谎言书：15

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Deirdre was your informant, Cal! You were supposed to pay her a few
hundred bucks 1 for tips on shipments! Instead, you were sleeping with her and
buying her sappy poetry books for her birthday!”
“I never slept with her.”
“No, you did something far more ridiculous: You fell in love, didn’t you? And
then when you heard we were raiding a South Beach steakhouse that she was
gonna be at, you whispered in her ear and told her to stay away.”
“I had a right to protect my informant!”
“Then you should’ve done it like everyone else: let her get swept up and
then pull strings 2 from the inside!” Naomi shouts at full blast. “But to tip her in
advance in some pathetic come-on: You have any idea how many of our guys
could’ve gotten killed, racing 3 into a raid where everyone knew they were
coming?”
“No one got killed.”
“Only because she ratted you out for the scumbag you are! But that’s the
true justice, isn’t it? Here you are fighting to keep this dear, defenseless
woman safe, and she runs back to headquarters, says she got tipped off by
an agent, and offers you up as long as she gets citizenship 4 for the rest of her
family. Man, that must’ve stung, huh, Cal? Almost as bad as doing a favor
for . . . I don’t know, your own father, and then realizing you’re suddenly the
one holding the smoking gun.”
On the sofa, Serena scratches my dad’s back as I stand there, silent. I
remember my mom scratching his back when he had a tough day at work.
“I thought for sure you’d nibble 5 at that one,” Naomi tells me.
“Then you remember me as stupid.”
“Actually, I remember you as a stubborn idealist. But I got your psych profile
right here, Cal. Every few years, we get a new candidate who takes the job to
right some wrong in his past — and then becomes so obsessed 6 with saving
people, he starts letting the job substitute for his entire life. That’s your
problem, Cal. You’re Sisyphus. You just don’t know it,” she says. “But if I’m
reading that wrong . . . yee-haw . . . life must be going pretty beautifully for
you these days, huh?”
In front of me, Serena continues her back-scratch, doing her best to calm my
dad down. Maybe she is here just to help him. But the way my dad watches
her and stares at her — even the way he laughs extra hard at whatever she’s
saying — I don’t know what Serena thinks of him, but he clearly would love to
have his hands on her.
“Things are just stunning 7 here, thanks.”
“Wonderful. Then let’s do the rest of this face-to-face. You wouldn’t mind
coming over for a quick chat, would you?”
Another cop trick: Offer something easy — if I run, she knows I’m guilty. Still,
I need to know whether she’s working on hunches 8 or facts. “Happy to, Naomi.
Just tell me what we’d be chatting about.”
“Oh, you know — silly little details like why we haven’t heard from Timothy
since last night, and what his abandoned car was doing on Alligator 9 Alley 10. . . .
Or to really put a pin in your balloon: how yours was the last call on his cell,
and how your van is on every camera in the port at three in the morning, and
how the one shipment Timothy was fiddling 11 with just happens to be the one
that was picked up by your ex-con dad. Not the prettiest picture that’s being
painted here, Cal. Now you wanna tell me what’s really going on, or would
you rather fast-forward eight months and tell it to a jury? I’m sure they’ll take
your side — I mean, who wouldn’t trust a disgraced agent and his convict
father?”
On the floral couch, my dad and Serena both look up at me. I stay where I
am, trying to keep my own calm. Between Ellis the killer 12 cop and Naomi the
overdetermined agent, I feel another trapdoor ready to open beneath my
feet. The only thing keeping it shut is, from what I can tell, they still haven’t
found Timothy’s body. As long as that’s true, I may be suspicious, but I’m not
a murder suspect.
“Cal, y’know that part in The Fugitive 13 where Harrison Ford 14 says he didn’t kill
his wife?” Naomi asks.
“Y’mean when Tommy Lee Jones tells him, ‘I don’t care’?”
“Exactly. But here’s the thing: Despite what you think, I do care. Especially
about my partner. Now I know you’ve gotta be exhausted 15 — that’s the only
reason you made the mistake of getting on the phone with me, right? So if
you tell me what you and Timothy were really up to out there, you know I can
save you so many kinds of headache.”
It’s a perfect offer, delivered with perfect pitch. But every story needs a bad
guy, and once Ellis comes racing in, pointing his cop finger at me—
“This is a TSA security announcement,” the PA system blares from above. I
snap the phone shut, praying she didn’t — Oh, my crap! Of course she did!
Her whole maudlin 16 speech — just a stall so she could figure out where I —
Dammit, that was rookie of me!
“We need to get out of here,” I shout to my dad. “Feds are on their way!”
31
“He’s in an airport!” Naomi barked into her earpiece, darting 17 from Cal’s room
and weaving through the small mob of black kids who were eavesdropping 18
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 19 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 20 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 21 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
“Benoni,” Ellis replied, squinting 22 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 23 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 24 from home, no?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m down for a trial. Some dealer 25 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 26, 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 27 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 28 dogs from Palestine,” he added as he started his car.
“I’ve heard of those,” Naomi said, too dense 29 to take the hint. “They’re one of
the oldest breeds in the world, right?”
“Some say the oldest.” Ellis tugged 30 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 31 wheel with his left hand . . .
and just then noticed Naomi staring at his tattoo 32.
“They give you hell about that?” Naomi asked far too slowly. This was bad.
“I have an understanding supervisor 33. 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 34.
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.