“Naomi here,” she said, pulling out her cell phone. “No, Ma . . . why would you—? I don’t care what he says, don’t buy him any more Hot Wheels cars, okay? He’s lying. Treat him like a little junkie stripper on blow: He’ll say anything to get more.”
Clipping the phone back on her belt, the woman pounded past the privacy wall and disappeared inside the building.
Across the street, Ellis reached over to the passenger seat and unzipped a small leather case. If cops were here, they were already searching for Timothy. Searching for Cal. To be honest, Ellis didn’t care. Let them fight it out. He’d take what he wanted from the winner.
26
He’s still here?” Naomi asked, running through the shelter’s open courtyard.
“I’m looking at a tracking screen right now,” Scotty replied through her earpiece. “According to his cell signal, Cal’s definitely in the building.”
“And you can’t get me closer than that? I thought they improved all this nonsense after 9/11—y’know, so they could find trapped people within a few feet.”
“And that’s true—especially in the Bourne Identity trilogy. But back in reality, where we all still use our old phones, we pinpoint based on cell towers—and that gets us a few dozen feet at the closest. Listen, I gotta run. I’m a tech guy, not a sidekick.”
Racing up the outdoor stairs two at a time, Naomi reached for her gun.
On the second floor, she darted across the outdoor breezeway as she traced the room numbers—210 . . . 208 . . . 206. Cal’s apartment was 202. As she passed each metal door, she saw a blue sign on each one:
SINGLE RESIDENTS BEDTIME Is 9:45 P.M.
She finally stopped at the last door on her right:
202
RESIDENT ADVISER
From what she could tell, the door was slightly open. As if someone were still there. Or about to leave. She lowered her shoulder and plowed forward. As the door swung open and crashed into the wall, Naomi burst into the room.
A gang of six clearly pissed-off black kids looked up from the video game they were crowded around. The second-biggest kid, in his twenties, with braids, an oversize Knicks jersey, and a panther tattoo across his neck, dropped his game controller and strode directly at her.
“Whatsamatta, lady?” he asked, flashing a bottom row of bright gold teeth as Naomi hid her gun behind her back. “Dontcha like black people?”
27
His whut?” asked the kid with the panther tattoo.
“She’s thumpin’ ya, she is, Desi,” added one of his friends, a fat black kid with a British accent and a blue bandanna on his head. He stepped forward with Panther Tattoo, hoping to scare Naomi. She didn’t step back.
“Listen . . . Desi, right?” Naomi asked, knowing better than to pull her badge in a group like this. “Desi, I promise you—I’m not thumpin’, or lying, or whatever you’re suggesting that verb means. I’m Cal’s girlfriend. Naomi. We’ve been dating three weeks. Naomi. Ask him. Call him.”
It was the simplest way to find out if they knew something. But the way these guys were watching her . . . the cold doubt in their eyes. Covenant House was a shelter for homeless kids. Kids who got lit on fire when they left their gang. Or got sold by their dad as a sex toy for quick drug money. These kids . . . weren’t kids.
“Cal don’t date no giant girls,” Panther Tattoo challenged.
“Well, he dates me,” Naomi insisted.
“Yah? When wuz ya last date?”
Naomi didn’t even hesitate. “Two nights ago.”
“Tha’s funny—cuz he wuz here playin’ Xbox with us two nights back.”
The chubby kid with the accent leaned in and pointed a finger at Naomi’s face. “You got a problem now, luv. And don’t think we didn’t spot that bloody little pistol you got hidin’ behind your—”
In a blur, Naomi gripped the kid’s stubby finger and bent it back, then twirled him around, pinned his arm behind his back, and rammed his chest and chin against the nearby wall. A dozen different plaques and commendations shook at the impact.
“ICE agent, which means federal, which means be really bloody careful what you do next,” Naomi growled, using her free hand to slide open her jacket and show off the badge on her belt.
To her surprise, none of the gang rushed forward or mouthed off. In fact, since the moment she came in, they’d all been standing almost entirely in the same—
Crap.
“Outta the way! Now!” Naomi ordered, waving them toward the corner of the sparse old motel room and heading for the bathroom at the back.
“Lady, you can’t just—”
“Giant people can do anything,” Naomi shot back, shoving British Boy aside and finally getting her first good look at the bathroom’s closed door . . . and the light that was on underneath. A shadow flitted, then disappeared. Someone was definitely in there.
“Get back to your rooms!” she yelled at the kids, who scattered onto the breezeway as she pulled her gun. “And Cal, I checked when I was outside. I know there’s no window in there!”
She kicked the door and tried the handle. Locked.
“Cal, I’m counting to one!” Naomi shouted. “After that, you’re paying for whatever it costs to get a bullet out of your—”
Click.
The door opened, revealing a man with a thick nose, an even thicker waist, and thinning black hair that was tied back in a ponytail.
“If you need to use the can, all you gotta do is ask,” Roosevelt said with a grin as he rolled Cal’s phone in his palm.
28
Stepping out from the bathroom, Roosevelt studied the tall woman carefully. Cal warned him they’d send someone—and she clearly wasn’t a novice. But that didn’t mean their stalling hadn’t worked.
“You switched phones with him,” Naomi said, annoyed.
“Me? I’m a man of God. I’d never—” Roosevelt glanced down at the phone in his hand and forced a look of surprise. “This isn’t my phone! Sweet mother of Shirley Hemphill, how’d this happen?”
Naomi’s hand jumped out, snatching the phone from Roosevelt’s palm.
“Hey! You can’t—”
Naomi aimed her gun at Roosevelt’s chest. “I can.” Without another word, she started clicking through the menu on Cal’s phone: Call Log, Placed Calls . . . “Here we go,” she announced. “Last number dialed: Roosevelt (Mobile).” Naomi pushed the call button and waited.
But as the phone rang in her ear, there was another ring in Roo-sevelt’s front pocket.
Roosevelt reached down and pulled out a second ringing phone, flipped it open, and held it to his ear.
“Hello,” he sang, watching Naomi’s face as his words echoed in her ear. “I musta had both phones all along. What’re the oddsa that?”
For a moment, Naomi just stood there, her light blue eyes narrowing. Roosevelt knew she could lock him up and sling questions at him for the next few hours. But by then, Cal would be long gone.
“You really a former priest?” Naomi asked.
“Former pastor.”
“My partner’s missing. I’m praying not dead,” she said of Timothy. “Did Cal tell you that?”
Roosevelt stayed silent. She was smart—going right for his preacher’s guilt. Years ago, Roosevelt’s superiors in the church did the same when they told him he was hurting his parish by not being married. Back then, he refused to fight and lost everything he loved. Not a single day went by where he didn’t wish he could have that life back. When he didn’t think of ways to reclaim that pulpit. So an hour ago, when Cal and his father had come scrambling in here, searching for help—he could see the way that Cal, even through his fear, kept glancing over and over at his dad. At nine years old, Cal had had his life taken from him, too. This was his chance to have that life back, somehow, in some form. And as Roosevelt knew, that was well worth fighting for.