The Book of Lies Page 9

  “Jeez, Nomi, whatcha on, a Speak and Spell there?” Scotty teased through the phone, laughing his snorty laugh.

  “Scotty . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up,” Naomi said through a mouthful of oatmeal as she flipped through the files she’d been faxed this morning. She had known something was wrong when Timothy didn’t report in last night. She’d been working with him at ICE for nearly two years now. Timothy always reported in.

  When Naomi was sixteen and fully hugging her wild side, she started working at her dad’s repo shop, translating insurance documents from Spanish to English. And when her father died a few years later, that’s when she found her second calling.

  “What kinda oatmeal?” Scotty asked. “No . . . lemme guess: cinnamon, brown sugar.”

  Naomi stayed silent and swallowed another spoonful, hating that at thirty-four years old, she’d become that predictable.

  She was eighteen when she went out on her first repo job, breaking into an old orange Camaro with an ease that would’ve made her dad proud. That was the next five years of her life: cars, boats, motorcycles, Jet Skis, even a plane once—she could find and break into anything. It was dangerous, though. And that was always the problem with the repo business: lots of headache, no stability, and it always attracted the worst employees—sleeping all day and working all night makes for a tough crew to manage. But Naomi managed it—even loved it—until the parties went too late and the drinking was too much.

  She saw it in her boyfriend first, when he started with the heavier drugs. Then with her friend Denise, who called her up one morning and in a heroin rush said, “Nomi, I can’t handle Lucas. My head’s not on straight and—and—and—I’m thinking of— I don’t wanna hurt my boy!” she’d sobbed about her son. “Please, Nomi—I’m dropping him off now—I need you to take him! Just for— I need to get better!” Lucas was two at the time. Today he was eight. He’d been with Naomi every day in between.

  Every life has forks in its road. And sometimes, the tines of that fork stab deep. A year later, her repo business was sold, her boyfriend was long gone, and Naomi Molina was back to translating documents for a local insurance company. It took three months for the itch of excitement to hit, which was when she applied for a job at Customs, eventually getting promoted to her third calling: as a special agent at ICE.

  For nearly two years, she’d been working with Timothy, which is why she got the report about his abandoned car being found on Alligator Alley this morning. But in total, all it took was four short years for an impatient, plus-size, single girl with a splash of purple hair to be magically transformed into an impatient plus-fluffy-size single mom with a L’Oréal medium-maple dye job and an eight-year-old son who refused to learn how to tie his shoes.

  “Mom,” young Lucas asked as he entered the living room, “can you—?”

  “You wanted basketball shoes, tie them yourself,” Naomi threatened, still poring over the reports as her computer finally began to boot up. “Otherwise, wear the Velcro ones.”

  “Didja try teaching him using two bows?” Scotty asked through the phone in his heavy Bronx accent.

  “Scotty . . .” Naomi shot back.

  “Yeah?”

  “You have kids?”

  “Nope.”

  “It shows. Two bows is harder. And the more frustrating it gets, the more he’ll cry, and the more I’ll be forced to consider abandoning this life with nothing more than the clothes on my back and a bag of mint Milanos.”

  “That’s funny, Naomi—but I seen your office and the way you taped all those photos around the edge of your monitor. Whattya got, forty, fifty pics there? Everyone knows whatcha think about that boy.”

  Again, she stayed silent. At least once a year, Naomi’s mother would call and not-so-subtly hint about how her daughter’s life—how everything from the repo business, to the adopted son, to the filthy law enforcement job—how everything somehow found her. But Naomi knew that when it came to this life, she was the one who found it.

  That was always Naomi’s specialty. Finding things. That’s what her dad taught her—from repossessed cars, to bad guys on the job . . . to finding what happened to her partner, Timothy, when he left the Port of Miami at four a.m. and drove out to Alligator Alley. Where the hell could he be?

  On-screen, she opened the e-mail from Scotty and clicked on the embedded link. The video footage started playing in front of her.

