The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [41]
“I’m sorry, I forgot something,” I tell the lady checking tickets at security. Swimming upstream and squeezing past the other passengers, I fight toward the back of the line and grab my dad by the biceps.
“What’re you doing?” I hiss.
“Cal, this isn’t my fault.”
“We were supposed to tell no one. As in no one.”
“I swear to you, I didn’t say a word,” my dad insists.
“He didn’t say a word,” Serena adds. “Quisiera estar aquí para ti,” she whispers to my dad in Spanish. I just wanted to be here for you.
From the shock on my dad’s face—as I tug his arm and steer us away from security—he’s just as surprised as I am. “Cal . . . son . . .”
“Don’t call me son!” I explode as every nearby TSA employee turns our way. I don’t care.
My dad forces a smile and puts a hand on my shoulder like all is well. I jerk back until he takes it off.
“Please don’t blame your father. Every soul needs its own flow,” Serena says, carefully pronouncing each syllable. She has a tender voice that’s as calming as wind chimes, and as she speaks, her yellow blue eyes make peaceful contact. First with me, then my dad. Like she’s seeing something within.
“That’s the mushiest, new-agey-ist manure I’ve ever heard,” I tell her, finally stopping all three of us in front of a set of floral sofas, where there are no cameras in sight. “Now tell me why you’re really here!”
She steps back slightly, almost as if she’s confused. “When we were on the phone—when I heard the terror in his voice—how could I not help him? He needed me.”
“Needed you? What’re you, his muse?”
She shakes her head, but I’ve been around enough addicts to know what’s really going on.
“She’s your sponsor, isn’t she?” I ask my dad.
“No. That’s not—”
The phone I traded with one of the kids vibrates in my front pocket. Only one other person knows I have it.
“Roosevelt?” I answer. “I told you not to call unless—”
“They sent someone, Cal. From ICE, just like you sa—”
There’s a loud noise, like a door slamming. I hear some arguing, but nothing I can make out.
“Hey, Cal,” a female voice says. “Naomi. Remember me?”
30
Silent on the phone, I leave my father and Serena by the floral sofas as I keep scanning the area for cameras. The only good news is, it takes a solid six minutes to track my cell. Plenty of time to find out who I’m up against.
“Sorry, not ringing my bells,” I tell the woman, hoping she’ll give me her last name.
“Naomi Molina.”
Naomi Molina . . . Naomi . . . Naomi . . . If I knew her, it wasn’t well. Still, the name . . . “Oh, wait—you’re the one who adopted that kid—the lesbian, right?” It’s an old cop trick: riling her to see what she blurts.
“C’mon, Cal. The big-boned female agent who’s also a lesbo? Isn’t that a bit overdone?” she flings back. “No thanks, but I like mine straight up, no twist. But yes, I came aboard right as you were fired.”
“I wasn’t fired,” I shoot back, already regretting it. I should’ve seen it: riling me to see what I blurt.
“Oh, that’s right—you took the far more honorable resign-on-your-own-and-avoid-the-indictment. Let me ask: Were you really in love with Miss Deirdre or was that just the story you saved for Internal Affairs?”
Once again, I stay silent. Across from me, Serena motions for my dad to join her on one of the floral sofas. He doesn’t hesitate. And as they face each other—their knees almost touching—she whispers something to him and he smiles with a strange, newfound calm. From the body language alone, she knows him well.
“Aw, that bump old bruises, Cal?” Naomi asks in my ear. “Now you know how we felt when we heard you were kissing one of your CIs and putting your fellow agents at risk.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Deirdre was your informant, Cal! You were supposed to pay her a few hundred bucks for tips on shipments! Instead, you were sleeping with her and buying her sappy poetry books for her birthday!”
“I never slept with her.”
“No, you did something far more ridiculous: You fell in love, didn’t you? And then when you heard we were raiding