The Book of Lies (12 page)

“Wax paper,” my father says, running his fingers along the edges, which have been ironed or melted together. In the bottom right corner, there’s faint lettering.

My father pulls it closer, and we both read the typed note:

If found, please return to:
10622 Kimberly Ave. Cleveland

But what’s far more important is what the wax paper holds hidden inside. You can almost see through it—tons of bright colors.

“Oh, man—if this is a Renoir,” my dad blurts. Like a child with a bag of candy, he tugs the two sides and pulls it open. A hiccup of dust and stale air floats upward, revealing an old yellowed magazine that’s trapped within. But as my dad takes out the magazine and thumbs through it . . . No. Not a magazine. The hand-drawn pictures . . . the childish art . . . He flips to the front, and the bright red font on the cover says:
Action Comics.
In the corner, it says: “No 1. June 1938.” But there’s no mistaking the drawing of the hero with the bright red cape and the big red
S
on his chest. Superman.

“Oh, we got ’em, Cal. We
got
’em!” my father says, his zigzag smile spreading wider.

For a moment, it feels as if someone’s punctured my lungs with a metal hook and is tugging them up through my throat. Ellis said he wanted a book. Benny’s words echo in my head. That murder eighty years ago . . . Mitchell Siegel . . . and his son created—

No way this comic book is just a comic book.

24

Y
ou knew, didn’t you? You knew what was in there,” I say, reaching for the old Superman comic and snatching it from my dad’s hands.

“Be careful with that!”

“
Why’d you lie!?
” I explode, my voice rebounding through the metal container.

He takes a half-step back, surprised by my anger. “Cal, if you think I knew anything—”

“Enough bullshit, Lloyd! That’s why they shot you, didn’t they!? That’s what they wanted: that key and what was in that coffin! And you’ve been lying about it the whole time!”

“No, that’s fair. You’re right—I lied. I’m sorry for that. But that was it. I swear to you, Cal—I had no idea the key went to a coffin. They sent it to me with the paperwork.”

“So they sent you a key and said, ‘You’ll know what to do with this’?”

“They said, here’s the key and when I got to Naples, I was supposed to unload the truck, find the book—they didn’t say what kind—and wait for further directions. Look, does it sound a little suspicious? Of course—that’s why they hired me. But that’s the way it happened. To be honest—”

“Oooh,
honest.
What would that be like?”

He stops, but not for long. Outside, the sirens are still silent. “Whoever hired me, they’re not stupid, Cal. When you ship something that you think is important, you don’t tell anyone what’s inside.
‘Oh, yes—please go pick up my metal case with twenty million dollars tucked in there. I trust that you won’t steal it, Mr. Cheap-hired-hand-who-I-don’t-know.’
You send it and you give as little info as possible.”

“Then why even send the whole coffin? Why not just take the comic and FedEx it?”

“I have no idea. I’m assuming this comic was this guy’s prized possession, right? That’s why he’s buried with it. That’s the book Ellis wanted. So maybe they were worried the guys who dug up the casket would pick it clean if they opened it . . . or maybe they just told the grave diggers that they were some crazy relative who wanted the body, so that way, no one asked questions. The point is, the trouble they went through to get this—one side hiring me, then Timothy and Ellis trying to steal it away—if this baby’s worth dying for, can you imagine what it’s worth paying for?”

“For a comic?”

“C’mon, you know this isn’t just a comic. I don’t care how popular Superman is, people don’t get shot just for some old funny-book,” he says, snatching the comic back, his voice once again racing. “Now I don’t care if it’s got some secret treasure map or some superhero Da Vinci Code that needs a Captain Midnight decoder ring, we have what they want! We won the lottery, Cal—now we just gotta find out how to cash it in!”

“You’re right,” I say, snatching the comic right back and storming out of the metal container, back through the warehouse. “And the way to do that is by going to ICE, taking it to the authorities, and telling the truth.”

I cut through the stacked maze of shrimp boxes, trying my best to ignore the smell. I’d rather be out with the non-sirens.

“You’ll be dead by tomorrow,” my father calls out.

