“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, we get a new candidate who takes the job to

right some wrong in his past — and then becomes so obsessed with saving

people, he starts letting the job substitute for his entire life. That’s your

problem, Cal. You’re Sisyphus. You just don’t know it,” she says. “But if I’m

reading that wrong . . . yee-haw . . . life must be going pretty beautifully for

you these days, huh?”

In front of me, Serena continues her back-scratch, doing her best to calm my

dad down. Maybe she is here just to help him. But the way my dad watches

her and stares at her — even the way he laughs extra hard at whatever she’s

saying — I don’t know what Serena thinks of him, but he clearly would love to

have his hands on her.

“Things are just stunning here, thanks.”

“Wonderful. Then let’s do the rest of this face-to-face. You wouldn’t mind

coming over for a quick chat, would you?”

Another cop trick: Offer something easy — if I run, she knows I’m guilty. Still,

I need to know whether she’s working on hunches or facts. “Happy to, Naomi.

Just tell me what we’d be chatting about.”

“Oh, you know — silly little details like why we haven’t heard from Timothy

since last night, and what his abandoned car was doing on Alligator Alley. . . .

Or to really put a pin in your balloon: how yours was the last call on his cell,

and how your van is on every camera in the port at three in the morning, and

how the one shipment Timothy was fiddling with just happens to be the one

that was picked up by your ex-con dad. Not the prettiest picture that’s being

painted here, Cal. Now you wanna tell me what’s really going on, or would

you rather fast-forward eight months and tell it to a jury? I’m sure they’ll take

your side — I mean, who wouldn’t trust a disgraced agent and his convict

father?”

On the floral couch, my dad and Serena both look up at me. I stay where I

am, trying to keep my own calm. Between Ellis the killer cop and Naomi the

overdetermined agent, I feel another trapdoor ready to open beneath my

feet. The only thing keeping it shut is, from what I can tell, they still haven’t

found Timothy’s body. As long as that’s true, I may be suspicious, but I’m not

a murder suspect.

“Cal, y’know that part in The Fugitive where Harrison Ford says he didn’t kill

his wife?” Naomi asks.

“Y’mean when Tommy Lee Jones tells him, ‘I don’t care’?”

“Exactly. But here’s the thing: Despite what you think, I do care. Especially

about my partner. Now I know you’ve gotta be exhausted — that’s the only

reason you made the mistake of getting on the phone with me, right? So if

you tell me what you and Timothy were really up to out there, you know I can

save you so many kinds of headache.”

It’s a perfect offer, delivered with perfect pitch. But every story needs a bad

guy, and once Ellis comes racing in, pointing his cop finger at me—

“This is a TSA security announcement,” the PA system blares from above. I

snap the phone shut, praying she didn’t — Oh, my crap! Of course she did!

Her whole maudlin speech — just a stall so she could figure out where I —

Dammit, that was rookie of me!

“We need to get out of here,” I shout to my dad. “Feds are on their way!”

31

“He’s in an airport!” Naomi barked into her earpiece, darting from Cal’s room

and weaving through the small mob of black kids who were eavesdropping

from outside. “Scotty, I need all local flights leaving from Miami and Fort

Lauderdale in the next two hours. I’m going to Lauderdale now.”

Flying down the stairs, she could hear the clicking of Scotty’s keyboard in her

ear. If she was fast, she’d make the airport in no time.

“Okay, here we go,” Scotty said. “There’re over sixty flights, not including

international. But when I put in ‘Cal Harper’ . . . He has reservations on three

different flights, all of them to Texas: Austin, Dallas . . .”

“He’s not going to Texas.”

“How d’you—?”

“Cal Harper was one of us. He’s not flying under his real name. Those are

fake reservations to slow us down. Check the flights again, but this time,

make a list of every ticket that was bought today and/or paid in cash.”

“That’s gonna take some time. Oh, and by the by, when I traced Cal’s phone

— assuming he didn’t switch it until this morning: Last call went to Benny

Ocala. Seminole Police.”

“That’s fine. Send me his number,” Naomi said, jumping down the last three

steps. Above her, all the homeless kids had flooded back into Cal’s room.

Glancing back as she ran, Naomi couldn’t help but stare.

“Why you so quiet?” Scotty asked.

“Dunno,” Naomi said as she cut through the courtyard, past a skinny girl

with greasy hair. “If you saw this place — even Cal’s room — this guy doesn’t

just work at the shelter — he lives here. With kids.”

“Maybe they give him free rent.”

“Maybe. But the way they were all crowded and playing video games in his

room, he’s the one they all hang out with.”

“Oh, c’mon — so now he’s the disgraced cop who’s also a hero to the sad,

pathetic homeless kids? How many more clichés you wanna add? Lemme

guess: He’s gonna coach their debate team all the way to the state

championships.”

“You’re missing the point, Scotty. From what I can tell, Cal sleeps and works

and eats his meals surrounded by lost teenagers. So do it like this: Is Cal

taking care of these kids — or are these kids taking care of him?”

“Nomi, don’t dream Cal into a wounded hero. If he were an angel, he

wouldn’t be running. And neither would you.”

Nodding to herself, Naomi plowed through the lobby and shoved her way

through the set of doors that led outside. A blast of Florida heat embraced

her, and as she darted toward her car, the repo girl inside her couldn’t help

but scan the area: Cal’s van still parked out front, the beat-up Fords,

Pontiacs, and Hyundais that sat in a neat row and lined the south side of the

building, and even the single black sedan that was parked at one of the

meters across the street. There was a man inside that one. She still had time.

If she was lucky, maybe he’d seen Cal leave.

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.