staring from inside the hospital waiting room and studying Cal, who, through the wide panel of glass, was barely twenty feet away. There were plenty of reasons for Ellis to stay in full police uniform. But none was better than simply hiding in plain sight.
There was a soft
whoosh
as the automatic doors slid open and Roosevelt rushed outside to join Cal. As the doors again slid shut, Ellis could hear Roosevelt’s first question:
“He ask for your help with his shipment?”
The shipment. Now Cal knew about the shipment.
“If Cal starts chasing it . . . ” the Judge began.
“He’s now talking on his phone,” Ellis said without the least bit of panic. “You told me you were tracking his calls.”
“Hold on, it usually takes a minute.” The Judge paused a moment. “Here we go—and people say the courts have no power anymore—pen register is picking up an outgoing call to a Timothy Balfanz. I’ll wager it’s an old fellow agent.”
Ellis didn’t say a word. He knew Cal was smart. Smart enough to know that Lloyd Harper was a liar. And that the only real truth would come from ripping open Lloyd’s shipment. It was no different a century ago with Mitchell Siegel. No different than with Ellis’s own dad. No different than with Adam and Cain. It was the first truth in the Book of Lies: In the chosen families, the son was always far more dangerous than the father.
“Ellis, if Cal grabs it first—”
“If Cal grabs the Book, it’ll be our greatest day,” Ellis said, never losing sight of his new target and following fearlessly as Cal ran toward his beat-up white van.
Even with his badge, Ellis knew better than to risk being spotted on federal property. That’s the reason he’d followed Lloyd to begin with. But with Cal now making calls—with the shipment and the Siegels’ fabled prize about to be returned—it was going to be a great day indeed.
10
Y ou’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