  “Okay, I got it—this’s from last night?” she asked as she looked at a shot of the roof of the H-shaped warehouse. “Those pole cameras still don’t do color?”

  “Just watch.”

  Sure enough, a white Crown Vic pulled up into the corner of the screen. But for a full two minutes, no one got out. Timothy must’ve been talking to someone. “How’s the audio?” Naomi asked.

  “Poor. Keep watching. . . .”

  The passenger door flew open, and a man with a baseball hat jumped out, then got back in the car. A minute later, Baseball Hat stepped out again, followed by Timothy, who got out on the driver’s side and quickly checked over his own shoulder. No question, they were worried about something.

  “And that’s the best we got?” Naomi asked. “Sixty-million dollars’ worth of increased surveillance, and we’re outdone by a . . .” She hit the pause button and squinted at the screen. “Is that a Homeland Security baseball cap?”

  “There’s lots of cameras. We’re collecting all the footage now.”

  “What about Timothy’s cell phone?”

  “Nothing to trace, which means it’s either smashed, underground, or underwater. I’m telling you, it’s ugly, Naomi. They’re combing the canals, but it’s been five hours since—”

  “Mom, can I wear flip-flops?” Lucas asked, walking into the living room with them already on his feet.

  Naomi turned, her eyes filled with fire. “You are not wearing flip-flops, y’hear me!?” But even as the words left her lips, she caught her breath, cursed the existence of winter break, and brushed her medium-maple brown hair back behind her ear. “That’s— It’s fine. Flip-flops are fine.”

  “Naomi, you okay?” Scotty asked through the phone.

  “Yeah, I’m—I’m just doing the preliminaries for my son’s future therapy.” With a deep breath, she added, “Tell me you at least have Timothy’s phone records.”

  “Sending them right now. Apparently, he didn’t place a call all night—but at two-fourteen a.m., he did get one from a guy named Calvin Harper.”

  Gazing at the computer screen, Naomi studied the frozen black-and-white image of the blurry man with the baseball cap.

  Cal.

  One of their own. Smart enough to know about the cameras. Of course it was Cal.

  “Don’t worry. I can definitely find him,” Naomi called out as she tossed her cell phone to her son. “Lucas, call Nana. Tell her I need her to come over earlier.”

  23

  Don’t touch it!” I call out. “It’s evidence!”

  “Evidence?” my dad asks, shaking his head. “You’re not a cop anymore, Cal. Screw evidence. From here on in, we need to figure out how to stay alive—and near as I can tell, it’s by finding out what’s really going on and nabbing whatever’s in here.”

  He motions down at the open, white-velvet-lined casket, where a dead Asian man with black hair and surprisingly dark skin lies, arms crossed over his chest. He’s slightly off center, a result of all the shaking and tugging we did to get the coffin out.

  Best of all, he has firm skin, lots of makeup, and not a bit of smell. He’s been embalmed. But it’s his fine pin-striped suit, Yale tie, and pristine manicure that tells me he’s from money.

  “Okay, enough already,” I growl at my dad. “What the eff is going on?”

  Down on his knees and ignoring the question, he squints into the coffin like he’s searching for a lost contact lens.

  “Lloyd . . .”

  “Help me open the other side,” he says, his voice racing. With
a shove, he flips open the lower lid, revealing the interior at the foot end of the casket. It’s cluttered like the back of an old junk drawer: a silver key ring, some dead flowers, a dark wooden rosary, half a dozen family photos, a broken comb (which I think is a tradition in China), a bottle of perfume, a stethoscope (maybe a doctor), and even a full set of clothes wrapped and tied neatly in a blue bow. Accompaniments for the afterlife.

  I go for the photos, trying to figure out who this dead guy is. My father goes for the clutter. He pushes aside the flowers and digs underneath the pile of perfectly folded clothes. He’s searching for something, and as fast as he’s moving—he already knows it’s there.

  At the bottom of the interior chamber of the coffin, there’s a flat white package the size of a FedEx delivery envelope wrapped in what looks like an oversize Ziploc bag.

