The Book of Lies

33

Who were you talking to?” Scotty asked through Naomi’s earpiece.

“Run this badge for me,” Naomi insisted, her voice flying as she raced for her car.

“Just text it and I’ll—”

“Write this! Edward Belasco,” she said, repeating the name she’d memorized from his credentials. “Though he called himself Ellis. Michigan State Police. Badge 1519.” As she heard the clicks on Scotty’s keyboard, she added, “Sorry, Scotty—once old age hits, memory fades quick.”

“Naomi, you’re thirty-four.”

“Actually, I’m thirty-three. No . . . wait . . . you’re right—I’m thirty-four.” She stopped for a moment as she slid into her car. “Why do you know my age?”

“I was at your office party.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I was. After everyone left. And by not shutting off your phone—which I admire and appreciate—you’ve now let me know you have a Tweety Bird on your tush. I have a GoBot on my ankle.”

“What’s a GoBot?”

“Like a Transformer. But . . . more pathetic.”

Naomi grinned as she tugged the car door shut. “Was that you sharing a moment with me?”

All she heard was the furious clicking of his keyboard.

“Scotty, you’re gonna make a helluva sidekick yet.” She stuffed the key in the ignition and took what looked like a calculator from her purse. Flicking a switch on top, she pulled out of the parking spot and waited for the screen to come online.

GPS link . . . searching . . .

. . . searching . . .

Link activated.

“He’s headed toward the airport. He knows Cal’s there,” Naomi said, making a left on US-1 as a small crimson triangle inched across the digital map on-screen.

“Who’s headed toward—? Wait,” Scotty said. “You put a tracking device on Roosevelt?”

“I planned to. But then when I went in there— Cal knows our magic tricks. They’re too smart for our James Bond nonsense.”

“So who’re you tracking?”

“I told you: Ellis/Edward Belasco. Badge 1519.”

“Naomi, to GPS someone’s car, you need a warrant, as in court order, as in probable cause. You didn’t even ask him if he saw Cal.”

“First, he’s a liar. Said he walked his dog on the beach, but there wasn’t a grain of sand in his backseat. Second, the fancy wallet and the manicured hands? He’s treating himself far too well. Third, his eyebrows are the devil’s. Fourth, back to his wallet—all his dollar bills were right side up and facing out. Again . . . devil’s. And finally, who says I GPSed his car?”

Scotty stopped. “You didn’t GPS his car?”

“Couldn’t get close enough—but then that durn dog of his was sniffing my hand so hard—and whoof—ate that GPS device right outta my poor defenseless fingertips. Bad dog. Very bad.”

“You fed the dog the device.”

“No . . . I fed the dog one of my son’s old gummy worms, that just happened to be in my pocket, and just happened to have a miniature GPS device shoved inside it. What luck, eh? Couldn’t believe it myself.”

“If you hurt that dog—”

“Me?” she asked, pointing to herself as she slammed the gas and raced toward the airport. “Dog lover. Big dog lover. Believe me, Benoni’s fine—it’s the same technology they put in pets in case they get lost or—”

“Uh-oh.”

“What’s uh-oh?” Naomi put her hand to her earpiece. “They find Timothy?”

“I put in your Michigan cop with the GPS dog. And from what it says here . . . well . . . looks like liar isn’t the only thing on Ellis’s résumé.”