The Book of Lies

29

Ten minutes ago

Fort Lauderdale Airport

We enter the terminal separately. We get in line separately. We pick up our tickets separately. My father’s calm. I’m not. I spent years covering every port, including this airport. I know where all the security cameras are hidden. I know which taxicabs out front have undercover agents in them (the ones lingering in the limo line), ready at any moment to pick up an arriving suspect who thinks he’s home free. But what’s got me scanning the crowd is whether Ellis saw us leaving as we snuck out of my building.

“Here you go, Mr. Frenzel,” says the woman at the airline counter, handing me my ticket and calling me by the name of one of the dozens of fake IDs that had been left in the van over the years.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Sanone,” another agent says to my dad, who for once is following my directions and keeping his head down as he leaves the counter. By flying under fake names, we’re untraceable. But if Ellis is half the cop I think he is—the way he got to Timothy right after I did—all he has to do is pull airport video to be right back on our trail. That’s what I would do. But that doesn’t mean I’m making it easy for him.

Readjusting the green backpack that holds the Superman comic in its wax-paper protector, I keep my chin down but am surprised to see a spy cam—flat and thin like a calculator—mounted in a fake palm tree at the end of the airline counter. Dammit. I duck under the velvet check-in rope, wishing I could blame it on my lack of sleep. But I’m clearly rusty. I’ve been off the job for over four years. Of course there’s gonna be new cameras.

Trying to be smarter as I head toward security, I glance back at my father, but he’s barely moving. Worst of all, he’s no longer staring down, hiding his face. In fact, the way he’s looking around . . . like he sees something. Or someone.

On our left, by the airport gift shop, a dolly stacked with old magazines and newspapers is wheeled out of the way, revealing a young, light-skinned black woman in a rhinestoned Bob Marley T-shirt, dark jeans, and 80s Top Gun sunglasses. I’ve seen her before. At the hospital.

“Serena,” my dad blurts just as I reach the front of the security line.

“I’m sorry, I forgot something,” I tell the lady checking tickets at security. Swimming upstream and squeezing past the other passengers, I fight toward the back of the line and grab my dad by the biceps.

“What’re you doing?” I hiss.

“Cal, this isn’t my fault.”

“We were supposed to tell no one. As in no one.”

“I swear to you, I didn’t say a word,” my dad insists.

“He didn’t say a word,” Serena adds. “Quisiera estar aqui para ti,” she whispers to my dad in Spanish. I just wanted to be here for you.

From the shock on my dad’s face—as I tug his arm and steer us away from security—he’s just as surprised as I am. “Cal . . . son . . .”

“Don’t call me son!” I explode as every nearby TSA employee turns our way. I don’t care.

My dad forces a smile and puts a hand on my shoulder like all is well. I jerk back until he takes it off.

“Please don’t blame your father. Every soul needs its own flow,” Serena says, carefully pronouncing each syllable. She has a tender voice that’s as calming as wind chimes, and as she speaks, her yellow blue eyes make peaceful contact. First with me, then my dad. Like she’s seeing something within.

“That’s the mushiest, new-agey-ist manure I’ve ever heard,” I tell her, finally stopping all three of us in front of a set of floral sofas, where there are no cameras in sight. “Now tell me why you’re really here!”

She steps back slightly, almost as if she’s confused. “When we were on the phone—when I heard the terror in his voice—how could I not help him? He needed me.”

“Needed you? What’re you, his muse?”

She shakes her head, but I’ve been around enough addicts to know what’s really going on.

“She’s your sponsor, isn’t she?” I ask my dad.

“No. That’s not—”

The phone I traded with one of the kids vibrates in my front pocket. Only one other person knows I have it.

“Roosevelt?” I answer. “I told you not to call unless—”

“They sent someone, Cal. From ICE, just like you sa—”

There’s a loud noise, like a door slamming. I hear some arguing, but nothing I can make out.

“Hey, Cal,” a female voice says. “Naomi. Remember me?”

30

Silent on the phone, I leave my father and Serena by the floral sofas as I keep scanning the area for cameras. The only good news is, it takes a solid six minutes to track my cell. Plenty of time to find out who I’m up against.

“Sorry, not ringing my bells,” I tell the woman, hoping she’ll give me her last name.

“Naomi Molina.”

Naomi Molina . . . Naomi . . . Naomi . . . If I knew her, it wasn’t well. Still, the name . . . “Oh, wait—you’re the one who adopted that kid—the lesbian, right?” It’s an old cop trick: riling her to see what she blurts.

“C’mon, Cal. The big-boned female agent who’s also a lesbo? Isn’t that a bit overdone?” she flings back. “No thanks, but I like mine straight up, no twist. But yes, I came aboard right as you were fired.”

“I wasn’t fired,” I shoot back, already regretting it. I should’ve seen it: riling me to see what I blurt.

“Oh, that’s right—you took the far more honorable resign-on-your-own-and-avoid-the-indictment. Let me ask: Were you really in love with Miss Deirdre or was that just the story you saved for Internal Affairs?”

Once again, I stay silent. Across from me, Serena motions for my dad to join her on one of the floral sofas. He doesn’t hesitate. And as they face each other—their knees almost touching—she whispers something to him and he smiles with a strange, newfound calm. From the body language alone, she knows him well.

“Aw, that bump old bruises, Cal?” Naomi asks in my ear. “Now you know how we felt when we heard you were kissing one of your CIs and putting your fellow agents at risk.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Deirdre was your informant, Cal! You were supposed to pay her a few hundred bucks for tips on shipments! Instead, you were sleeping with her and buying her sappy poetry books for her birthday!”

“I never slept with her.”

“No, you did something far more ridiculous: You fell in love, didn’t you? And then when you heard we were raiding a South Beach steakhouse that she was gonna be at, you whispered in her ear and told her to stay away.”

“I had a right to protect my informant!”

“Then you should’ve done it like everyone else: let her get swept up and then pull strings from the inside!” Naomi shouts at full blast. “But to tip her in advance in some pathetic come-on: You have any idea how many of our guys could’ve gotten killed, racing into a raid where everyone knew they were coming?”

“No one got killed.”

“Only because she ratted you out for the scumbag you are! But that’s the true justice, isn’t it? Here you are fighting to keep this dear, defenseless woman safe, and she runs back to headquarters, says she got tipped off by an agent, and offers you up as long as she gets citizenship for the rest of her family. Man, that must’ve stung, huh, Cal? Almost as bad as doing a favor for . . . I don’t know, your own father, and then realizing you’re suddenly the one holding the smoking gun.”

On the sofa, Serena scratches my dad’s back as I stand there, silent. I remember my mom scratching his back when he had a tough day at work.

“I thought for sure you’d nibble at that one,” Naomi tells me.

“Then you remember me as stupid.”

“Actually, I remember you as a stubborn idealist. But I got your psych profile right here, Cal. Every few years,