The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [100]
“Probably as pathetic as settling for a local gossip job, even though the real dream was to challenge the world with risky, investigative news items.”
For the first time since we’ve taken off, I turn away from the window and stare at Lisbeth. “That’s different,” I tell her.
“It’s not,” she shoots back. “You saw my office—all those letters on the walls of my cubicle . . .”
“The ones to your dad.”
“Not to him. About him. Those letters are proof, Wes. They’re proof that you can use this job to change someone’s life for the better. They’re proof that there’s a power in reporting. And what do I do with that power? I spend every day trying to find twenty inches’ worth of local divorces, country club backstabbing, and all-around nail-biters, like who got stuck at the crappy table at Morton’s? When I took this job, I promised myself it was for a year or two, until I could properly feed my cats. That was seven years ago, Wes,” she says, more serious than ever. “And y’know what the worst part is?”
“That you gave up your dream?”
She shakes her head. “That I can leave at any time.”
As I study her, she scratches at the freckles on her cheek.
“It’s still different,” I insist, turning back to the window. “My goal is to walk down the street and not be noticeable. You’re at least the same person you always were.”
She shifts in her seat as the leather crunches below her. “My dad used to say that God puts cracks in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
“Yeah, well, your dad stole that from an old Leonard Cohen song.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
Through the window, I stare down at the river of grass, its muted green and brown strands braided across the water like a head of wet hair. About a hundred feet down, a small flock of white birds glides through the sky.
“Those herons?” Lisbeth asks, staring out her own window.
“Egrets,” I reply. “Beaks are blacker and pointier.”
Staring downward, I think of my own bird, Lolo, and how much she’d enjoy the view. Then I remind myself that she can’t fly. Not while her wings are clipped.
For the second time, I turn away from the window and look over my shoulder at Lisbeth. She’s got caramel freckles along her neck. “You really that miserable with your job?” I ask her.
“Last month, I didn’t go to my ten-year high school reunion because the little bio of me in the program listed me as ‘gossip queen.’ I know it’s so seventh grade, but I just . . . I couldn’t show my face there.”
“Imagine that,” I tease, turning my head so she gets a good look at my scars.
“Oh, jeez, Wes, you know I didn’t—”
“I know,” I tell her, flashing the best full smile I can offer. As always, the right half of my mouth doesn’t move. But for once, as the left half rises toward the roof of the helicopter, it actually seems like enough.
58
What about phone records?” O’Shea asked, sitting in the passenger seat as Micah steered through the lunch-hour traffic that clogged I-95.
“Goose egg,” Paul Kessiminan replied through O’Shea’s phone in a fat Chicago sausage accent. As a student of applied mathematics and a dropout from the U.S. Naval Academy, Paul wasn’t a scholar. As a senior associate in the FBI’s Investigative Technology Division, he was a genius. And rarely wrong. “Kid hasn’t made a cell call since late last night.”
“Credit cards?”
“I ran it all—cards, ATM withdrawals, airline reservations, even his Blockbuster card. Whoever he is, this Wes’s no schmuck. Kid’s quieter than a caterpillar.”
“Then track the phone itself,” O’Shea said into his cell as their Chevy came to a short stop just shy of a black pickup. Tapping the dashboard with his fist, he pointed to the far left shoulder of the road, pantomiming for Micah to keep moving. “He should be pinging off some nearby cell tower as we speak.”
“Really? I’d totally forgotten how GPS and, indeed, my entire job worked,” Paul said.
O’Shea didn’t laugh. “Don’t fuck with me on this, Paul.”
“Hey, hey . . . easy with the mouth. You didn’t say it was that important.”
“It’s that important. Now is he