Our eyes met for a brief moment. I gave Simmy as neutral a stare as I could muster, determined not to reveal anything about my state of mind. More than anything, though, I was secretly praying to see a flicker of compassion in his eyes. But I saw only the steely gaze of a Russian oligarch, the thirty-seventh richest man in the world. And beneath that gaze I spied disappointment and disapproval.
What the hell was he doing here?
When the policeman closed the door beside me, it shut with audible finality. It drowned out all the noise from the street and left me alone, sunken in cheap leather and despair. I was not the most ingenious and resourceful woman in the world. I was the stupid American woman on her way to jail for prostitution in a city where prostitution was legal.
I really had gone too far this time.
The police car pulled away from Oudekerksplein.
Nadia Tesla was closed for business.
CHAPTER 4
My visit to the Amsterdam police station didn’t go exactly as I expected. I should have been prepared to be treated like a criminal but I was distracted by my plight. Not only had I been arrested, Simmy had seen it happen. That meant I had to extricate myself from criminal prosecution and salvage my relationship with my most important client. Multi-tasking life-altering emergencies can obscure one’s focus.
That focus sharpened as soon as they put me in a room with eight cops. They entered without their firearms. One of them, the only one under six-feet tall, stood apart from the others, looking at me as though I were Interpol’s Most Wanted. He whispered orders. The room buzzed at his command. The duo who’d arrested me removed my belt and confiscated my shoe laces. Another cop took inventory of all the things in my tote bag and had me sign it. They all spoke impeccable English and the entire exercise echoed with military precision.
I knew better than to complain or ask for preferential treatment. I did, however, inquire if I was entitled to a phone call and a lawyer. The cops who arrested me told me I had to be processed first. When they were done, a fresh-faced rookie escorted me to a jail cell and locked me inside. The jail cell looked like Mr. Clean’s training room. It contained a cot, a stainless steel sink, and a toilet. A camera hung in a corner where the walls met the ceiling.
I alternated sitting on my cot and pacing the jail cell, wondering how much damage I’d done to my reputation and my relationship with Simmy. An hour later, a man in a sports jacket and tie arrived with a clipboard and my passport. He introduced himself as Detective De Vroom. He had olive skin, lush brown hair parted to the side, and full lips. But it was the condescending look in his eyes that revealed his character to me. He was one of those men who believed that the handsomest and most talented man on Earth could be seen in his mirror every time he looked in it.
He asked me my name and address even though he had my passport. After I answered him, he moved on to more provocative questions.
“Do you know of any of crimes involving drugs that are about to take place?” he said.
“No.”
“Do you know of any crimes involving the trafficking of women for the purpose of sexual exploitation that are about to take place?”
I told him I didn’t.
“Do you know any women working as prostitutes in Amsterdam below the age of twenty-one?”
The minimum legal age for Amsterdam prostitutes was twenty-one.
“I don’t know any other prostitutes in Amsterdam, let alone minors,” I said.
I realized I’d just called myself a prostitute. That wasn’t true. I was just pretending, and yet I was the one who’d rented the window, right?
His eyes bored into mine. “You’re in serious trouble, Ms. Tesla.”
A sinking sensation hit me. “What do you mean?”
“The Dutch legal system used to be the most liberal in Europe. Unfortunately for you, it’s now become the most severe. The Netherlands is a hub for transit crime. Women are routinely smuggled from Eastern Europe and Africa through our borders to the rest of the EU. Illegal prostitution usually involves minors or immigrants being forced to work against their will. That’s why illegal prostitution is a very serious crime here, even if the offense is street-walking.”
“But I’m not forcing a minor or any woman to do anything against her will. And I wasn’t really street-walking. You know that, Detective. Please. I pay rent for a room with a window. Why the hell would I be street walking?”
“Any kind of behavior that remotely appears to be illegal prostitution is dealt with severely in Holland. You may not get jail time, or even go to court. But you’ll have to hire an attorney to negotiate a transaction with the prosecutor’s office. That’s similar to what you Americans call a plea bargain. The American consulate will have to be notified. At a minimum, you’ll be deported and labeled an undesirable by member countries of the European Union. You’ll never be allowed in Europe again.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
He shrugged. “You Americans are experts in the ridiculous.”
A powerful government and its police could make almost anything happen to any person. I imagined never being allowed to enter Europe again. I had a sudden urge to vomit, find a time capsule, or jump into one of Amsterdam’s finest canals, preferably drunk.
But then a calm descended upon me. De Vroom had entered my cell channeling hostility. His interview had consisted of a series of escalating threats. On the surface, his goal was to scare me, one which he’d accomplished. The question was, what did he really want from me?
“Your warning about what might happen to me is duly noted, Detective,” I said. “But I sense you have something else in mind.”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll be deported and labeled an undesirable throughout the EU for a trumped-up charge of illegal prostitution—let’s be serious, all I did was run through the streets in a bikini bottom—unless I do something. Something for the Netherlands, something for the Amsterdam police, or more likely, something to further your career, Detective De Vroom. So tell me, what do I know that you want to know?”
