“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.”
“Lying. Solicitation. Fraternizing with Russians on Dutch soil. You know, the usual tourist misunderstandings.”
“Why did they release you? Did you share something pertaining to our case? Do you know something?”
I didn’t want Simmy to know I was cooperating with the police because he was obsessed with secrecy. He’d requested I keep all matters pertaining to the case confidential. The deceased girl’s mother was a childhood friend of his.
“Why are you here in the first place?” I said.
“I hate it when you answer a question with a question.”
“Of course you do. You’re used to people giving you the answer you want in hopes being agreeable will somehow make them richer. How did you know I was in the window?”
Simmy seemed to consider his words carefully. “I didn’t. One of my men has been watching it since the girl’s death.”
“Why?”
“It’s where Iskra worked. It seemed the wise thing to do.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?”
Simmy shrugged. “I didn’t see how it would conflict with your efforts.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
This time he glared at me. His frosty stare answered the question. He was used to informing people at his own discretion.