“Mom,” young Lucas asked as he entered the living room, “can you—?”
“You wanted basketball shoes, tie them yourself,” Naomi threatened, still poring over the reports as her computer finally began to boot up. “Otherwise, wear the Velcro ones.”
“Didja try teaching him using two bows?” Scotty asked through the phone in his heavy Bronx accent.
“Scotty . . .” Naomi shot back.
“Yeah?”
“You have kids?”
“Nope.”
“It shows. Two bows is harder. And the more frustrating it gets, the more he’ll cry, and the more I’ll be forced to consider abandoning this life with nothing more than the clothes on my back and a bag of mint Milanos.”
“That’s funny, Naomi—but I seen your office and the way you taped all those photos around the edge of your monitor. Whattya got, forty, fifty pics there? Everyone knows whatcha think about that boy.”
Again, she stayed silent. At least once a year, Naomi’s mother would call and not-so-subtly hint about how her daughter’s life—how everything from the repo business, to the adopted son, to the filthy law enforcement job—how everything somehow found her. But Naomi knew that when it came to this life, she was the one who found it.
That was always Naomi’s specialty. Finding things. That’s what her dad taught her—from repossessed cars, to bad guys on the job . . . to finding what happened to her partner, Timothy, when he left the Port of Miami at four a.m. and drove out to Alligator Alley. Where the hell could he be?
On-screen, she opened the e-mail from Scotty and clicked on the embedded link. The video footage started playing in front of her.
“Okay, I got it—this’s from last night?” she asked as she looked at a shot of the roof of the H-shaped warehouse. “Those pole cameras still don’t do color?”
“Just watch.”
Sure enough, a white Crown Vic pulled up into the corner of the screen. But for a full two minutes, no one got out. Timothy must’ve been talking to someone. “How’s the audio?” Naomi asked.
“Poor. Keep watching. . . .”
The passenger door flew open, and a man with a baseball hat jumped out, then got back in the car. A minute later, Baseball Hat stepped out again, followed by Timothy, who got out on the driver’s side and quickly checked over his own shoulder. No question, they were worried about something.
“And that’s the best we got?” Naomi asked. “Sixty-million dollars’ worth of increased surveillance, and we’re outdone by a . . .” She hit the pause button and squinted at the screen. “Is that a Homeland Security baseball cap?”
“There’s lots of cameras. We’re collecting all the footage now.”
“What about Timothy’s cell phone?”
“Nothing to trace, which means it’s either smashed, underground, or underwater. I’m telling you, it’s ugly, Naomi. They’re combing the canals, but it’s been five hours since—”
“Mom, can I wear flip-flops?” Lucas asked, walking into the living room with them already on his feet.
Naomi turned, her eyes filled with fire. “You are not wearing flip-flops, y’hear me!?” But even as the words left her lips, she caught her breath, cursed the existence of winter break, and brushed her medium-maple brown hair back behind her ear. “That’s— It’s fine. Flip-flops are fine.”
“Naomi, you okay?” Scotty asked through the phone.
“Yeah, I’m—I’m just doing the preliminaries for my son’s future therapy.” With a deep breath, she added, “Tell me you at least have Timothy’s phone records.”
“Sending them right now. Apparently, he didn’t place a call all night—but at two-fourteen a.m., he did get one from a guy named Calvin Harper.”
Gazing at the computer screen, Naomi studied the frozen black-and-white image of the blurry man with the baseball cap.
Cal.
One of their own. Smart enough to know about the cameras. Of course it was Cal.
“Don’t worry. I can definitely find him,” Naomi called out as she tossed her cell phone to her son. “Lucas, call Nana. Tell her I need her to come over earlier.”
23
Don’t touch it!” I call out. “It’s evidence!”
“Evidence?” my dad asks, shaking his head. “You’re not a cop anymore, Cal. Screw evidence. From here on in, we need to figure out how to stay alive—and near as I can tell, it’s by finding out what’s really going on and nabbing whatever’s in here.”
He motions down at the open, white-velvet-lined casket, where a dead Asian man with black hair and surprisingly dark skin lies, arms crossed over his chest. He’s slightly off center, a result of all the shaking and tugging we did to get the coffin out.
Best of all, he has firm skin, lots of makeup, and not a bit of smell. He’s been embalmed. But it’s his fine pin-striped suit, Yale tie, and pristine manicure that tells me he’s from money.
“Okay, enough already,” I growl at my dad. “What the eff is going on?”
Down on his knees and ignoring the question, he squints into the coffin like he’s searching for a lost contact lens.
“Lloyd . . .”
“Help me open the other side,” he says, his voice racing. With a shove, he flips open the lower lid, revealing the interior at the foot end of the casket. It’s cluttered like the back of an old junk drawer: a silver key ring, some dead flowers, a dark wooden rosary, half a dozen family photos, a broken comb (which I think is a tradition in China), a bottle of perfume, a stethoscope (maybe a doctor), and even a full set of clothes wrapped and tied neatly in a blue bow. Accompaniments for the afterlife.
I go for the photos, trying to figure out who this dead guy is. My father goes for the clutter. He pushes aside the flowers and digs underneath the pile of perfectly folded clothes. He’s searching for something, and as fast as he’s moving—he already knows it’s there.
At the bottom of the interior chamber of the coffin, there’s a flat white package the size of a FedEx delivery envelope wrapped in what looks like an oversize Ziploc bag.
My father yanks it out. There’s a zigzagging smile on his face.
“Is it easy for you to lie like that?” I ask. “You’re not just some truck driver. You knew all along this coffin was in here—and what was in it.”
“Cal, stop talking. I think I just saved our lives.”
With a pop, he rips open the Ziploc and— At first it looks like two sheets of paper stuck together, but as he touches it—it’s sticky. Like . . .
“Wax paper,” my father says, running his fingers along the edges, which have been ironed or melted together. In the bottom right corner, there’s faint lettering.
My father pulls it closer, and we both read the typed note:
If found, please return to:
10622 Kimberly Ave. Cleveland
But what’s far more important is what the wax paper holds hidden inside. You can almost see through it—tons of bright colors.
“Oh, man—if this is a Renoir,” my dad blurts. Like a child with a bag of candy, he tugs the two sides and pulls it open. A hiccup of dust and stale air floats upward, revealing an old yellowed magazine that’s trapped within. But as my dad takes out the magazine and thumbs through it . . . No. Not a magazine. The hand-drawn pictures . . . the childish art . . . He flips to the front, and the bright red font on the cover says: Action Comics. In the corner, it says: “No 1. June 1938.” But there’s no mistaking the drawing of the hero with the bright red cape and the big red S on his chest. Superman.