The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [5]
. . . one.
Zhao was nice—even kind when they first met at the doctor’s funeral—but the mission was bigger than Zhao. And based on what happened in 1900 with Mitchell Siegel, the mission had enough problems with witnesses.
Zhao’s tongue went limp, and his head slumped forward, sending his forehead against the carpet.
Ellis didn’t notice. He was already on his phone, dialing Judge Wojtowicz’s number.
“I told you not to call me here, Eddie,” answered an older man with a soft, crackly voice.
“Ellis. I’m called Ellis now,” he replied, never losing his composure. He spread out his left hand, admiring the tattoo.
“It’s five in the morning here, Ellis. What do you want?”
Ellis smiled—truly smiled—turning his full attention to the phone. “What I want is for you to remember just where you were when I found you, Judge. Your group—your Leadership—your dream was old and dead. Is that how you pictured your final years? Just another discarded, cobwebbed old man sitting in his cramped Michigan apartment and wondering why his glory days weren’t more glorious? You’re not even a footnote in history, Judge. Not even an asterisk. But if you want, I can put you back there. Maybe one day you’ll be a parenthesis.”
“My family has been in the Leadership since—”
“Don’t embarrass yourself, Judge. Family names don’t get you into Harvard anymore; what makes you think they’ll get you in here?”
There was a long pause on the line. “I appreciate your helping us with this, Ellis,” the Judge finally offered. Clearing his throat, he added, “You’re close to finding the Book, aren’t you?”
“And about to get even closer,” Ellis said, glancing at the pink bill of lading and studying the container’s new tracking details: when it left the port, when it’d arrive in Miami, even the truck driver who was responsible for the pickup.
HARPER, LLOYD.
“C’mon, Benoni,” he murmured to the dog.
He knew it was an odd name. Benoni. But according to the diaries, that was the name of Abel’s watchdog—the dog that was eventually given to Cain—and the only witness to the world’s first murder.
“You’re in for a treat, girl,” he said as he stepped over Zhao’s dead body and led the dog out into the hallway. “This time of year, the weather is gorgeous in Florida.”
As the dog ran ahead, Ellis never lost sight of her. He knew his history. Only with Benoni would he find the Book of Lies and solve the true mystery of the world’s greatest villain.
2
Two weeks later
Fort Lauderdale, Florida
My name is Cal Harper.
This is the second most important day of my life.
“Remove heem,” the manager of the French bistro calls out behind us.
“S-Sorry, Cal,” my client Alberto apologizes, his body shaking as I hook his arm around my neck and help him hobble back toward our van. From the stench on his breath, Alberto’s been drinking hard. From his fresh split lip, plus the tear in his ratty T-shirt, he’s been fighting, too. In his left hand, he clutches the dented, rusty RC Cola can that he carries everywhere.
Welcome to Fort Lauderdale beach. Just another day in paradise.
“You planning on helping here?” I call to Roosevelt, who’s reclining in the passenger seat of our dumpy white van.
“Ah’m mentoring,” Roosevelt calls back in a thick Tennessee drawl, nodding a hello to Alberto, who offers a gray-toothed smile in return.
“No, you’re sitting on your rear while I do all the work,” I point out.
“Whattya think mentoring is?” Roosevelt asks, lumbering out like an old mountain cat and slowly tugging open the side door of the van, a 1991 GMC Safari that another client christened “the White House.” (Roosevelt and Calvin in the same place? It’s downright presidential.)
“You got him?” I ask.
“Isn’t that why God put me on this planet?” Roosevelt says, his dyed-black, aging-hippie ponytail flapping in the salty ocean breeze. At forty-two, Roosevelt’s old enough to know better than the ponytail, but we all have our weaknesses. “Man, Alberto, you reek.”
To the few passing tourists