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Authors: Brad Meltzer

Tags: #Fiction, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Suspense Fiction, #Espionage, #Family Secrets

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BOOK: The Book of Lies
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“You got him?” I ask.

“Isn’t that why God put me on this planet?” Roosevelt says, his dyed-black, aging-hippie ponytail flapping in the salty ocean breeze. At forty-two, Roosevelt’s old enough to know better than the ponytail, but we all have our weaknesses. “Man, Alberto, you
reek.

To the few passing tourists still walking the beach, we probably look like mobsters. But our job’s far more dangerous than that.

“Listen, thanks for calling us instead of the cops,” I tell the restaurant manager, a middle-aged guy who looks like a ferret.

“I’m no schmuck,” he laughs, dropping his French accent. “Cops would take two hours. You take the trash out
fast.

He offers a handshake, and as I reach to take it, I spot a hundred-dollar bill in his palm. I pull back as if he’s offering a coiled snake.

“Just our way of saying thanks,” he adds, reaching out again for the handshake.

I don’t shake back.
“Listen,”
I insist, stepping toward him. It’s clear I’m not the most imposing figure—I slouch and have a shambling walk that’s all arms and legs and big hands—but I do have most of my dad’s height. Nearly six feet when I stand up straight. And the only time I do that is when I’m pissed. Like now. “Do you understand what I do?” I ask, my thick Adam’s apple pumping with each syllable.

“Aw, jeez, you’re gonna give me some self-important speech now, aren’t ya?”

“No speech. We take the homeless back to shelters—”

“And what? If you accept a tip it’ll make it less of a good deed? I respect that. I do. But c’mon, be fair to yourself,” he says, motioning to my faded black T-shirt, which is barely tucked in. “What’re ya, thirty years old with that baby face? You’re wearing secondhand sneakers and sweatpants. To work. When was the last time you got a haircut? And c’mon . . . your van . . .”

I glance back at the van’s peeling tinted windows and the swarm of rust along the back fender, then down at my decade-old sweatpants and my checkerboard Vans sneakers.

“Take the money, kid. If you don’t use it for yourself, at least help your organization.”

I shake my head. “You called my client
trash.

To my surprise, he doesn’t get defensive. Or mad. “You’re right—I’m sorry,” he says, still holding out the money. “Let this be my apology. Please. Don’t make it the end of the world.”

I stare at my sweatpants, calculating all of the underwear and socks I could buy for our clients with an extra hundred dollars.

“C’mon, bro . . . even Bob Dylan did an iPod commercial.”

“And once again, making the world safe for people who eat croque-monsieurs,” I say, yanking open the door of the van and climbing back behind the wheel.

“What the fudge, Cal? You didn’t take the money, did you?” Roosevelt asks with a sigh as he reaches into the brown bag on his lap and cracks open a pistachio shell. “Why you so stubborn?”

“Same reason you say dumb crap like ‘What the fudge.’ ”

“That’s different.”

“It’s not different,” I shoot back, looking down at the van’s closed ashtray. With a tug, I pull it open, spot the dozens of discarded pistachio shells he’s stuffed inside, and dump them in the empty Burger King bag between us. Roosevelt cracks another shell and leans for the ashtray. I shake the Burger King bag in front of him instead. “You were a minister, so you don’t like to curse—I get it, Roosevelt. But it’s a choice you make on principle.”

“You were a minister?” Alberto blurts from the backseat, barely picking his head up from the RC soda can with the plastic wrap on top. It took nearly six different pickups before Alberto told me that’s where he keeps his father’s ashes. I used to think he was nuts. I still do. But I appreciate the logic.
I’m
what my parents left behind. I understand not wanting to do the same to someone else. “I thought you were some special agent who got arrested . . .”

Twisting the ignition and hitting the gas, I don’t say a word.

“That was Cal,” Roosevelt points out as we take off down A1A, and his ponytail flaps behind him. “And we’ve talked about my ministry, Alberto.”

Alberto pauses a moment. “You’re a minister?”

“He
was
,” I offer. “Ask him why he left.”

“Ask Cal why he got fired,” Roosevelt says in that calm, folksy drawl that filled the church pews every Sunday and immediately has Alberto looking my way. “Losing his badge . . . y’know that’s what turned his hair white?” Roosevelt adds, pointing at my full head of thick silver hair, which is such a scraggly mess it almost covers the birthmark near my left eye.