  My father yanks it out. There’s a zigzagging smile on his face.

  “Is it easy for you to lie like that?” I ask. “You’re not just some truck driver. You knew all along this coffin was in here—and what was in it.”

  “Cal, stop talking. I think I just saved our lives.”

  With a pop, he rips open the Ziploc and— At first it looks like two sheets of paper stuck together, but as he touches it—it’s sticky. Like . . .

  “Wax paper,” my father says, running his fingers along the edges, which have been ironed or melted together. In the bottom right corner, there’s faint lettering.

  My father pulls it closer, and we both read the typed note:

  If found, please return to:

  10622 Kimberly Ave. Cleveland

  But what’s far more important is what the wax paper holds hidden inside. You can almost see through it—tons of bright colors.

  “Oh, man—if this is a Renoir,” my dad blurts. Like a child with a bag of candy, he tugs the two sides and pulls it open. A hiccup of dust and stale air floats upward, revealing an old yellowed magazine that’s trapped within. But as my dad takes out the magazine and thumbs through it . . . No. Not a magazine. The hand-drawn pictures . . . the childish art . . . He flips to the front, and the bright red font on the cover says: Action Comics. In the corner, it says: “No 1. June 1938.” But there’s no mistaking the drawing of the hero with the bright red cape and the big red S on his chest. Superman.

  “Oh, we got ’em, Cal. We got ’em!” my father says, his zigzag smile spreading wider.

  For a moment, it feels as if someone’s punctured my lungs with a metal hook and is tugging them up through my throat. Ellis said he wanted a book. Benny’s words echo in my head. That murder eighty years ago . . . Mitchell Siegel . . . and his son created—

  No way this comic book is just a comic book.

  24

  You knew, didn’t you? You knew what was in there,” I say, reaching for the old Superman comic and snatching it from my dad’s hands.

  “Be careful with that!”

  “Why’d you lie!?” I explode, my voice rebounding through the metal container.

  He takes a half-step back, surprised by my anger. “Cal, if you think I knew anything—”

  “Enough bullshit, Lloyd! That’s why they shot you, didn’t they!? That’s what they wanted: that key and what was in that coffin! And you’ve been lying about it the whole time!”

  “No, that’s fair. You’re right—I lied. I’m sorry for that. But that was it. I swear to you, Cal—I had no idea the key went to a coffin. They sent it to me with the paperwork.”

  “So they sent you a key and said, ‘You’ll know what to do with this’?”

  “They said, here’s the key and when I got to Naples, I was supposed to unload the truck, find the book—they didn’t say what kind—and wait for further directions. Look, does it sound a little suspicious? Of course—that’s why they hired me. But that’s the way it happened. To be honest—”

  “Oooh, honest. What would that be like?”

  He stops, but not for long. Outside, the sirens are still silent. “Whoever hired me, they’re not stupid, Cal. When you ship something that you think is important, you don’t tell anyone what’s inside. ‘Oh, yes—please go pick up my metal case with twenty million dollars tucked in there. I trust that you won’t steal it, Mr. Cheap-hired-hand-who-I-don’t-know.’ You send it and you give as little info as possible.”

  “Then why even send the whole coffin? Why not just take the comic and FedEx it?”

  “I have no idea. I’m assuming this comic was this guy’s prized possession, right? That’s why he’s buried with it. That’s the book Ellis wanted. So maybe they were worried the guys who dug up the casket would pick it clean if they opened it . . . or maybe they just told the grave diggers that they were some crazy relative who wanted the body, so that way, no one asked questions. The point is, the trouble they went through to get this—one side hiring me, then Timothy and Ellis trying to steal it away—if this baby’s worth dying for, can you imagine what it’s worth paying for?”

  “For a comic?”

  “C’mon, you know this isn’t just a comic. I don’t care how popular Superman is, people don’t get shot just for some old funny-book,” he says, snatching the comic back, his voice once again racing. “Now I don’t care if it’s got some secret treasure map or some superhero Da Vinci Code that needs a Captain Midnight decoder ring, we have what they want! We won the lottery, Cal—now we just gotta find out how to cash it in!”

