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?”