“I’m done being manipulated, Lloyd. Especially by someone who thinks it’s okay to dig up someone’s dead body and use their coffin as a shipping envelope. That man was someone’s family—not that you know the definition of that.”

For once, he’s silent.

I step over the last box of shrimp, hop off the loading platform, and head straight for the door. My father stays where he is.

“Calvin, you don’t have to believe this—but if I’d known they had dug up someone’s father—even
I
wouldn’t’ve taken the job.”

“Yet another wonderful speech. Good-bye, Lloyd. Time to be smart.”

“You think turning yourself in is
smart
? You think you’ll get a medal and a big thank-you? No, Calvin. They’re gonna lock you in a room and grill you about Timothy, giving Ellis plenty of time to flash his badge, come inside, and put that final bullet in your brain.”

“ICE would never let that happen.”

“
Timothy was ICE!
And for all you know, he wasn’t working alone!”

I stop right there. I know my dad’s just in it for the cash.

“This isn’t just about the money, Cal. Look at the logic: It’s just a matter of time until Timothy’s body shows up. If we turn ourselves in, guess who the murder suspects are? No one’s believing the two convicts.”

“I’m not a convict.”

“No, you’re just Timothy and Ellis and everyone else’s target practice. They’re not stopping till you’re convicted or dead. But if we figure out what’s really going on, then we’ll have the steering wheel.”

I know what my father’s doing. I saw the way he went straight for that comic, how his eyes went wide, and the greedy thrill when he realized that whatever’s really going on is now solely in his hands. I know this isn’t about just keeping me safe. But that doesn’t mean he’s not right.

I turn around and finally face my dad, who hasn’t taken a step from the open container. From here, his face is hidden by the shadows. Outside, the brand-new siren screams from less than a block away. “I thought you didn’t know who hired you,” I call out.

“So?”

“So how you plan on tracking him down?”

Stepping out into the morning light, he holds up the wax-paper sleeve with the faint typed message in the bottom corner.

If found, please return to:
10622 Kimberly Ave. Cleveland

“You kidding?” he calls back with his zigzag smile. “We got the address right here.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “I just need to check something at home first.”

25

I
n his black rental car, Ellis circled the block slowly, studying the protective metal fence that surrounded the two-story brown building that looked like a 1970s Howard Johnson’s. He noted the delivery entrance at the rear of the building. No sense going in the front if the trickster could just sneak out the back.

733 Breakers Avenue.
Cal’s home. The small sign in front had a dove flying from an open palm:

C
OVENANT
H
OUSE

Ellis knew Covenant House from the force. There was one in Michigan, too. Local homeless shelter. Cal clearly had his own penance he was paying. But as Ellis turned the corner, all he really cared about was that the white van with the three dents—Cal’s van—was parked in front.

To come back here, either Cal needed something or he was just being cocky. But that’s what happens when you think you’ve won. No question, Cal and his dad had found the coffin. They opened it—and grabbed what Mitchell Siegel stole in the name of—

A low rumble coughed through the beach air as a convertible Chevy Cavalier turned the corner of the block. From its speed alone, Ellis knew something was wrong. He stayed where he was, didn’t even duck down as the forest green car skidded to a stop right behind the white van. Blocking Cal in.

A tall woman with a creased tan suit and brown hair got out. The way her worn shoes attacked the pavement—
tunk tunk tunk
—there was no slowing her down. Even from here, Ellis could see the outline of a gun strap under her cheap suit jacket. Cops were the same everywhere.

“Naomi here,” she said, pulling out her cell phone. “No, Ma . . . why would you—? I don’t care what he says, don’t buy him any more Hot Wheels cars, okay? He’s lying. Treat him like a little junkie stripper on blow: He’ll say anything to get more.”

Clipping the phone back on her belt, the woman pounded past the privacy wall and disappeared inside the building.

Across the street, Ellis reached over to the passenger seat and unzipped a small leather case. If cops were here, they were already searching for Timothy. Searching for Cal. To be honest, Ellis didn’t care. Let them fight it out. He’d take what he wanted from the winner.

26

H
e’s still here?” Naomi asked, running through the shelter’s open courtyard.

“I’m looking at a tracking screen right now,” Scotty replied through her earpiece. “According to his cell signal, Cal’s definitely in the building.”

