The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [98]
With the turn of a key and a low thunk, the door opens, bathing us with warm air as we hop inside. I stare over my shoulder as we kick flecks of wet snow onto the wide welcome mat. The streets are empty. No one’s there. But it’s not until I turn around that I finally see exactly where we’ve run to.
The wide beige room has a World War II biplane hanging from the ceiling. Across the floor, there’re at least a dozen antique cars, including, according to a sign, a 1898 Winton Phaeton on loan from the Smithsonian. On the left, I see brochures and a donation box for the Crawford Auto-Aviation Museum.
“I thought this was a library,” my father says.
“We all share the building. Library’s down the hall, just past the gift shop,” the janitor explains as we take off. “By the way,” he calls out behind us, “welcome to the Western Reserve Historical Society!”
Two minutes later, the long narrow hall descends and winds around to a set of turnstiles that dumps us into a tall, breathtaking reading room filled with shelf after shelf stacked with volumes of old books.
“Did Jacobs leave that door open again?” a lean thirtysomething with an argyle sweater asks on our left. He’s handsome, with crisp brown eyes, a pointy goatee, and (this could be a winner) a gold cross hanging from his neck. According to his name tag, he’s “Michael Johnson—Librarian.” “Sorry—we don’t open till nine,” he says.
I flash the ID, stepping close enough so he can read it. “How’d you like to help your government?”
63
They’re wrong,” Naomi said into her earpiece as she eased the steering wheel to the right and struggled to leave the three-lane roundabout that was filled with early morning traffic.
“Nomi, I know you had a head injury, but listen to me: Satellites aren’t wrong,” Scotty replied in her ear. “People are wrong. Rental car companies are wrong. But LoJack tracking systems hidden in some secret spot below a rental car? Never wrong.”
With a long honk of her horn, Naomi tried shoving her way past a silver minivan, but the van wouldn’t budge. “You think I don’t know the hell of morning carpool!?” Naomi screamed through her closed window. Ignoring her, the driver of the minivan pretended to scratch her head while giving Naomi the finger.
“I hope your kid has disciplinary problems!” Naomi shouted back, now making her second lap around the roundabout.
“Nomi, you need to calm down.”
“This is calm,” she said as the VA hospital once again appeared in front of her. “I’m just saying: Why would Cal be here? They had full access to a hospital when they dropped me off last night.”
“Maybe something happened. Maybe one of them got hurt.”
“Yeah, but a VA hospital? Cal . . . Cal’s father . . . neither of them was military. Something’s not right.”
“Just head for the parking garage around back. Based on the records and their LoJack signal, you’re looking for a white Pontiac parked near the southeast corner stairwell.”
Eventually exiting the roundabout at East Boulevard, Naomi passed the VA hospital on her left and followed the signs for the parking garage around back. But just as she made the turn, she noticed, out of her passenger-side window, the wide set of short sandstone and taller red-brick buildings that overlooked the hospital’s parking garage . . . exactly at the southeast corner.
“Scotty, you looking at a map?”
“With a little blinking LoJack logo on it.”
“Fine. Tell me what those buildings are across the street from the VA.”
“Looks like . . . one’s an auto museum, there’s an Ohio historical society, plus a pretty big library.”
The car bucked and bumped as Naomi climbed over the speed bumps in the VA’s parking garage. “What kinda library?” she asked, peering in her rearview.
“You see something?” Scotty asked.
“Not yet. But it makes a damn lot more sense than a VA hospital.”
Half a block back, as Ellis drove past the hospital, he studied the taillights on Naomi’s car, then tapped his own brakes to make sure he stayed far enough away. To be safe, he kept a strong hand on Benoni