The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [142]
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“And you—?”
“I checked everything: the WHORM file, staff and office collections, e-mail, even the few odd bits of microfiche from the old national security stuff,” Freddy said, well past annoyed. “The library’s now officially closed,” he added, standing from his seat and pointing to the door. “So unless you’d like to be introduced to our well-trained security staff, I suggest you have a nice day.”
Walking swiftly through the brick and concrete courtyard in front of the library, Rogo was a full five feet in front of Dreidel as they headed toward the car. “A business. Yes, in Fort Lauderdale,” Rogo said into his cell phone. “I’m looking for the number of a Dr. Eng. E-N-G.”
“I have a Dr. Brian Eng on Griffin Road,” the operator said.
“Two six seven eight, exactly,” Rogo said, reading the address off the sheet of paper they had copied it to. “And does it say what kind of doctor he is?”
“I’m sorry, sir—we don’t list occupations. Please hold for that number.”
Within seconds, a mechanized female voice announced, “At the customer’s request, the number is nonpublished and is not listed in our records.”
“Are you friggin’— What kinda doctor keeps an unlisted phone number?” As he turned back to Dreidel, he added, “Anything on the Web?”
Staring down at the tiny screen on his phone, Dreidel fidgeted with the buttons like a grandparent with a remote control. “I know I’m set up for Internet access—I just can’t figure out how to—”
“Then whattya been doing for the past five minutes? Give it here,” Rogo snapped, snatching the phone from his hand. With a few clicks and shifts, Rogo entered the name Dr. Brian Eng and hit Enter. For almost a full two minutes, he scrolled and clicked but didn’t say a word.
“Anything?” Dreidel asked as they weaved around cars in the parking lot.
“Unreal,” Rogo moaned, still clicking buttons on the phone. “Not only is his number unlisted—the guy’s somehow managed to stay out of every major search engine. Google . . . Yahoo! . . . you name it—put in Dr. Brian Eng and nothing comes up—it’s ridiculous! If I put in the words Jewish Smurfs, I get a page full of hits, but Dr. Brian Eng gives me goose egg?” Approaching the driver’s side of the Toyota, Rogo slapped the phone shut and tossed it across the roof of the car to Dreidel. “Which leads us right back to, what kinda doctor keeps himself so hidden, he’s almost impossible to find?”
“I don’t know . . . a mob doctor?” Dreidel guessed.
“Or an abortion doctor,” Rogo countered.
“What about a plastic surgeon—y’know, for the really rich who don’t want people to know?”
“Actually, that’s not a bad call. Wes said it looked like Boyle changed some of his features. Maybe the May 27th appointment was his first office consult.”
Sliding into the passenger seat, Dreidel glanced down at his watch. Outside, it was already starting to get dark. “We can swing by when they open tomorrow morning.”
“You kidding?” Rogo said as he started the car. “We should go right now.”
“He’s probably closed.”
“Still, if the building’s open, I bet the directory in the lobby’ll at least tell us what kind of practice he has.”
“But to trek all the way to Fort Lauderdale . . .”
Halfway out of the parking spot, Rogo jammed the brakes and shifted the car back into park. Turning to his right, he glared at Dreidel, who was still staring out the front windshield.
“What?” Dreidel asked.
“Why don’t you want me driving to this doctor right now?”
“What’re you talking about? I’m just trying to save us time.”
Rogo lowered his chin. “Good,” he said, jerking the car back into gear. “Next stop, Dr. Brian Eng.”
84
Wait, you’re telling me Boyle—”
“They invited him in,” the First Lady explains, her voice shaking with each word. “Why be three horsemen when you can be more effective as four?”
“And Boyle said yes?”
“We didn’t know . . .” She pauses, wondering whether to tell me the rest. But she knows I’ll run out and ask the questions myself if she doesn’t. “We didn’t think so,” she says.
“I don’t understand,” I say, my chest in knots.