The Book of Lies (14 page)

31

H
e’s in an airport!” Naomi barked into her earpiece, darting from Cal’s room and weaving through the small mob of black kids who were eavesdropping from outside. “Scotty, I need all local flights leaving from Miami and Fort Lauderdale in the next two hours. I’m going to Lauderdale now.”

Flying down the stairs, she could hear the clicking of Scotty’s keyboard in her ear. If she was fast, she’d make the airport in no time.

“Okay, here we go,” Scotty said. “There’re over sixty flights, not including international. But when I put in ‘Cal Harper’ . . . He has reservations on three different flights, all of them to Texas: Austin, Dallas . . .”

“He’s not going to Texas.”

“How d’you—?”

“Cal Harper was one of us. He’s not flying under his real name. Those are fake reservations to slow us down. Check the flights again, but this time, make a list of every ticket that was bought today and/or paid in cash.”

“That’s gonna take some time. Oh, and by the by, when I traced Cal’s phone—assuming he didn’t switch it until this morning: Last call went to Benny Ocala. Seminole Police.”

“That’s fine. Send me his number,” Naomi said, jumping down the last three steps. Above her, all the homeless kids had flooded back into Cal’s room. Glancing back as she ran, Naomi couldn’t help but stare.

“Why you so quiet?” Scotty asked.

“Dunno,” Naomi said as she cut through the courtyard, past a skinny girl with greasy hair. “If you saw this place—even Cal’s room—this guy doesn’t just
work
at the shelter—he lives here. With kids.”

“Maybe they give him free rent.”

“Maybe. But the way they were all crowded and playing video games in his room, he’s the one they all hang out with.”

“Oh, c’mon—so now he’s the disgraced cop who’s also a hero to the sad, pathetic homeless kids? How many more clichés you wanna add? Lemme guess: He’s gonna coach their debate team all the way to the state championships.”

“You’re missing the point, Scotty. From what I can tell, Cal sleeps and works and eats his meals surrounded by lost teenagers. So do it like this: Is Cal taking care of these kids—or are these kids taking care of him?”

“Nomi, don’t dream Cal into a wounded hero. If he were an angel, he wouldn’t be running. And neither would you.”

Nodding to herself, Naomi plowed through the lobby and shoved her way through the set of doors that led outside. A blast of Florida heat embraced her, and as she darted toward her car, the repo girl inside her couldn’t help but scan the area: Cal’s van still parked out front, the beat-up Fords, Pontiacs, and Hyundais that sat in a neat row and lined the south side of the building, and even the single black sedan that was parked at one of the meters across the street. There was a man inside that one. She still had time. If she was lucky, maybe he’d seen Cal leave.

As she cut toward him, she realized the man was a cop—and from the looks of it, there was a dog in back. Nothing really odd in that.

Except for the fact that Cal clearly just snuck out of here, and that his last call was to Seminole law enforcement, and that there’s not a single good reason for anyone to sit in a car—with their dog—in this kind of heat.

Rolling her tongue inside her cheek, Naomi crossed the street, headed for the black sedan, and did her best to keep it friendly.

“Hey there,” she called out, flashing her badge as the cop rolled down his window. “What’s your doggie’s name?”

32

B
enoni,” Ellis replied, squinting up at the round-faced female agent who stared down through his open window. She was pretty under the bad haircut and cheap suit—her blue eyes were as pale as tears—but the dark circles that were under them . . . the wear that they betrayed . . . hers was a tired life. And from the way she was breathing, she was already in a rush. “Her name’s Benoni,” Ellis added. “She’s a real good girl.”

“She looks it,” Naomi said, peering into the backseat at Benoni, who jumped toward the front, clawed across Ellis’s lap, and stuck her head out the window. “Naomi Molina,” she added as Ellis spotted the ICE ID on her belt.

If ICE was out here, Cal was long gone. Ellis knew he had to keep this quick.

“Oh, she’s gorgeous,” Naomi added, giving the dog a brisk scratch under the chin. No question, Naomi was playing nice, but Ellis could see her studying the Michigan State Police shoulder patch on his uniform.

“Pretty long commute from home, no?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m down for a trial. Some dealer we gripped in Detroit. Supposed to testify this morning, but they ran out of time, which means I’m wearing this again tomorrow,” he said, pointing at, but never touching, the well-polished badge on his uniform. “Officer Ellis Belasco, Michigan State Police,” he added, offering his long, bony fingers for a handshake. He shook her hand with perfect ease. “Only good part was I got to let Benoni enjoy the beach. You loved it, didn’t you, girl?”

