The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [38]
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.
“Naomi here,” she said, pulling out her cell phone. “No, Ma . . . why would you—? I don’t care what he says, don’t buy him any more Hot Wheels cars, okay? He’s lying. Treat him like a little junkie stripper on blow: He’ll say anything to get more.”
Clipping the phone back on her belt, the woman pounded past the privacy wall and disappeared inside the building.
Across the street, Ellis reached over to the passenger seat and unzipped a small leather case. If cops were here, they were already searching for Timothy. Searching for Cal. To be honest, Ellis didn’t care. Let them fight it out. He’d take what he wanted from the winner.
26
He’s still here?” Naomi asked, running through the shelter’s open courtyard.
“I’m looking at a tracking screen right now,” Scotty replied through her earpiece. “According to his cell signal, Cal’s definitely in the building.”
“And you can’t get me closer than that? I thought they improved all this nonsense after 9/11—y’know, so they could find trapped people within a few feet.”
“And that’s true—especially in the Bourne Identity trilogy. But back in reality, where we all still use our old phones, we pinpoint based on cell towers—and that gets us a few dozen feet at the closest. Listen, I gotta run. I’m a tech guy, not a sidekick.”
Racing up the outdoor stairs two at a time, Naomi reached for her gun.
On the second floor, she darted across the outdoor breezeway as she traced the room numbers—210 . . . 208 . . . 206. Cal’s apartment was 202. As she passed each metal door, she saw a blue sign on each one:
SINGLE RESIDENTS BEDTIME Is 9:45 P.M.
She finally stopped at the last door on her right:
202
RESIDENT ADVISER
From what she could tell, the door was slightly open. As if someone were still there. Or about to leave. She lowered her shoulder and plowed forward. As the door swung open and crashed into the wall, Naomi burst into the room.
A gang of six clearly pissed-off black kids looked up from the video game they were crowded around. The second-biggest kid, in his twenties, with braids, an oversize Knicks jersey, and a panther tattoo across his neck, dropped his game controller and strode directly at her.
“Whatsamatta, lady?” he asked, flashing a bottom row