The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [66]
“Easy . . . easy,” a man called from inside. With a thunk and a twist, the door swung open, and Mr. Johnsel studied Ellis for a full five seconds. But Ellis knew that look. All the man saw was the uniform. And the badge. “Whatsda problem, Officer?”
“No problem at all,” Ellis said, forcing a sickly grin. He should’ve come here sooner. The last known location of the Book of Lies.
46
How many?” an older woman with a doughy face asks at the front desk of the museum.
“Three,” I tell her.
She stares, confused, seeing only me. Over my shoulder, the front door to the museum opens and my dad steps inside. It was his idea: waiting in the car to see if anyone followed. But as the door opens, for a moment, I could’ve sworn he was talking to someone out there. “All clear,” he announces to me.
The woman’s still confused. “You said three?”
“We have— In the bathroom,” I explain, pointing behind me at the ladies’ room.
“Welcome to Metropolis,” the doughy woman says with a far too high level of joy as she hands me the tickets. “Though remember, we’re only open till five.”
I look at my watch. Less than fifteen minutes.
“C’mon, Serena!” I call out, heading past the restroom just as the door swings open.
Surprised to see me so close, she jumps back, stuffing something into her purse.
“Who were you talking to?” I ask.
“Pardon?”
“Your phone. Sorry,” I add as I point with my chin, “it looked like . . . in your purse . . . you were putting back your phone.”
She stares straight at me for barely a second. It’s a helluva long second. “Just checking messages,” she finally replies, calm as ever. Reading my expression, she adds, “You believe me, right?”
I’m lied to every single day by most of my clients. But as I look at her . . . “I believe you, Serena.”
“Don’t use the phone anymore, okay?” my father barks, so clearly pissed that the woman at the ticket desk looks our way.
“Okay, everybody lose the claws,” I say. “We’re all tired . . . we’ve got twelve minutes till closing . . . Let’s just be—”
“Faster than a speeding bullet!” a baritone voice announces behind us.
“See, now that’s just horrible,” Serena says, rolling her eyes as we turn toward the official entrance of the exhibit.
Beneath the tall glass windows and across the long rectangular Jerusalem stone lobby, a six-foot-tall statue of Superman holds a giant Earth over his head. On the Earth, there’s a little red flag stuck into Cleveland with a note that says, “Birthplace of Superman!”
“More powerful than a locomotive!”
And more annoying with each passing second.
I race toward the exhibit. “Let’s just get what we came for.”
From what I can tell, the main exhibit hall of the Maltz Museum is set up like a long rectangle—the back half of it dedicated to Jewish artifacts, the front half to the Superman display, which is split into half a dozen smaller rooms. It doesn’t take long to divide them up. I don’t like it. But with closing hour quickly approaching, the only way we’re finding the attic copy they have here is with some speed. On my far left, my father took the room labeled “Superman in the ’60s”; on my right, Serena took “Superman Today”; and I very purposely staked my claim in the main central exhibit: “Origins of the Superman.”
Like any other museum, it has stark white walls lined with Lucite cases of all shapes and sizes, holding everything from old photographs and pencil sketches, to copies of Nietzsche’s mention of the Übermensch and Hitler’s demand for the master race, to 1940s Superman movie posters, action figures, jigsaw puzzles, baseball cards, Colorforms sets, cereal boxes, and every other product that you can possibly put a giant red-and-yellow S on. But, amazingly, there’s not a single comic book.
In the corner of the wide room, a bright red Superman cape hides the entrance to what looks like a separate part of the exhibit. I’ll bite.
As I pull aside the cape and step inside, the darkness tells me it’s just a small theater. The curved, blue-carpeted benches look like they can seat ten or so people, and on the far left