“Nuh-uh,” Alberto says. “You didn’t get that from your momma or daddy?”

I click my front teeth together, staring out at the closed tourist T-shirt shops that line the beach. The only thing I got from my parents was a light blue government form with the charges against my father.

The prosecutor was smart: He went for manslaughter instead of murder . . . painted a picture of this six-foot-two monster purposely shoving a small, defenseless young mom . . . then for the final spit-shine added in my father yelling,
“That’s it—you’re done!”
(Testimony courtesy of every neighbor with an adjoining wall.)

My dad got eight years at Glades Correction Institution. The state of Florida gave me six minutes to say good-bye. I remember the room smelled like spearmint gum and hairspray. Life is filled with trapdoors. I happened to swan dive through mine when I was nine years old. That was the last time I ever saw Dad. I don’t blame him anymore, even though when he got out, he could’ve— I don’t blame him anymore.

“Gaaah,” Roosevelt shouts, his ruddy features burning bright. “You shoulda taken that restaurant money.”

“Roosevelt, the only reason he was offering that cash was so when he goes home tonight, he doesn’t feel nearly as guilty for sweeping away the homeless guy that he thought was bad for his fake French bistro business. Go pray . . . or send an e-mail to heaven . . . or do whatever you do to let your God weigh in, but I’m telling you: We’re here to help those who need it—not to give fudging penance.”

His lips purse at my use of the G-word. Roosevelt’ll joke about anything—his long hair, his obsession with early chubby Janet Jackson (so much better than the later thinner model), even his love of “Yo Momma’s So Fat” jokes as a tool for changing the subject during an awkward social situation—but he’ll never joke about God.

Staring out the side window, Roosevelt’s now the one clicking his teeth. “Making it a crusade doesn’t make it right,” he says, speaking slowly so I feel every word.

“It’s not a crusade.”

“Really? Then I suppose when you leave this job every night, your life is filled with a slew of outside interests: like that kindergarten teacher I tried to set you up with. Oh, wait—that’s right—you never called her.”

“I called her. She had to run,” I say, gripping the steering wheel and searching the passing side streets for possible clients.

“That’s why you set up a date! To make time so you can
talk
, or
eat
, or do something besides riding past mile after mile of gorgeous beach and spending all that time checking every alley for a homeless person!”

I look straight ahead as Roosevelt cracks another pistachio and tosses the shell in the bag. I never had an older brother, but if I did, I bet he’d torture me with the exact same silence.

“I know you can’t turn it off, Cal—and I love you for that—but it’s unhealthy. You need something . . . a hobby—”

“I have lots of hobbies.”

“Name one.”

“Don’t start.” I think a moment. “Watching cop shows on TV.”

“That’s just so you can point out inconsistencies. Name a real form of entertainment. What was the last movie you saw? Or better yet—” He grabs the notebook-size steel case that’s wedged between my seat and the center console. My laptop.

“Here we go,” he says, flipping open the computer and clicking the
History
button in my browser. “Seeing the Web sites someone goes to, it’s like looking at the furniture arrangement of their mind.”

On-screen, the list isn’t long.

“SmartSunGuide.com?” he asks.

“That’s a good site.”

“No, that’s where you get Florida traffic reports and the public CCTV cameras—to spot homeless clients who’re sleeping under an overpass.”

“So?”

“And this one: ConstructionJournal.com. Lemme guess: up-to-the-minute building permits, so you can find all the new construction sites.”

“That’s where our clients tend to sleep.”

“Cal, you not seeing the picture here? No interests, no news, no sports, hell, not even any porn. You’re a damn walrus,” Roosevelt insists, cracking another pistachio. “When it’s walking on land, walruses are the most lumbering, awkward creatures God ever gave us. But the moment it enters the water, that sucker is quicksilver. Fwoooo,” he says, slicing his hand through the air like a ski jump. “Same with you, Cal. When you’re working with clients, you’re in the water—fwoooo—just quicksilver. The problem is, all you wanna do is stay underwater. And even the walrus knows if it doesn’t come up for air, it’s gonna die.”

“That’s a very inspiring and far too visual analogy. But I know who I am, and I like who I am, and when it comes to ass-face restaurant managers who treat money as some green-colored rosary, well, no offense, but I’m not for sale. And we should never let our clients be, either.”

