The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [122]
“Cal, the soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears.”
I stare at her. She stares back, unblinking.
“That was Buddha, wasn’t it?” I ask.
“Native American. Minquass tribe.”
I nod, still gripping the steering wheel. I fight for my clients every day, and I always will. It’s nice to finally feel someone fighting for me. “Have I thanked you for coming here?”
“Over nine times. You still nervous?”
I stare over her shoulder at our destination: the three-story, beige-and-white apartment building with the odd flock of pelicans nesting on top.
“Terrified,” I tell her.
“That’s why you need to go. Without me. You’re the one who needs to know, Cal.”
She’s right about that.
As I nudge open the car door and step outside, the California sun salutes me. I hear the squawks of pelicans and a boat horn in the distance. We’re not far from the marina.
“Take your time. I’ll pick you up in an hour,” Serena calls out, already pulling away. She’s worried if she waits around, I might back out. She’s right.
Behind me, I hear the car take off and disappear.
Following the concrete path and counting door numbers, I make my way to the back of the older, three-story apartment building, where, just past a set of open jalousie windows, there’s a coral-colored door with four different locks. I hear an old Dean Martin song playing inside. Just below the doorbell is the name:
SIEGEL
I study it for a minute, collecting my—
“I see you out there,” an elderly woman’s voice announces. “You here for the air-conditioning?”
It’d be simple to say yes. Or to flash my wallet in front of the eyehole and pretend I’m still a fed. She’s gotta be nearly ninety. She wouldn’t know the difference.
But I would. And this woman—and her family—deserves better.
“I’m—if you can—I was hoping to ask you about your husband,” I tell her.
The door stays shut. “If you’re one of those comic book people, I don’t do interviews. I don’t talk about Superman. I’ve told my stories,” she tells me.
“Ma’am, I don’t care about Superman. I’m here about your husband. Jerry.”
“Then you care about Superman. You think you’re the first yahoo to try that line?”
“Ma’am—”
“I’ve been putting up with people like you since 1948,” she yells through the door.
“I know who murdered Jerry’s father.”
“Nice try. I’ve heard that one, too. Lemme guess: You wanna write a book. Everyone loves a mystery.”
“I know it wasn’t a mystery. And I know Jerry saw it happen.”
There’s a long pause. The pelicans continue to squawk.
“I found these,” I add, pulling the four panels of the old comic strip—with the old Thule symbol—from my pocket and holding it up to the peephole.
There’s another long pause.
Tnnk. Tnnk. Cuunk. Tnnk. The locks come undone.
I’m expecting a frail Miami Beach Golden Girl. Instead, I get an elderly woman with teased reddish brown hair, lively dark eyes, and the most stunning cheekbones I’ve ever seen. According to the brochure from the museum, this woman posed for Jerry and Joe, making her the physical model for Lois Lane. Of course she’s beautiful.
“Why don’t you come inside, Mr. . .”
“Cal Harper,” I say, extending a hand.
“Joanne,” she says, inviting me in without shaking back. “Where’d you find the art?”
“In Jerry’s Cleveland house. In his room,” I say, watching as she stares at the comic panels in my hand. “You didn’t know they were there, did you?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she leads me into her living room, which is decorated in light pastels and sea-foam green. Just like the prison. There’s a bookcase on our left, but the rest of the walls are filled—absolutely stacked—with picture frame after picture frame of family photos. Pictures of her and Jerry, her and her daughter, her and her grandchildren. There’s not a single one of Superman.
Over by a white Formica credenza, she reaches for the double cassette player and lowers the Dean Martin volume—but doesn’t turn it off. She doesn’t like being alone. Me neither.
She takes a seat on her wicker-and-peach sofa, crossing her ankles like a true lady. “Tell me what you want from us, Mr.