The Book of Lies

31

He’s in an airport!” Naomi barked into her earpiece, darting from Cal’s room and weaving through the small mob of black kids who were eavesdropping from outside. “Scotty, I need all local flights leaving from Miami and Fort Lauderdale in the next two hours. I’m going to Lauderdale now.”

Flying down the stairs, she could hear the clicking of Scotty’s keyboard in her ear. If she was fast, she’d make the airport in no time.

“Okay, here we go,” Scotty said. “There’re over sixty flights, not including international. But when I put in ‘Cal Harper’ . . . He has reservations on three different flights, all of them to Texas: Austin, Dallas . . .”

“He’s not going to Texas.”

“How d’you—?”

“Cal Harper was one of us. He’s not flying under his real name. Those are fake reservations to slow us down. Check the flights again, but this time, make a list of every ticket that was bought today and/or paid in cash.”

“That’s gonna take some time. Oh, and by the by, when I traced Cal’s phone—assuming he didn’t switch it until this morning: Last call went to Benny Ocala. Seminole Police.”

“That’s fine. Send me his number,” Naomi said, jumping down the last three steps. Above her, all the homeless kids had flooded back into Cal’s room. Glancing back as she ran, Naomi couldn’t help but stare.

“Why you so quiet?” Scotty asked.

“Dunno,” Naomi said as she cut through the courtyard, past a skinny girl with greasy hair. “If you saw this place—even Cal’s room—this guy doesn’t just work at the shelter—he lives here. With kids.”

“Maybe they give him free rent.”

“Maybe. But the way they were all crowded and playing video games in his room, he’s the one they all hang out with.”

“Oh, c’mon—so now he’s the disgraced cop who’s also a hero to the sad, pathetic homeless kids? How many more clichés you wanna add? Lemme guess: He’s gonna coach their debate team all the way to the state championships.”

“You’re missing the point, Scotty. From what I can tell, Cal sleeps and works and eats his meals surrounded by lost teenagers. So do it like this: Is Cal taking care of these kids—or are these kids taking care of him?”

“Nomi, don’t dream Cal into a wounded hero. If he were an angel, he wouldn’t be running. And neither would you.”

Nodding to herself, Naomi plowed through the lobby and shoved her way through the set of doors that led outside. A blast of Florida heat embraced her, and as she darted toward her car, the repo girl inside her couldn’t help but scan the area: Cal’s van still parked out front, the beat-up Fords, Pontiacs, and Hyundais that sat in a neat row and lined the south side of the building, and even the single black sedan that was parked at one of the meters across the street. There was a man inside that one. She still had time. If she was lucky, maybe he’d seen Cal leave.

As she cut toward him, she realized the man was a cop—and from the looks of it, there was a dog in back. Nothing really odd in that.

Except for the fact that Cal clearly just snuck out of here, and that his last call was to Seminole law enforcement, and that there’s not a single good reason for anyone to sit in a car—with their dog—in this kind of heat.

Rolling her tongue inside her cheek, Naomi crossed the street, headed for the black sedan, and did her best to keep it friendly.

“Hey there,” she called out, flashing her badge as the cop rolled down his window. “What’s your doggie’s name?”