The Book of Lies

75

I’m lost. Back up,” Naomi barked into her phone, scootching up on the gurney as she stared down at the polished floor. “What does this have to do with the Prophet? And where the hell’s Scotty? He explains stuff better than you.”

“Okay, forget the Prophet. Go back to Cal,” Becky says. “What’s Cal’s job? He picks up homeless people, correct? So to make sure he’s not taking these people and selling them to tattoo parlors for practice skin, Cal is required—by law—to put the name of every person he picks up into his laptop, which connects to the state database that keeps track of such things. You with me so far?”

“Keep going.”

“The point is, Naomi—on that first night Cal found his father, he keyed in his dad’s Social Security number and entered him into the database.”

“So?”

“So Cal’s dad’s name came right up.”

“Again . . . so?”

“And again . . . so Cal’s database isn’t NCIC—he doesn’t have a full list of everyone on the planet. The only people in there are people who were put in there.”

“And for the third time . . . why is that so damn important?”

“Naomi, you have to understand: On most nights, when Cal enters a client’s Social Security number, it’s not just so the government can play big brother and I Spy from the Sky. It’s so Cal can pull up the homeless person’s records and see who he’s dealing with. Does this person have a history of drugs? Of mental illness? When was the last time they were helped? Or is this someone just leeching off the system, who goes to a different place every night? Cal covers the entire Fort Lauderdale area—he needs this information to do his job.”

“But you’re saying Cal’s dad was already in his system.”

“There you go. If it were any other night, Cal would’ve scanned the file, looking for details about whoever they found. But when his father’s name popped up . . .”

“. . . Cal went bursting from the van, anxious to start dealing with his daddy issues.”

“And thus he misses one key detail about his father’s background.”

“So which is it?” Naomi asked. “Drugs? Mental illness? You should’ve seen Lloyd attack me with that trophy. He’s a sociopath, isn’t he?”

“Not according to his Service Point file. In fact, the last time he got picked up . . . Dad’s got some real issues.”

“Define issues.”

“He’s suicidal,” Becky said as Naomi hopped off the gurney. “His case notes say he was a mess, too. Found him on Fort Lauderdale beach four months ago after he swallowed fifty tabs of trazodone and fell in a pile of fire ants that were—no joke—eating him alive.”

“Okay, and that makes me officially feel bad,” Naomi agreed. “But I’m confused. You said Dad was picked up four months ago—that that’s when he was put in the system. But if Cal picked him up . . . even with the fire ants, didn’t he recognize his own father?”

“See, that’s where I was stuck, too. Until I finally started thinking that maybe Cal wasn’t the one who found him that first night.”

“Wait, I don’t get it,” Naomi shot back. “You just said Dad was found on the beach in Fort Lauderdale. That’s Cal’s route, right? But if Cal wasn’t the one who picked Dad up, who else is driving around in a homeless van except for—?”

This time, Becky didn’t say a word.

Naomi grabbed a nearby IV pole just to help her stand.

“Fudge. Me,” she whispered to herself.