As she cut toward him, she realized the man was a cop—and from the looks of it, there was a dog in back. Nothing really odd in that.
Except for the fact that Cal clearly just snuck out of here, and that his last call was to Seminole law enforcement, and that there’s not a single good reason for anyone to sit in a car—with their dog—in this kind of heat.
Rolling her tongue inside her cheek, Naomi crossed the street, headed for the black sedan, and did her best to keep it friendly.
“Hey there,” she called out, flashing her badge as the cop rolled down his window. “What’s your doggie’s name?”
32
Benoni,” Ellis replied, squinting up at the round-faced female agent who stared down through his open window. She was pretty under the bad haircut and cheap suit—her blue eyes were as pale as tears—but the dark circles that were under them . . . the wear that they betrayed . . . hers was a tired life. And from the way she was breathing, she was already in a rush. “Her name’s Benoni,” Ellis added. “She’s a real good girl.”
“She looks it,” Naomi said, peering into the backseat at Benoni, who jumped toward the front, clawed across Ellis’s lap, and stuck her head out the window. “Naomi Molina,” she added as Ellis spotted the ICE ID on her belt.
If ICE was out here, Cal was long gone. Ellis knew he had to keep this quick.
“Oh, she’s gorgeous,” Naomi added, giving the dog a brisk scratch under the chin. No question, Naomi was playing nice, but Ellis could see her studying the Michigan State Police shoulder patch on his uniform.
“Pretty long commute from home, no?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m down for a trial. Some dealer we gripped in Detroit. Supposed to testify this morning, but they ran out of time, which means I’m wearing this again tomorrow,” he said, pointing at, but never touching, the well-polished badge on his uniform. “Officer Ellis Belasco, Michigan State Police,” he added, offering his long, bony fingers for a handshake. He shook her hand with perfect ease. “Only good part was I got to let Benoni enjoy the beach. You loved it, didn’t you, girl?”
Benoni barked. That should be more than enough.
“Mind showing me your B and C’s?” Naomi asked.
Ellis lowered his chin and stared at Naomi. Something happened inside with Cal. Something that pissed her off and made her suspicious. Hence her testing him: making sure he knew cop lingo as a way of checking if he was real or just wearing the suit. B and C’s. Badge and creds. Ellis reached for his French Berluti wallet.
“Here,” he said, handing her his creds. When she didn’t notice the handcraft of the wallet, Ellis knew she didn’t have taste. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be a problem.
Naomi smiled when she saw the ID and the polished badge.
“So what kinda dog is she?” she asked, handing Ellis his wallet back as she patted Benoni, whose head was still out the window. Test passed. No problem at all.
“They call ’em Canaan dogs,” Ellis replied, eyeing a passing silver car. If Cal was already gone, he needed to go, too. “They’re bred from the ancient pariah dogs from Palestine,” he added as he started his car.
“I’ve heard of those,” Naomi said, too dense to take the hint. “They’re one of the oldest breeds in the world, right?”
“Some say the oldest.” Ellis tugged the dog’s dark leather collar and sent her to the back. “I’m going now.”
“No, of course—enjoy the rest of your trip,” she said. “Bye, Benoni,” she added, stepping back with a friendly wave. “And sorry you gotta wear your clothes twice.”
Ellis forced a half-smile, grabbed the steering wheel with his left hand . . . and just then noticed Naomi staring at his tattoo.
“They give you hell about that?” Naomi asked far too slowly. This was bad.
“I have an understanding supervisor. He knows we all make mistakes when we’re young.”
“Yeah, I make that same excuse for that Tweety Bird tattoo I got on my butt. Though blaming a twelve-pack of wine coolers and a kinda fruity twelfth-grade boyfriend does the trick, too.”
Ellis nodded. He was wrong. Naomi was no threat at all.
With a hard shift, he put the car in gear and hit the gas. As he watched Naomi disappear in his rearview, his phone started ringing. Caller ID said 000-000-000 Unknown. No one but the Judge had this number.
“Who’s this?” Ellis answered.
“That’s the key question, isn’t it, Ellis?” a voice said on the other line.
“Tell me who this is, or I’m hanging up now.”
“I’m here to help you, Ellis. I know what you’re searching for. I want it, too. But you need to know: Calvin doesn’t have the Book yet. He has the Map.”
“You’re the shipper of the package, aren’t you?” Jerking the steering wheel to the left, Ellis turned onto A1A. “The one who hired Calvin’s father.”
“All that matters is that neither of us is getting what we want if Calvin grabs it first.”
“I’m already taking care of Calvin,” Ellis insisted.
“No. You’re not. If you were, you’d already be here by now.”
“Be where?”
“You know the history, Ellis. Where do you think he’s going? We’re in the airport, waiting to leave for Cleveland. If you hurry, you can still make the flight.”
“You’re sure about this?” Ellis asked.
“Of course. That’s why they call me the Prophet.”
And with a click, the voice was gone.
33
Who were you talking to?” Scotty asked through Naomi’s earpiece.
“Run this badge for me,” Naomi insisted, her voice flying as she raced for her car.
“Just text it and I’ll—”
“Write this! Edward Belasco,” she said, repeating the name she’d memorized from his credentials. “Though he called himself Ellis. Michigan State Police. Badge 1519.” As she heard the clicks on Scotty’s keyboard, she added, “Sorry, Scotty—once old age hits, memory fades quick.”
“Naomi, you’re thirty-four.”
“Actually, I’m thirty-three. No . . . wait . . . you’re right—I’m thirty-four.” She stopped for a moment as she slid into her car. “Why do you know my age?”
“I was at your office party.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was. After everyone left. And by not shutting off your phone—which I admire and appreciate—you’ve now let me know you have a Tweety Bird on your tush. I have a GoBot on my ankle.”
“What’s a GoBot?”
“Like a Transformer. But . . . more pathetic.”
Naomi grinned as she tugged the car door shut. “Was that you sharing a moment with me?”
All she heard was the furious clicking of his keyboard.
“Scotty, you’re gonna make a helluva sidekick yet.” She stuffed the key in the ignition and took what looked like a calculator from her purse. Flicking a switch on top, she pulled out of the parking spot and waited for the screen to come online.
GPS link . . . searching . . .
. . . searching . . .
Link activated.
“He’s headed toward the airport. He knows Cal’s there,” Naomi said, making a left on US-1 as a small crimson triangle inched across the digital map on-screen.
“Who’s headed toward—? Wait,” Scotty said. “You put a tracking device on Roosevelt?”
“I planned to. But then when I went in there— Cal knows our magic tricks. They’re too smart for our James Bond nonsense.”
“So who’re you tracking?”
“I told you: Ellis/Edward Belasco. Badge 1519.”