  “You’re right,” I say, snatching the comic right back and storming out of the metal container, back through the warehouse. “And the way to do that is by going to ICE, taking it to the authorities, and telling the truth.”

  I cut through the stacked maze of shrimp boxes, trying my best to ignore the smell. I’d rather be out with the non-sirens.

  “You’ll be dead by tomorrow,” my father calls out.

  “I’m done being manipulated, Lloyd. Especially by someone who thinks it’s okay to dig up someone’s dead body and use their coffin as a shipping envelope. That man was someone’s family—not that you know the definition of that.”

  For once, he’s silent.

  I step over the last box of shrimp, hop off the loading platform, and head straight for the door. My father stays where he is.

  “Calvin, you don’t have to believe this—but if I’d known they had dug up someone’s father—even I wouldn’t’ve taken the job.”

  “Yet another wonderful speech. Good-bye, Lloyd. Time to be smart.”

  “You think turning yourself in is smart? You think you’ll get a medal and a big thank-you? No, Calvin. They’re gonna lock you in a room and grill you about Timothy, giving Ellis plenty of time to flash his badge, come inside, and put that final bullet in your brain.”

  “ICE would never let that happen.”

  “Timothy was ICE! And for all you know, he wasn’t working alone!”

  I stop right there. I know my dad’s just in it for the cash.

  “This isn’t just about the money, Cal. Look at the logic: It’s just a matter of time until Timothy’s body shows up. If we turn ourselves in, guess who the murder suspects are? No one’s believing the two convicts.”

  “I’m not a convict.”

  “No, you’re just Timothy and Ellis and everyone else’s target practice. They’re not stopping till you’re convicted or dead. But if we figure out what’s really going on, then we’ll have the steering wheel.”

  I know what my father’s doing. I saw the way he went straight for that comic, how his eyes went wide, and the greedy thrill when he realized that whatever’s really going on is now solely in his hands. I know this isn’t about just keeping me safe. But that doesn’t mean he’s not right.

  I turn around and finally face my dad, who hasn’t taken a step from the open container. From here, his face is hidden by the shadows. Outside, the brand-new siren screams from less than a block away. “I thought you didn’t know who hired you,” I call out.

  “So?”

  “So how you plan on tracking him down?”


  Stepping out into the morning light, he holds up the wax-paper sleeve with the faint typed message in the bottom corner.

  If found, please return to:

  10622 Kimberly Ave. Cleveland

  “You kidding?” he calls back with his zigzag smile. “We got the address right here.”

  “That’s fine,” I say. “I just need to check something at home first.”

  25

  In his black rental car, Ellis circled the block slowly, studying the protective metal fence that surrounded the two-story brown building that looked like a 1970s Howard Johnson’s. He noted the delivery entrance at the rear of the building. No sense going in the front if the trickster could just sneak out the back.

  733 Breakers Avenue. Cal’s home. The small sign in front had a dove flying from an open palm:

  COVENANT HOUSE

  Ellis knew Covenant House from the force. There was one in Michigan, too. Local homeless shelter. Cal clearly had his own penance he was paying. But as Ellis turned the corner, all he really cared about was that the white van with the three dents—Cal’s van—was parked in front.

  To come back here, either Cal needed something or he was just being cocky. But that’s what happens when you think you’ve won. No question, Cal and his dad had found the coffin. They opened it—and grabbed what Mitchell Siegel stole in the name of—

  A low rumble coughed through the beach air as a convertible Chevy Cavalier turned the corner of the block. From its speed alone, Ellis knew something was wrong. He stayed where he was, didn’t even duck down as the forest green car skidded to a stop right behind the white van. Blocking Cal in.

  A tall woman with a creased tan suit and brown hair got out. The way her worn shoes attacked the pavement—tunk tunk tunk—there was no slowing her down. Even from here, Ellis could see the outline of a gun strap under her cheap suit jacket. Cops were the same everywhere.