The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [68]
“Yeah . . . no . . . I didn’t realize that,” I tell him, turning back to the screen.
“Y’okay?” he says in full midwest accent.
“I’m fine.”
“Y’sure? Y’look a little . . . zapped by kryptonite.” He laughs a hiccupy laugh, and for the first time I realize how much more he blinks than the average person.
“So you’re the curator?” I ask.
“Welcome to Metropolis!” He beams at me, giving three quick blinks. “Gareth Gelbwaks.”
“Great, then maybe you can help me with this, Gareth,” I say, going straight for the backpack and pulling out Action Comics in the wax paper—
Gareth’s eyes go wide, as though I just unveiled the Rosetta Stone. “Th-That’s— Where’d you—?” He swallows hard and blinks half a dozen times. “Maybe we should go back to my office.”
“That’d be perfect.”
Within seconds, we weave toward the far right exhibit hall, back past the bathrooms, to an oak door marked, PRIVATE—STAFF ONLY.
It’s not until he twists the doorknob that I realize I haven’t seen Serena or—
There’s a rusty squeak as the door swings open, revealing a small conference room, a round meeting table . . . and my father sitting there with his hands in PlastiCuffs.
“Dad, what’re you—?” I race forward, already realizing I’m too late.
The door slams behind me, and I finally spot her: the tall Hispanic woman with a cheap haircut and an even cheaper brown dye job.
“Nice to see you again, Cal,” Naomi says, pointing her gun at me. “Welcome to Metropolis.”
47
I—I’m sorry,” the curator apologizes to me. “She said you were armed and wanted. I can’t risk the exhibit—”
“Stop talking,” Naomi barks at the curator. Over her shoulder, my dad sits there, devastated. Ex-cons know the consequences best. Next to him, attached to the wall, are two TV monitors: One has a view of the front desk, where we bought tickets; the other alternates among security cameras throughout the exhibit. As the screen blinks, I spot Serena still walking through the exhibit. That’s why Naomi didn’t grab her. She was in the restroom when we bought the tickets. They have no idea she’s with us. It’s the only thing going our way.
Turning to me, Naomi approaches with another set of PlastiCuffs, her gun still pointed at my chest. “Arms out, wrists together,” she insists.
“Before you—”
“Wrists together!” she explodes, surprising even me. “You helped him, didn’t you? Did you know he threatened my family?”
“Wha? Your family?”
“Cal, I saw Ellis! I saw him waiting outside your place!”
She yells so loud, the curator can’t stop blinking. Whatever Ellis did, he clearly lit Naomi’s fuse, which means she’s not listening until she gets what she wants.
I toss the comic book on the conference table and calmly stick out my wrists. “Go ahead—put the cuffs on.”
She stops, knowing I’m up to something. “Cal . . .”
“Put the cuffs on,” I repeat. “I’m not fighting.”
She steps in close and threads both my hands into the open circles of the PlastiCuffs. But she doesn’t pull them tight. “Tell me what happened on Alligator Alley with Timothy,” she adds.
I glance at my dad, who shakes his head. He still hasn’t said anything. So if Naomi’s asking, that means they haven’t found the body. Good for us. Still, if I tell her Timothy’s dead—or even place us at Alligator Alley—there’s no way we’re not going right back to Miami for questioning. “I spoke to him that night, but that’s the last I—”
She pulls the zipper as the PlastiCuffs bite my wrists. “Ow! What’re you—!?”
“You think I’m taking your word for it, Cal? Especially after what you did with Ellis!?”
“I didn’t do anything with Ellis!”
“How’d he find my address!? How’d he find where I live!?”
“Are you—?” I take a breath, knowing that the only way to keep her calm is by leading the way. “Please, Naomi—if I were really trying to kill you, you really think I’d let you put me in these cuffs?”
For once, she’s silent.
“Exactly,” I say. “And for all we know, Timothy may be fine.” It’s an awful bluff, but we’re not leaving here without it.
She shakes