Benoni barked. That should be more than enough.

“Mind showing me your B and C’s?” Naomi asked.

Ellis lowered his chin and stared at Naomi. Something happened inside with Cal. Something that pissed her off and made her suspicious. Hence her testing him: making sure he knew cop lingo as a way of checking if he was real or just wearing the suit. B and C’s. Badge and creds. Ellis reached for his French Berluti wallet.

“Here,” he said, handing her his creds. When she didn’t notice the handcraft of the wallet, Ellis knew she didn’t have taste. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be a problem.

Naomi smiled when she saw the ID and the polished badge.

“So what kinda dog is she?” she asked, handing Ellis his wallet back as she patted Benoni, whose head was still out the window. Test passed. No problem at all.

“They call ’em Canaan dogs,” Ellis replied, eyeing a passing silver car. If Cal was already gone, he needed to go, too. “They’re bred from the ancient pariah dogs from Palestine,” he added as he started his car.

“I’ve heard of those,” Naomi said, too dense to take the hint. “They’re one of the oldest breeds in the world, right?”

“Some say
the
oldest.” Ellis tugged the dog’s dark leather collar and sent her to the back. “I’m going now.”

“No, of course—enjoy the rest of your trip,” she said. “Bye, Benoni,” she added, stepping back with a friendly wave. “And sorry you gotta wear your clothes twice.”

Ellis forced a half-smile, grabbed the steering wheel with his left hand . . . and just then noticed Naomi staring at his tattoo.

“They give you hell about that?” Naomi asked far too slowly. This was bad.

“I have an understanding supervisor. He knows we all make mistakes when we’re young.”

“Yeah, I make that same excuse for that Tweety Bird tattoo I got on my butt. Though blaming a twelve-pack of wine coolers and a kinda fruity twelfth-grade boyfriend does the trick, too.”

Ellis nodded. He was wrong. Naomi was no threat at all.

With a hard shift, he put the car in gear and hit the gas. As he watched Naomi disappear in his rearview, his phone started ringing. Caller ID said
000-000-000 Unknown.
No one but the Judge had this number.

“Who’s this?” Ellis answered.

“That’s the key question, isn’t it, Ellis?” a voice said on the other line.

“Tell me who this is, or I’m hanging up now.”

“I’m here to help you, Ellis. I know what you’re searching for. I want it, too. But you need to know: Calvin doesn’t have the Book yet. He has the Map.”

“You’re the shipper of the package, aren’t you?” Jerking the steering wheel to the left, Ellis turned onto A1A. “The one who hired Calvin’s father.”

“All that matters is that neither of us is getting what we want if Calvin grabs it first.”

“I’m already taking care of Calvin,” Ellis insisted.

“No. You’re not. If you were, you’d already be here by now.”

“Be where?”

“You know the history, Ellis. Where do you think he’s going? We’re in the airport, waiting to leave for Cleveland. If you hurry, you can still make the flight.”

“You’re sure about this?” Ellis asked.

“Of course. That’s why they call me the Prophet.”

And with a click, the voice was gone.

33

W
ho were you talking to?” Scotty asked through Naomi’s earpiece.

“Run this badge for me,” Naomi insisted, her voice flying as she raced for her car.

“Just text it and I’ll—”

“Write this!
Edward Belasco
,” she said, repeating the name she’d memorized from his credentials. “Though he called himself
Ellis
. Michigan State Police. Badge 1519.” As she heard the clicks on Scotty’s keyboard, she added, “Sorry, Scotty—once old age hits, memory fades quick.”

“Naomi, you’re thirty-four.”

“Actually, I’m thirty-three. No . . . wait . . . you’re right—I’m thirty-four.” She stopped for a moment as she slid into her car. “Why do you know my age?”

“I was at your office party.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I was. After everyone left. And by not shutting off your phone—which I admire and appreciate—you’ve now let me know you have a Tweety Bird on your tush. I have a GoBot on my ankle.”

“What’s a GoBot?”

“Like a Transformer. But . . . more pathetic.”

Naomi grinned as she tugged the car door shut. “Was that you sharing a moment with me?”

All she heard was the furious clicking of his keyboard.