De Vroom eyes narrowed a smidge, just enough to tell me I’d surprised him. “Why did you lie to the officers who arrested you?”
“Who said I lied?”
“You said the man you were chasing robbed you, but your own protection said no man ever entered your room. And what was it a witness heard you say?” De Vroom flipped to a page attached to his clipboard. “‘I’m your friend. I want to help you. I want to help Iskra.’ Who is Iskra?”
“Not who, what,” I said. “Iskra means ‘spark.’ Your witnesses must have been hearing things. Aren’t a variety of recreational drugs sold in the coffee shops and nutritional stores along the streets of De Wallen? Can you really trust any of those witnesses?”
“Why did you rent a room and pretend to be a window prostitute?”
“Pretend? I paid the rent. I wore a bikini, high heels, stood in a floor-to-ceiling window and interacted with customers.”
“Iskra is the name of the prostitute who rented the same room you worked. She was murdered a week ago.”
“Murdered?” I said.
“Yes. Murdered. You know her name. You know where she worked. You know she was murdered. That I understand. What I don’t understand is why a forensic financial analyst from America is investigating her murder. That is what you are doing, because if you’d been hired for some sort of financial investigation, you wouldn’t be chasing after young men in De Wallen shouting the dead girl’s name, would you?”
I shrugged.
“Why are you here, in Amsterdam?” he said.
“To see the canals, eat some of your fine Indonesian food, and find out why a girl was killed.”
“That’s my job. I don’t need help from tourists.”
“Really? Who’s lying now?” I waited a beat. “Let me remind you of some recent history. Malaysia Airlines flight number seventeen headed from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur crashed in the Donetsk Oblast of
Ukraine on July 17, 2014. Of the two hundred and eighty-three passengers, two-thirds were citizens of the Netherlands. The overwhelming evidence is that so-called pro-Russian separatists shot the plane down accidentally. But the advanced weapons system they used to destroy the plane was supplied by the Russian government and the so-called separatists were actually thugs on the Russian payroll. The reaction in Holland against Russians was swift and severe. Russians became personae non gratae. Many fled the country back to their homeland. Those that didn’t keep a low profile. The downside for you is that the Russians who stayed have no love loss for the Dutch authorities, who did not exactly shed tears for their sudden persecution, in the press and on the sidewalks. You need me because Iskra Romanova was Russian and no Russian is going to cooperate with you.”
“But they’ll cooperate with you? An American? Why is that?”
“Because I’m fluent in the language and I bring impeccable references.”
“Whose references?”
I didn’t answer.
“Impress me with what you know so far.”
“Iskra was attached to a wall in the form of a crucifix. The killer cut the feminine parts from the rest of her body. She died by bleeding out. You thought it might have been the result of a botched burglary by the notorious Van Hassell gang—they have super violent tendencies—but now you’re not sure it was a burglary at all. Cash, jewelry and a painting were stolen. But another stash of cash and some antique silverware weren’t taken.”
De Vroom considered what I’d said for a moment. “You’re working for the family.”
“I can’t and won’t comment on my client’s identity. That is non-negotiable no matter what the implications are for me.”
He raised his chin in a manner that seemed like a compliment to me, as though I’d finally done something to impress him.
“Tell me about this man you lured to your room by dressing like Iskra,” he said. “This man you followed and lost.”
“What will the spirit of cooperation earn me?”
“You haven’t been formally charged with any crime yet. We could pretend this entire business never happened. And no one would ever be the wiser that you were ever in this jail.”
“Not enough.”
“Not enough? You must be joking. What else do you want?”
“A partnership. I’ll tell you what I know about the man I tried to lure to my nest. Iskra’s nest, I should say. Then I’ll give you the license plate of the car he jumped into right before your colleagues arrested me.”
“And in exchange?”
“You give me the name of the owner of the car after you run the plates. Then I stay in Amsterdam and keep working the case from inside the community. We share any valuable information, the kind that can lead to the murderer’s arrest—beneficial to you—and keep me from harm’s way—beneficial to me.”
“That is not realistic,” De Vroom said.
“But this is Amsterdam. Things that are not realistic in other cities are entirely possible here.”
“We don’t consult with civilians on police matters.”
“You’re not consulting with me,” I said. “I’m consulting with you out of respect and self-interest.”
De Vroom thought about what I’d said. “Tell me about Iskra’s mystery lover.”
I told him what I knew.
“You have no idea who he is?” De Vroom said.
“No.”
“And no one in the Russian community knows either?”
“I don’t know the community well enough to go that far,” I said. “I doubt he’s a suspect. He wouldn’t have come to her room tonight if he knew she were dead, if he’d killed her himself.”
“You have a lot to learn. Everyone is a suspect until the perpetrator is found. You’d be surprised how often criminals return to the scene of their crimes.”
De Vroom asked me some more questions, mostly going over the facts I’d just revealed. When we were finished, he asked for the make, model, and license plate number of the getaway car.