“And you can’t get me closer than that? I thought they improved all this nonsense after 9/11—y’know, so they could find trapped people within a few feet.”

“And that’s true—especially in the
Bourne Identity
trilogy. But back in
reality
, where we all still use our
old
phones, we pinpoint based on cell towers—and that gets us a few dozen feet at the closest. Listen, I gotta run. I’m a tech guy, not a sidekick.”

Racing up the outdoor stairs two at a time, Naomi reached for her gun.

On the second floor, she darted across the outdoor breezeway as she traced the room numbers—210 . . . 208 . . . 206. Cal’s apartment was 202. As she passed each metal door, she saw a blue sign on each one:

S
INGLE
R
ESIDENTS
B
EDTIME
Is 9:45
P.M.

She finally stopped at the last door on her right:

202
R
ESIDENT
A
DVISER

From what she could tell, the door was slightly open. As if someone were still there. Or about to leave. She lowered her shoulder and plowed forward. As the door swung open and crashed into the wall, Naomi burst into the room.

A gang of six clearly pissed-off black kids looked up from the video game they were crowded around. The second-biggest kid, in his twenties, with braids, an oversize Knicks jersey, and a panther tattoo across his neck, dropped his game controller and strode directly at her.

“Whatsamatta, lady?” he asked, flashing a bottom row of bright gold teeth as Naomi hid her gun behind her back. “Dontcha like black people?”

27

H
is
whut
?” asked the kid with the panther tattoo.

“She’s thumpin’ ya, she is, Desi,” added one of his friends, a fat black kid with a British accent and a blue bandanna on his head. He stepped forward with Panther Tattoo, hoping to scare Naomi. She didn’t step back.

“Listen . . . Desi, right?” Naomi asked, knowing better than to pull her badge in a group like this. “Desi, I promise you—I’m not
thumpin’
, or
lying
, or whatever you’re suggesting that verb means. I’m Cal’s girlfriend. Naomi. We’ve been dating three weeks. Naomi. Ask him. Call him.”

It was the simplest way to find out if they knew something. But the way these guys were watching her . . . the cold doubt in their eyes. Covenant House was a shelter for homeless kids. Kids who got lit on fire when they left their gang. Or got sold by their dad as a sex toy for quick drug money. These kids . . . weren’t kids.

“Cal don’t date no giant girls,” Panther Tattoo challenged.

“Well, he dates me,” Naomi insisted.

“Yah? When wuz ya last date?”

Naomi didn’t even hesitate. “Two nights ago.”

“Tha’s funny—cuz he wuz here playin’ Xbox with us two nights back.”

The chubby kid with the accent leaned in and pointed a finger at Naomi’s face. “You got a problem now, luv. And don’t think we didn’t spot that bloody little pistol you got hidin’ behind your—”

In a blur, Naomi gripped the kid’s stubby finger and bent it back, then twirled him around, pinned his arm behind his back, and rammed his chest and chin against the nearby wall. A dozen different plaques and commendations shook at the impact.

“
ICE agent
, which means
federal,
which means
be really
bloody
careful
what you do next,” Naomi growled, using her free hand to slide open her jacket and show off the badge on her belt.

To her surprise, none of the gang rushed forward or mouthed off. In fact, since the moment she came in, they’d all been standing almost entirely in the same—

Crap.

“Outta the way!
Now!
” Naomi ordered, waving them toward the corner of the sparse old motel room and heading for the bathroom at the back.

“Lady, you can’t just—”

“Giant people can do anything,” Naomi shot back, shoving British Boy aside and finally getting her first good look at the bathroom’s closed door . . . and the light that was on underneath. A shadow flitted, then disappeared. Someone was definitely in there.

“Get back to your rooms!” she yelled at the kids, who scattered onto the breezeway as she pulled her gun. “And Cal, I checked when I was outside. I know there’s no window in there!”

She kicked the door and tried the handle. Locked.

“Cal, I’m counting to one!” Naomi shouted. “After that, you’re paying for whatever it costs to get a bullet out of your—”

Click.

The door opened, revealing a man with a thick nose, an even thicker waist, and thinning black hair that was tied back in a ponytail.