The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [40]
For a moment, Naomi just stood there, her light blue eyes narrowing. Roosevelt knew she could lock him up and sling questions at him for the next few hours. But by then, Cal would be long gone.
“You really a former priest?” Naomi asked.
“Former pastor.”
“My partner’s missing. I’m praying not dead,” she said of Timothy. “Did Cal tell you that?”
Roosevelt stayed silent. She was smart—going right for his preacher’s guilt. Years ago, Roosevelt’s superiors in the church did the same when they told him he was hurting his parish by not being married. Back then, he refused to fight and lost everything he loved. Not a single day went by where he didn’t wish he could have that life back. When he didn’t think of ways to reclaim that pulpit. So an hour ago, when Cal and his father had come scrambling in here, searching for help—he could see the way that Cal, even through his fear, kept glancing over and over at his dad. At nine years old, Cal had had his life taken from him, too. This was his chance to have that life back, somehow, in some form. And as Roosevelt knew, that was well worth fighting for.
“You work your side of the street, and I’ll work mine,” Roosevelt said.
Naomi just stood there. Then she turned to open the door, and with a slam, she was gone.
After giving it a minute, Roosevelt flipped open his phone and started dialing. It rang twice before—
“Roosevelt?” Cal answered. “I told you not to call unless—”
“They sent someone, Cal. From ICE, just like you said.”
The door burst open, and Naomi stormed back into the room. “Couldn’t even wait two minutes, could you!?” she yelled, snatching the phone from Roosevelt’s hand. He tried to grab it back.
She pulled her gun and aimed it directly at his neck.
As Roosevelt raised his hands, Naomi put the phone to her ear. “Hey, Cal,” she said. “Naomi. Remember me?”
29
Ten minutes ago
Fort Lauderdale Airport
We enter the terminal separately. We get in line separately. We pick up our tickets separately. My father’s calm. I’m not. I spent years covering every port, including this airport. I know where all the security cameras are hidden. I know which taxicabs out front have undercover agents in them (the ones lingering in the limo line), ready at any moment to pick up an arriving suspect who thinks he’s home free. But what’s got me scanning the crowd is whether Ellis saw us leaving as we snuck out of my building.
“Here you go, Mr. Frenzel,” says the woman at the airline counter, handing me my ticket and calling me by the name of one of the dozens of fake IDs that had been left in the van over the years.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Sanone,” another agent says to my dad, who for once is following my directions and keeping his head down as he leaves the counter. By flying under fake names, we’re untraceable. But if Ellis is half the cop I think he is—the way he got to Timothy right after I did—all he has to do is pull airport video to be right back on our trail. That’s what I would do. But that doesn’t mean I’m making it easy for him.
Readjusting the green backpack that holds the Superman comic in its wax-paper protector, I keep my chin down but am surprised to see a spy cam—flat and thin like a calculator—mounted in a fake palm tree at the end of the airline counter. Dammit. I duck under the velvet check-in rope, wishing I could blame it on my lack of sleep. But I’m clearly rusty. I’ve been off the job for over four years. Of course there’s gonna be new cameras.
Trying to be smarter as I head toward security, I glance back at my father, but he’s barely moving. Worst of all, he’s no longer staring down, hiding his face. In fact, the way he’s looking around . . . like he sees something. Or someone.
On our left, by the airport gift shop, a dolly stacked with old magazines and newspapers is wheeled out of the way, revealing a young, light-skinned black woman in a rhinestoned Bob Marley T-shirt, dark jeans, and 80s Top Gun sunglasses. I’ve seen her before. At the hospital.
“Serena,