old chairs, and broken furniture.

  I waited with Bulldog so as not to scare the girl. It looked like Marie was coaxing a frightened cat out of a tree. It took a while before I saw a hand reach out and touch Marie’s outstretched hand. A moment later, Marie couldn’t restrain herself and gave the girl a hug.

  Apparently, that was all this girl needed. She wrapped her arms around Marie and began to sob. The girl started to speak quickly in what I thought was Russian but then realized was Polish.

  Marie calmed the girl down and brushed her blond hair out of her pretty face. The girl picked up a red backpack and walked toward me. Marie slipped an arm around the girl’s shoulder.

  Marie introduced us and I said, “Nice to meet you, Magda.”

  Magda turned to Bulldog’s friend Reggie, who was sitting in a sketchy green plastic chair with one of the legs cracked. In heavily accented English she said, “Thank you for not telling Hanna I was hiding in the back of the alley.”

  The man said, “Thank you for the turkey sandwich.” He looked over at me, then back to her. “Everyone knows who Anti is. He’ll treat you right,” he said.

  That was the best compliment I’d ever gotten. I handed the man a twenty and said, “Thanks for looking after her.”

  Chapter 87

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Magda was sprawled on a beanbag chair in the witness room at the Miami Police Department. No one had seen us bring her in, which was how I’d wanted it.

  I wasn’t going to let social services take this girl off to some cold facility. Unlike interview rooms, these rooms had a touch of home. There were photos on the walls here, pictures of people riding bikes or going to the beach. Each wall was a different, calming color, not the industrial white or tan found throughout the rest of the building.

  A green couch someone had brought from home stretched across the back wall. Magda had gone straight for the beanbag, and Marie leaned in close from a standard hard wooden chair. Most of the pizza I’d bought was gone from the open box on the folding table.

  We’d immediately connected Magda’s surname, Andruskiewicz, to Joseph, the young pianist in the group of children we’d rescued at the Miami airport.

  The raw emotion on Magda’s face when Marie told her she knew where her brother was made everything I had done in this case worthwhile. She started to cry and laugh at the same time. By now her eyes were bloodshot, but she kept smiling and asking about Joseph and the others who’d been in the container with her; they were like family to her now.

  Marie assured Magda she’d be able to speak to her brother shortly. First, we needed to know more about her ordeal so we could construct a case around her statement.

  Magda calmed down and talked to us through occasional sniffles. “When I saw the container, I got scared. It didn’t look safe. Hanna kept leading more and more people inside. By then, it was too late to back out.”

  Marie interrupted with a few questions, looking for details.

  Magda said, “I cried the first day in the container. A lot of us did. But toward the end, it got so much worse.” She had to stop and blow her nose.

  She identified Hanna Greete and her brother, Albert. That, along with some of the information Marie had gathered, was enough to make a decent case against them. But I was after bigger game.

  I’d been careful not to inject myself into the interview too much so far. Now I asked, “Did you meet any Russians during all this?”

  She shook her head. Then she said, “Perhaps. I’m not very good with English.” She paused, gathered her thoughts, and said, “I’m not very good with accents in English. There was one man. He beat a homeless man. B
eat him badly. Blood everywhere.”

  “What did the attacker look like?”

  She gave a vague description, but when she mentioned the blue goatee, I knew who it was. I told her, “He’ll get what he deserves soon enough. You’re safe now. You’ll be back with your brother before long.”

  Marie handed the teenager a cell phone and coaxed her to speak. Magda said, “Hello?” Then: “Joseph?” I heard the catch in her voice as she realized who she was talking to. She spoke rapidly in Polish, alternating between laughing, squealing, and weeping.

  This was the kind of day I lived for.

  Chapter 88

  I HAD THE whole team meet me east of Biscayne Boulevard in the parking lot between a Holiday Inn and Bayfront Park. The H and I in the first word of the motel’s sign had faded. It had been like that for so long, some of the street people called it the “Olday Inn.” It was known for cheap rooms in an expensive city.

  Stephanie and Chill pulled up about the same time and we met next to my car.

  Neither of them wore completely civilian clothes. Tactical pants and polo shirts covering the guns on their hips would fool most of the public, but criminals, street people, and other cops could always spot a plainclothes cop.

  Lorena Perez had had to sit this deal out. She was on a ten-day leave while the shooting on the ship was investigated, standard practice in most police agencies. I’d called her earlier in the day, and I could tell she wanted to be out here with us. I would’ve liked to have her. She’d proven how tough and tactically sound she was last night.

  I remembered my first shooting. Shit, I still dreamed about it.

  I’d pulled over a shitty, beat-up Dodge Charger for running a stop sign. That kind of stop, it’s simple: You give a lecture and let ’em go, unless they have attitude. For attitude, you might give the guy a ticket, although it’s not like anyone ever pays ’em. There’s a competition in parts of Miami to see how many tickets a single person can rack up. (The current record, sixty-one, is held by a lawn-service worker in Allapattah.)