He rolls his eyes, letting us both calm down. “Can you be more predictable?” he asks.

“I was trying to be complex.”

“Complex woulda been if you had taken the guy’s money, given it to Alberto, and then told him to go back and use it to eat at the restaurant.”

I glance over at him. The pastor in him won’t let up. Not until I get the message. As I try to save whoever’s out there, he still thinks he needs to save me. I know he misses his parish, but he’s wrong about this one. It’s not a crusade. Or an obsession. I could leave this job tomorrow. Or the next night. Or the night after that. Tonight, though, isn’t that night.

“I’m still not for sale,” I tell him. “And you of all people shouldn’t be, either.”

Roosevelt leans back in his reclined seat and lets out a hearty laugh. “Yo momma’s so fat—”

“Roosevelt, I shouldn’t’ve said that—”

“—the horse on her Polo shirt . . .
is real
!”

“You used that last week.”

“Yo momma’s so fat, in elevators, it says: ‘Maximum Occupancy: Twelve Patrons
OR Yo momma!’

“Does that really make you happier?”

“Just take the money next time, Cal,” Roosevelt says as he twists a dial on the old, stolen police scanner we superglued to the dash. The cops don’t care. On homeless calls, they
want
us there first.

“—ave an eighty-six, requesting—
zzzrrr
—nearby units to Victoria Park,” a woman’s voice says as the scanner crackles to life. The park is less than a mile away.

Turns out this is the call I’d been waiting nineteen years for.

3

C
al . . . I need help!”
Roosevelt screams.

My tenth-grade English teacher once told me that throughout your life, you should use only three exclamation points. That way, when you put one out there, people know it’s worth it. I used one of them the day my mom died. But tonight, as I sit in the van and hear the sudden panic in Roosevelt’s voice— Across the wide patch of grass known as Victoria Park, he flicks on his flashlight. But all I see is the bright red blood on his hands. No. Please don’t let tonight be another.

“Rosey, what the hell’s going on?” I yell back, clawing over the passenger seat, sticking my head out the window, and squinting into the darkness. He’s kneeling over our newest homeless client—“86” on the radio means “vagrant”—who’s curled at the base of a queen palm tree that stands apart from the rest.

“It’s a bad one, Cal. He’s a bleeder!”

A ping of rain hits the windshield, and I jump at the impact.

If this were my first day on the job, I’d leap out of the van and rush like a panicked child to Roosevelt’s side. But this isn’t day one. It’s year two.

“You got his Social?” I call out.

Kneeling at the base of the queen palm, Roosevelt tucks his flashlight under his armpit and rolls what looks like a heavyset man onto his back. As the light shines down—the lumpy silhouette—even from here, I can see the blood that soaks the man’s stomach.

“His wallet’s gone,” Roosevelt shouts, knowing our protocols. “Sir. . . .
Sir!
Can you hear me? I need your Social Security number.”

In my left hand, I’m already dialing 911. In my right, I prop my laptop on the center console. But I never take my eyes off Roo-sevelt. Breast cancer took my aunt, the aunt who raised me, a few years back. I don’t have many friends. I have this job. And I have Roosevelt.

“Cal, I got his Social!” Roosevelt shouts. “Sir, were you mugged? You have a gunshot wound.”

“Gimme one sec,” I call out. The computer hums, our tracking software loads, and I click on the button marked
Find Client
. On-screen, a blank form opens, and I tab over to the section labeled
SSN
.

“Cal, you need to hurry,” Roosevelt adds as the man whispers something. At least he’s conscious. “He’s starting t—”

“Ready!” I insist, all set to type with one hand. In my other, I grip my cell and hit
send
as the 911 line starts ringing.

Years ago, if you wanted to drive around and work with the homeless, all you needed was a van and some Lysol. These days, the state of Florida won’t let you pick up a soul unless you’re logged on to the statewide computer network that tracks who’s where. The better to see you with, my dear. And the better to see what diseases, medication, and psychological history you’re carrying around as well.

“Zero seven eight, zero five, one one two zero,” Roosevelt announces as I key in the man’s Social Security number.

In my ear, the 911 line continues to ring.

In the distance, refusing to wait, Roosevelt rips open the man’s shirt and starts applying pressure to his wound.

And on-screen, I get my first look at his identity.

BOOK: The Book of Lies
12.05Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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