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.”
“What’s that?”
“Roman Rostoff was part of the group trafficking the kids.”
“Rostoff? I thought he was more of a drugs/extortion/pimp kind of gangster. Now he’s involved in human trafficking?” Roman Rostoff tried to present himself as a legitimate businessman who had a ton of political influence from his donations, but most cops knew he was the Godfather of Miami.
“He’s involved in anything that’ll make money. I’m looking at him for exporting guns to Syria.”
“You got any snitches into him?”
Chill shook his head. “It’s tough to get someone close enough. He only has other Russians near him. They’re the ones that talk to people outside the organization. He’s a shifty one. I hear things through the grapevine. And I heard he’s pissed. He had plans right away for the girls in your new little family.”
I shuddered at that thought.
I said, “Do you think he could cause trouble?”
“He can always cause trouble. The question is if it’s worth it for him. If he thinks losing these kids reflects badly on him, he might do something. I just have no idea what.”
“I thought you said he only cares about what makes money.”
“Yeah, but Rostoff thinks ahead. If he believes losing a load of people hurts business later, he might do something crazy. I’ll keep my ears open.”
“Thanks, Chill.”
And just like that, he was gone. Chill didn’t like wasting time in idle chitchat. He wanted to get things done right away. That’s probably why he’d joined the ATF instead of the FBI.
Chapter 13
A FEW MINUTES after Chill left, Stephanie Hall popped her head into the conference room and greeted us; she addressed each kid by name and in his or her native language. Maybe what people said about the education you get at Ivy League schools like Brown, Steph’s alma mater, was accurate. I could barely pronounce some of their surnames.
Steph pulled me out of the conference room to give me a quick heads-up. “I’ve heard that the bosses are annoyed you took the kids without anyone’s approval. Be ready if the skipper calls you into his office.”
She must’ve seen the concern on my face because she added, “Don’t worry. You handle him really well. We’re all glad you’re the second in command so we don’t have to talk to him.”
I said, “Does he always start off with the ‘I have two years before I retire’ speech?”
“He does it more during stressful situations. I think it’s a mantra he uses to keep calm. By telling someone else about his retirement, he’s reassuring himself.”
Right on cue, after my conversation with Steph, I got a text saying the boss wanted to see me, and I didn’t waste any time getting to the office of the FBI supervisory special agent in charge of our unit. He seemed like a decent guy, but I’d heard his background as an accountant made him risk-averse. He weighed every decision and tried to anticipate every possible outcome, even though any cop out of the academy knew you couldn’t plan for everything. Shit turned bad at a moment’s notice and you had to improvise.
One thing my mom had taught me was not to overthink things. Make a decision and go with it. I had helped my mom since my dad left, when I was fifteen and Lila was only seven. That’s why I chose a college so close to home. While my friends went to far-off Florida State in Tallahassee, almost five hundred miles away, at the University of Miami, I was never more than forty minutes from home. Some of my teammates used to call me a mama’s boy. If being raised by a strong, decisive woman made me a mama’s boy, I was not offended at all.
I was still getting used to having a friendly, measured boss. Police department supervisors are much more straightforward than FBI bosses, and they don’t have too much regard for your feelings. I always knew when a Miami PD captain was mad at me because he or she would yell and maybe even throw something. I liked that directness. No fuss, no muss. Get it out in the open, know where you stand, and move on.
The FBI didn’t seem to work like that, but they liked the fact that I had done well at UM and knew how to talk to people. And this time, when I sat down, my FBI supervisor was direct and to the point.
“Next time you intend to kidnap a group of kids, give me a call first. DHS is all bent out of shape. They’re being a pain in the ass about getting the kids back to Amsterdam.”
“What? When did you intend to send them back?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, did you want to play board games with them a little while longer? We need to get them home as soon as possible.”
“Fine, let me escort them home. That way I can confer with the Dutch authorities and maybe gather some more evidence on this shithead we locked up yesterday.”