“You’ll have them as soon as I’m released,” I said.
De Vroom left without providing any closure on our potential working relationship or my case. An hour later the fresh-faced kid who’d brought me to my cell came back and let me out. Another cop returned my bag, asked me to verify its contents, and made me sign a piece of paper confirming that all my personal possessions were still there. Afterwards, De Vroom brought me over to a waiting area near the front entrance to the station.
“The prosecutor’s office,” he said, “has decided that the people of Amsterdam would be served best by not investing the resources necessary to pursue the charges against you.”
“Wonderful,” I said.
He glared at me. His matinee idol looks notwithstanding, I wondered how he ever got a date in a town filled with strong Dutch women who could kick his smug ass up and down the canals. Then he smiled and my question was answered. With his looks, naturally, and his confidence.
He handed me a business card. You can reach me day and night. I was hoping to get one of yours. With a few extra numbers on it, if you know what I mean.”
I pulled out my own card and asked him if I could borrow a pen. He produced a black Montegrappa fountain pen with small skulls along the shaft and a big one on the cap. He was a stylish bastard. I had to give him that.
I wrote on the back of my card: “blue Porsche Macan Turbo. NL # RZ – DV – 99.” Then I handed him the card and lowered my voice. “Will you call me with the owner’s name?”
He snatched the card and read what I’d written. “Better if you call me,” he said.
He didn’t offer to get me a taxi, and I didn’t want to stay in the police station a second longer, so I left without saying another word.
I wasn’t sure exactly how long of a walk it was to my hotel, but I figured my smart phone would guide me. As it turned out, I didn’t need any technological assistance. A Mercedes-Benz sedan was idling a few cars lengths away from the entrance to the station. A man got out of the front passenger seat and opened the rear passenger seat door.
Simmy Simeonovich poked his head out and motioned for me to come over. It was more a wave than a curled finger, something akin to what the Pope of Rome does when he’s saying hello to several million bystanders.
I crossed the street, frustrated, embarrassed, and livid with him. How the hell did he know I’d rented a window prostitute’s office in the first place? Was he having me followed from the moment he’d hired me? If so, why?
I stopped beside the car and faced him.
“Tonight confirms something I suspected about you,” Simmy said.
I glared at him. “What’s that?”
“Green really is your best color.”
CHAPTER 5
I could tell our dynamic had changed as soon as I got in Simmy’s car. He didn’t smile at me, though that wasn’t unusual. He rarely smiled. I assumed that was a prerequisite to a thriving businessman’s survival in Russia. A man awash in riches shouldn’t appear happy when most of his fellow countrymen barely make a living and are the subjects of a police state. Still, I usually spied mischief in the curl of his lip or a twinkle in his eye. Tonight, he looked straight ahead at the seat rest in front of him as though it contained a television monitor. But it didn’t.
His driver stepped out of the vehicle and joined the other bodyguard outside without any prompting. A moment of dread seized me as I imagined Simmy firing and severing all contact with me. But then I reminded myself that I could be very persuasive and that I had some questions of my own for him.
“How are you?” he said, without looking at me.
“Never better.”
“Did they treat you like professionals?”
“Sure. Just like the FSB.” The FSB was the Russian federal police, the successor to the notorious KGB.
“There are some things you shouldn’t joke about,” he said.
“No. This is Amsterdam. Not Moscow. You
can joke about anything you want. That’s the definition of the free world.”
Simmy rolled his eyes and shook his head. “So nice to see you, Nadia.” He paused and delivered each of his next words with calculated precision. “So nice for so many people to see so much of you.”
“You disapprove,” I said. I was now certain he was disgusted with me, which depressed and infuriated me at the same time.
“Of what? You being arrested or posing as a prostitute?”
“You hired me. You were the one that said my performance over the last year had proven that I had investigative capabilities beyond the financial. What was it you said exactly? Oh, yes. That I have complete command of a vast arsenal that would be perfect for this case.”
“And you thought that meant you should become a prostitute?”
“I was acting. I was borrowing from my arsenal, doing whatever was necessary to get the job done.”
Simmy shook his head, looking as though he were lost in space. “There are some things a woman should never do. A Russian woman … a European lady. I can’t imagine any of the fine ladies I know doing such a thing.”
“Can you imagine any of the fine Russian ladies you know solving this murder?”
He glanced at me, then cocked his head at angle and raised his eyebrows, as though admitting I had a point.
“You said it yourself,” I said. “The mystery lover was the only lead I had. There was no other way to find him. A woman in green had to be in that window. Otherwise he would have kept moving. And with all the men walking along the streets of De Wallen, I couldn’t assume I I’d be able to pick him out of the crowd by standing to the side and watching.”
“What did the police charge you with?”
“Nothing. There are no charges. I’m back on the case. In fact, I never left it.”
“Yes, but I watched them shackle your wrists. They put handcuffs on you. I saw you get arrested. They had to charge you with something.”
The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls Page 3
