“Maybe Jerry’s dad died doing something illegal,” I say.
“Or embarrassing,” my dad adds, following my lead. “Could he have been cheating on his wife?”
“I don’t think so,” the curator replies. “Mitchell was supposedly a quiet and low-key sort.”
“Like in a mobster low-key way?” I ask. “Or in a—”
“He was a fed,” Naomi says, looking up at the rest of us.
“Pardon?” I ask.
“Mitchell Siegel. I bet he was a fed.”
“What makes you—?”
“Your Indian pal. Ocala.”
“You spoke to Ocala?” I ask.
“He told me about the gun, which is when my assistant put a name check request on Mitchell Siegel. Tax records, military service, all the typicals. When word came back the files were delayed, I assumed it was because the records were old or buried in some warehouse somewhere, but now—if they’re hiding him—it’s for a reason.”
Without even touching a button on her phone, she barks into her earpiece: “Scotty, call the Bureau directly. I need you to get that file on Mitchell Siegel.” Her phone’s been on the entire time.
I shoot a look to Naomi. “If he wasn’t a fed, maybe he was an informant,” I suggest. “Or even a boss.”
“If he was a boss, he could’ve been making cash,” she agrees.
I turn to the curator. “Did the Siegels have money?”
“You kidding? Jerry and Joe—they were both so poor, when they worked at Jerry’s house, they used to draw on the back side of the wallpaper. Don’t forget, when Jerry’s dad died, his mom had to feed six kids plus—”
“Is that true?” I interrupt.
“What, the five kids?”
“No. The wallpaper. Did they really draw on the back of wallpaper?”
The curator nods. “It’s as much a part of the lore as the hot rainy night and the crabapple tree. Why? You think that’s important?”
My eyes lock with Naomi’s. She won’t give me a smile, but I see that grin in her eyes.
“You said this is the only attic copy you’ve seen with the address typed on the outside?” she asks, pointing to the wax-paper covering.
Again, the curator nods.
“Maybe we should take another look at the house,” I say.
My father stands up, suddenly excited.
“No, whoa, whoa—you think this is some kinda team-up?” Naomi shoots back, approaching the table and making sure we again see her gun. “Timothy’s still missing, and you’re the last ones he was with. You two are being dropped off for questioning.”
“And then what?” I ask. “You’ll bring us inside and put up with the two hours of paperwork it’ll take before they let you leave us there, at which point Ellis will already have beaten you to the source, since I’m guessing he was right behind us and, no offense, ahead of you. This isn’t Miami, Naomi. We’ve already been to the Siegel house. If you plan on being fast—and on actually finding something—you’re better off taking us with you.”
She knows the logic’s right, but that doesn’t mean she’s agreeing to it. “Maybe I should just give you my gun, too,” she offers. “That way when I’m chauffeuring you around, you can put a hole in my head nice and easy.”
“You really think my goal is to hurt you, Naomi?”
“I was there when you got fired, Cal. There’s a reason you’re in those cuffs.”
I glance down at my wrists. PlastiCuffs are lightweight and easy to carry, but as any cop knows, if you wedge something small into the zipper . . . like, say, an unbent paper clip you grabbed from this filing cabinet . . . well . . . With a light tug, I free my left wrist, then my right, then toss the cuffs back to Naomi.
“If I wanted your gun, I’d have that, too,” I tell her.
“You’re wrong. I spotted you three minutes ago.”
“I’ve been free for over ten. Now do you wanna go recheck the attic bedroom or would you rather stay here and leave Ellis to take the prize?”
50
Ellis’s back was hurting as he reached the top step of the second-floor landing. He understood the Johnsels’ fears. In this neighborhood, there were real consequences for inviting a police officer into your home. But that didn’t mean he was staying outside, he reminded himself as he lugged the second body up the stairs. It was actually a blessing for the Johnsels. Being with God was far better than being in that prayer group they were screaming about.
The house was dark now, but Ellis was still smart enough to stay away from the windows. He’d learned that years ago when he and his dad began their life of hiding.
Back then, the rules were clear: With Mom dead, her family would be on the hunt for them. Ellis never questioned why. Looking back, he should’ve known something was wrong. So much of it didn’t make sense: Yes, Mom was dead. But his father never cried. There was no funeral. No grave. So rules were rules: No playing outside, no letting anyone spot you. Ellis used that same approach in school, in life—even as he rose through the ranks on the force. There were benefits to lying low and skills that came with growing up a ghost.
His dad learned—the Johnsels learned—Ellis was good at not being seen.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be found.
There was a low buzz as his phone began to vibrate. Ellis picked up without saying hello.
“Ellis, I know you’re there,” the Prophet said on the line. “Stay where you are. Cal . . . all of us . . . we’re on our way.”
51
From the museum, to the parking lot, to the ride back past the burned-out storefronts of Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, I keep peeking in the side mirror, searching every headlight behind us and being careful that Naomi doesn’t see what I’m—
“Who’re you looking for?” Naomi asks, glaring at me in the passenger seat.
“Just making sure we’re alone,” I tell her. It’s mostly right.
When we left the museum, the exhibit hall was empty. The good news is, Serena was smart enough to stay out of sight. The even better news is, she had the keys to our rental car in her purse. But the bad news is, as we turn onto Kimberly Avenue, all the cars disappear, leaving nothing but darkness behind us.
“You think Ellis is out there, don’t you?” Naomi asks, squinting through the night and fighting hard against the poorly plowed street.
“He’s gotta be somewhere,” I say as we pull up to the blue-and-red house with the crabapple tree along the left-hand side.
“They painted it Superman colors?” Naomi asks, offering something close to a laugh.
It’s an easy joke, but I know why she’s making it. If she warms us up, she’s hoping we’ll start talking.
“The city won’t even give them a plaque,” my dad says, laughing back as he hops out of the backseat. I shoot him a look that tells him to stay quiet. Naomi was kind enough to take off his PlastiCuffs, but after our last encounter with an ICE agent—she’s still Timothy’s partner.
“How’s it look?” Naomi asks as I scan the rest of the block. She knows how I work. We had the same training.
“There’re a few cars that weren’t here before, but nothing too nice for the neighborhood,” I say, eyeing an old, pale gray Mercury across the street and a silver Ford pickup down the block. Thanks to the snow, I get footprints, too. They’re hard to read because of our own previous trampling up the front porch, but at least there’re no dog tracks.
Everything’s clear. Until Naomi taps a knuckle on the front door, which yawns slightly open at the impact.
My dad steps back. I step forward.
“Mr. Johnsel . . . ?” I call out.
No one answers.
“Maybe they’re at prayer group,” my dad offers. “Didn’t they say they had prayer group?”