The Book of Lies

10

You’re not being smart,” Roosevelt says through my cell phone.

“It’s not a question of smart,” I tell him as I pull the van into the empty parking lot that sits in front of the Port of Miami’s main administration building, a stumpy glass mess stolen straight from 1972. There’re a few cars in front—one . . . two . . . all three of them Ford Crown Vics. Nothing changes. Unmarked feds.

“It’s not safe, either, Cal,” Roosevelt insists.

He’s right. That’s why I left him at home.

With a twist of the wheel, I weave through the dark lot and the dozens of spots marked OFFICIAL USE ONLY. I got fired from official use over four years ago. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still have a way in.

“Cal, if you get in trouble—”

“You’re the first person I’ll call from jail,” I say, heading to the back of the lot, where I steer good ol’ White House into a corner spot underneath a crooked palmetto tree.

I hear him seething on the other end. “Lemme just say one last thing, and then I promise I’ll stop.”

“You won’t stop.”

“You’re right. I won’t,” he admits. “But before you trash your professional career for the second time, just think for a moment: If your father is setting you up—if this is all one big production number—then you’re doing exactly what he wants you to do.”

“Roosevelt, why didn’t you marry Christine? Or Wendy? Or that woman you went to visit in Chicago? You tie the knot and you know they’ll take you off whatever blackball list your name is on. But you don’t, right? And why? Because some fights are too important.”

“That’s fine—and a beautiful change of subject—but if you keep letting your nine-year-old, little hurt self make all your decisions in this situation, you’re not just gonna get yourself in trouble—you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

A burst of light ricochets off my rearview mirror. I look back as a white Crown Vic closes in from behind. There’s a slight screech, then a muted thunk as his front bumper kisses the back of mine and adds yet another scratch to the rear of the White House. Same jackass trick we used to do when we were rookies.

I wait for him to get out of the car, but he stays put. I get the message. This is his hometown. Forget my few years here. Tonight I’m just a guest.

“Roosevelt, I’ll call you back.”

Hopping out of the van, I put on a Homeland Security baseball cap, squint through the light rain, and then walk over to the passenger side of his car. It’s nearly three in the morning, when everyone in the world looks like crap—except Timothy, who, as I open the door, has a crisp white button-down and a perfect side part in his just trimmed brown hair.

“You’re sweating,” Timothy says, reading me perfectly as always.

I’ve known him since my very first days on the job—before we got promoted to agent (him first, of course, then me)—when we were both lower-level Customs inspectors who spent every day X-raying containers filled with everything from bananas to buzz saws to belt buckles. Even back then, when I’d be dripping in the Miami sun, his shirt didn’t have a wrinkle, which is probably why, when all the bad went down and I tipped off Miss Deirdre, even though he was right there next to me, Timothy never tumbled. He should’ve—he was always the bigger outlaw, and that night he had his own Miss Deirdre as well. But I don’t resent him for it. I told him I’d never tattle. And tonight, that’s the only reason he’s risking his job for me.

“Cal, if anyone finds out I’m bringing you inside—” He holsters the threat and reaches for a new one. “Is this really that important?”

“Would I ask if it wasn’t?”

He stays silent. He knows it isn’t just about finding some shipment. I’m searching for something far bigger than that.

Timothy’s blue lights—the movable siren that sits on his dash—remind me of the consequences. I expect him to give me the weary glare. Instead, he tosses me an expired copy of his own ICE agent credentials. After 9/11, security at our nation’s ports got better. But it didn’t get that much better.

“We all set?” I ask.

“The hold is gone, if that’s what you’re asking.” Reading the panic in my reaction, he adds, “What? You said you wanted it cleared so you could check it outside.”

“I also said I wanted to get a look first,” I tell him, ripping open his car door. “I bet he’s already on his way.”

I look up at the tall light poles that peek out above the port’s nearby container storage yard. On top of each pole, there’s a small videocamera, along with chemical sniffers and shotgun microphones. Those are new.

“Don’t panic just yet,” he says.

I hop in, he hits the gas, and we head straight for my latest federal crime.