Choke Point by Ridley Pearson Page A

two-story brick building that fills the front half of an inner courtyard. Its windows hide behind black chain link. Graffiti has been sandblasted and chemically removed, leaving the brick two-tone.
    She time-checks her phone, remembering to call off Knox. But not yet. Not so soon. She senses six minutes could prove to be an eternity here.
    Corner lights on the building have either burned out or been stoned and broken. The interior lights are ablaze. She checks behind herself. Her long thin shadow stretches behind her like a crooked finger. No one back there. No one coming for her.
    But they could be waiting. This could be a trap.
    She walks fully around the building, behind which she discovers a blacktop playground. She puts her face to a back window. It’s a recreation room. A half dozen kids sitting at battered folding tables in battered folding chairs. There’s a kiddie station at the far end: a blue plastic fort and slide, some yellow plastic cubes and an orange airplane that can be straddled like a horse. It’s a neighborhood youth center. She sucks down some Coke. Nothing has ever tasted better. She pauses for another sip before letting herself inside.
    It’s study time and quiet. Against the wall are long-outdated computers, their screens glowing. She’s approached by a woman in her sixties who has a slight limp to her right leg, a face creased by the sun and dull blue eyes.
    She speaks Dutch, welcoming Grace, who returns a thank-you and continues in Dutch. After two or three exchanges they have settled into English without discussing the switch.
    Grace identifies herself as being with the EU. She offers her business card. The woman slips it into a sweater pocket without looking at it.
    “How may I help you?”
    Grace proffers the newspaper photo of Berna.
    The woman sees it, studies it, but it’s radioactive; she does not reach out to take hold of it.
    “I am familiar with the story,” she says.
    “I am trying to find the girl.”
    “It exaggerates. You know this, yes? The story? These ankle wounds described are more likely from a game or an accident. We see every kind of thing on our playgrounds.”
    “You do not believe the article?” Grace says, trying her best to mask her own surprise.
    “You cannot possibly believe everything you read in the papers.”
    Grace says, “I believe this.”
    The woman openly displays her cynicism.
    Grace crosses her arms tightly in annoyance. “No matter what caused her health issues—malnutrition and dehydration among them—she is a minor who fled the clinic and has not been found.”
    “I understand.” Genuine concern seeps through the woman’s cold exterior. “How many others each week? Each month?” She motions to the kids studying. “No one has it easy. Just because a reporter happens to be there one afternoon . . . all this attention. How many since then? How many before?” She lowers her voice. “Listen to me: If this little one is working in a shop, as reported, she has it good. Do you understand? Prostitution is legal here. Do you know how many girls enter Amsterdam each year looking to be a window girl? And what happens to them? Where do they end up? Is anyone counting them? Looking for them? All this—the EU”—she motions to Grace—“for one little girl. It’s touching,” she mocks, “but pardon me if it strikes me as hypocrisy.”
    “These children have families,” Grace says, indicating the kids studying at the desks.
    The woman looks over her flock. “Most have a parent, or an aunt or uncle, it’s true. A place to sleep. Someone to feed them a meal a day if they’re lucky. They might sleep five or more to a room. They come here to do the book work. They are good children.”
    “And during the day?”
    “The little ones. Day care. Physical recreation after school. That is when we are busiest. Seventy-five to a hundred each day. I have one other on my staff. We receive donations: balls, pencils and paper, clothing. A local bakery