“Scotty, you’re gonna make a helluva sidekick yet.” She stuffed the key in the ignition and took what looked like a calculator from her purse. Flicking a switch on top, she pulled out of the parking spot and waited for the screen to come online.

GPS link . . . searching . . .
. . . searching . . .
Link activated.

“He’s headed toward the airport. He knows Cal’s there,” Naomi said, making a left on US-1 as a small crimson triangle inched across the digital map on-screen.

“Who’s headed toward—? Wait,” Scotty said. “You put a tracking device on Roosevelt?”

“I planned to. But then when I went in there— Cal knows our magic tricks. They’re too smart for our James Bond nonsense.”

“So who’re you tracking?”

“I told you: Ellis/Edward Belasco. Badge 1519.”

“Naomi, to GPS someone’s car, you need a warrant, as in
court order
, as in
probable cause
. You didn’t even ask him if he
saw
Cal.”

“First, he’s a liar. Said he walked his dog on the beach, but there wasn’t a grain of sand in his backseat. Second, the fancy wallet and the manicured hands? He’s treating himself far too well. Third, his eyebrows are the devil’s. Fourth, back to his wallet—all his dollar bills were right side up and facing out. Again . . .
devil’s
. And finally, who says I GPSed his car?”

Scotty stopped. “You didn’t GPS his car?”

“Couldn’t get close enough—but then that durn dog of his was sniffing my hand so hard—and
whoof
—ate that GPS device right outta my poor defenseless fingertips. Bad dog. Very bad.”

“You fed the dog the device.”

“No . . . I fed the dog one of my son’s old gummy worms, that just happened to be in my pocket, and just happened to have a miniature GPS device shoved inside it. What luck, eh? Couldn’t believe it myself.”

“If you hurt that dog—”

“Me?” she asked, pointing to herself as she slammed the gas and raced toward the airport. “Dog lover.
Big
dog lover. Believe me, Benoni’s fine—it’s the same technology they put in pets in case they get lost or—”

“Uh-oh.”

“What’s
uh-oh
?” Naomi put her hand to her earpiece. “They find Timothy?”

“I put in your Michigan cop with the GPS dog. And from what it says here . . . well . . . looks like
liar
isn’t the only thing on Ellis’s résumé.”

34

W
hattya mean,
the feds are on their way
?” my dad asks, sitting straight up on the floral sofa.

“She. Naomi. She knows we’re in an airport,” I tell him.

“But all those fake reservations—”

“Will hold her off for ten minutes. She’s smart. She knows Lauderdale is closest. We need to go,” I insist. “And
you
need to leave,” I bark at Serena.

“Th-That’s not possible. I
know
I’m meant to help him,” she says, standing from her seat.

“And I
know
I’m meant to escort you outside and save your loopy life,” I shoot back, gripping her by the elbow.

“Please . . . your father needs to settle his spirit,” Serena begs, trying to pull away.

“Cal, let go of her!” my dad growls.

Once again, a nearby TSA employee turns toward us. But it’s not half as bad as the flat black box that I spot over his shoulder, hanging in the corner. Another camera I missed. Staring directly at us.

Following my eyeline, my father freezes when he sees it. He knows what it means. He knows Naomi’s on her way. And he knows what Ellis will do to Serena when he finds out she’s been seen with us.

“Calvin, how much cash do we have left?” my father asks.

“That’s smart—no, good thought,” I tell him. “If we hide her in a motel, she’ll be safe until—”

“I’m not getting her a motel. I’m getting her a plane ticket.” He turns to Serena. “You’re coming with us.”

“Wait . . .
what
?” I ask.

“Don’t argue with me, Calvin. Not about this. I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, that’s right—I forgot how good you were at saving the women you love.”

My father stops right there, burning me with the kind of glare that should come with medical attention. Serena starts to scratch his back. It doesn’t help at all.

“Enough with the subtext, Calvin. Where’s all the anger
really
coming from: that I’m looking out for Serena, or that I didn’t look out for your mother?”

“
Didn’t look out for?
Lloyd, you
killed
her. You pushed her and killed her.”

“That’s not what happened!”

“You kidding? I
saw
it!”

My father falls silent, like he’s surprised I remember.

We’re both breathing hard, but he’s the one to break the quiet. “Why’d you follow me after the hospital, Calvin? Was it to help me, or just to remind me of my life’s greatest regret?”