The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [73]
“You’re telling me you never hid money from yourself and then forgot where it was?” I ask Naomi.
“This is more important than money,” she shoots back.
“Mmm . . . she’s right,” the curator says. “But that’s why he kept it, and sealed it in wax paper, and locked it in the attic. Besides, when Jerry died a few years back, they went through the rest of his belongings. There’s no record of that first story. It’s gone. These few attic copies are the only hiding spots left.”
“And how many copies are accounted for so far?” I ask.
“Again, the rumor is there were ten copies to start, though that could be wrong. The first one was found in the seventies, right after the first Superman movie hit. Then a Baltimore collector found two more, both at garage sales. Another was found in London, and another was bought by some wealthy doctor in China,” he says as I think back to the stethoscope in the coffin. “So I think seven total, including yours and the one we have here in the Superman Today exhibit.”
I look over at the security monitors and spot Serena backtracking through the exhibit hall. We’ve been gone for fifteen minutes. She’s smart enough to not call our names. But she’s gonna start panicking soon.
“Here’s the other thing that makes no sense,” Naomi interrupts. “How would Jerry even know how his father died?”
“Maybe he witnessed it,” my father whispers, staring long and hard at me.
I’m about to turn away. But I don’t. Some things need to be faced.
My dad leans forward in his chair, his cuffed hands still shaking. He plants his elbows on his knees, as if he’s in midprayer. But the look in his eyes—it’s the same frozen look he had when I saved him in Alligator Alley. Back then, I thought it was shock or just relief. It’s not.
I’m sorry, he says with nothing more than a glance. After nineteen years.
Naomi stares at me a moment—not judging, just staring, her tall frame looking even taller with my dad seated in front of her. She doesn’t offer the reassuring nod. She scratches at her short, choppy hair and turns away. But there’s no question we just gave her a piece of our own puzzle. One she didn’t have before.
“Okay, so if young Jerry knew what happened, why didn’t he go to the cops?” she asks.
“Same reason that for the past eighty years they told that heart attack story to their own family,” the curator says. “Whatever was going on, there was clearly something Jerry’s family didn’t want said. And it’s a secret still lost to history.”
“Could it have anything to do with Cain?” my dad blurts, his apology long gone.
“Cain?” The curator looks confused. Naomi stays silent, glancing down at the carpet. Whatever she knows, she’s not trusting us just yet.
“Maybe Jerry’s dad died doing something illegal,” I say.
“Or embarrassing,” my dad adds, following my lead. “Could he have been cheating on his wife?”
“I don’t think so,” the curator replies. “Mitchell was supposedly a quiet and low-key sort.”
“Like in a mobster low-key way?” I ask. “Or in a—”
“He was a fed,” Naomi says, looking up at the rest of us.
“Pardon?” I ask.
“Mitchell Siegel. I bet he was a fed.”
“What makes you—?”
“Your Indian pal. Ocala.”
“You spoke to Ocala?” I ask.
“He told me about the gun, which is when my assistant put a name check request on Mitchell Siegel. Tax records, military service, all the typicals. When word came back the files were delayed, I assumed it was because the records were old or buried in some warehouse somewhere, but now—if they’re hiding him—it’s for a reason.”
Without even touching a button on her phone, she barks into her earpiece: “Scotty, call the Bureau directly. I need you to get that file on Mitchell Siegel.” Her phone’s been on the entire time.
I shoot a look to Naomi. “If he wasn’t a fed, maybe he was an informant,” I suggest. “Or even a boss.”
“If he was a boss, he could’ve been making cash,” she agrees.
I turn to the curator. “Did the Siegels have money?”
“You kidding? Jerry and Joe—they were both so poor, when they