by Brad Meltzer
“Move your ass!” he insisted, kicking open the screen door and pulling her into the backyard.
She tripped over one of their new but crooked patio stones as they headed for the overturned kiddie pool. Nola knew what the pool covered: the hole underneath, a new one that Nola had been digging since they moved to this new house.
“You see this?” Royall asked.
She was off-balance, her hands still wet with dishwashing soap, tiny sudsy bubbles popping along her fingertips. Next to the kiddie pool, she eyed the nearby shovel with the pointy spade.
“Dummy! Look!” He was pointing straight up, at the sky.
It was morning, but the moon was floating there, a faint half circle visible in the pale blue sky. Like a chalk drawing, Nola thought.
“Pick one,” Royall said.
“The what?”
“Pick one. The sun or the moon?” He pointed up at both, though the sun was mostly out of sight. “Pick.”
Nola paused, thinking it was a trick. Royall was too calm, the bounce in his voice too…happy.
“C’mon, Nola, pick. Sun or moon?”
“I don’t get it.”
He rolled his eyes, now annoyed. “Listen, I know I’m not a good dad, okay? I don’t buy you stuff; with the business,” he said, referring to the passport and other forgeries he was now doing on an even bigger scale, “I need to put our cash into printers and laminators, rather than wasting it on useless toys or presents. It lets us have a nice life, this new house,” he explained. “But someone told me this story—I think it’s from a movie or book. This dad tells his kids to pick a star in the sky. That way, when all the wealthy kids’ presents are gone, his kids will always have that star, y’know? I just figured…I dunno…if stars are good, the sun or the moon’s better. I mean, today’s your birthday, right?”
Nola nodded. He never remembered her birthday. Not for years. And he rarely bought her anything, not when he could make more cash upgrading his ever-expanding document business, which had recently caught the attention of Royall’s new boss, Mr. Quentin Wesley.
From the bus ads she’d seen around town (Got a Mess? Call Wes!), Wesley was a local immigration lawyer. He was also a crook, Nola decided, considering how many fake social security cards, phone bills, and driver’s licenses (complete with magnetic strips) Royall was churning out in their back bedroom for seemingly hundreds of Wesley’s undocumented clients. Wesley told Royall from the start, “Your work is truly masterful.”
According to the bus benches, Wesley also did a little criminal law, which brought an influx of ex-cons. Royall didn’t mind convicts—everyone deserved a fresh start—but when Wesley asked Royall to build a top-shelf “wallet” for a fifty-year-old pedophile who was tired of everyone knowing his business? Royall refused.
“Now you’re suddenly a snob? Peds pay top dollar,” Wesley had told him.
“Don’t care,” Royall had shot back. Every man has a line. Even Royall wouldn’t do that.
“So there’s my gift,” Royall told Nola. “Your choice. The sun or the moon. Just fucking pick one, alright?”
Nola looked up toward the sky. Her voice was soft. “The moon.”
“Yeah,” Royall said, craning his neck and looking up with her. “Me too.”
For a minute, the two of them stood there in the backyard, both of them staring up at Nola’s new—and only—birthday present.
Finally, Royall headed toward the house, glancing back at Nola over his shoulder. “I’m not a total asshole, y’know.”
51
Washington, DC
Today
The Curtain wasn’t happy with her coffee.
It was supposed to be an artisanal Indonesian blend, a mix of toffee, citrus, and tangy herbs. But the bitter taste told her the beans were too finely ground. Typical. You need them coarser to get the full flavor, which made her think of that luscious cold brew she had in Kyoto, Japan, on the night she tracked down and opened the wrists of that German snitch who always smelled like cough drops.
“You still see her?” a voice asked through her phone.
“You have to ask?” The Curtain shot back, glancing outside, where Nola had just gotten out of her car.
“You’re lucky you found her.”
It wasn’t luck. Once The Curtain realized Nola had grabbed Markus’s phone, it was only a matter of time until Nola went through the records and tracked the landline for Powell’s Insurance. No different than what The Curtain would’ve done herself.
“You sure she hasn’t seen you?”
“Stop talking,” The Curtain was about to say, but to her surprise, Nola was now storming straight toward the coffee shop.
The Curtain slid her hand in her pocket, readying her blade. That is, until Nola stopped short, approaching a fat man outside who seemed to be strangling his hyperactive dog.
“What’s she doing now?” the voice asked in The Curtain’s ear.
“Picking a fight.”
“What? With who?”
“Not important. I’ll call you back,” she said, hanging up.
Cradling her coffee cup, but never drinking from it, The Curtain turned her attention outside, watching through the plate glass as Nola stepped into the fat man’s personal space.
Rash, The Curtain thought. Calling attention to herself. Plus, not taking the time to assess who this guy might be? Nola was fighting angry now. Fighting dumb. And for what?
At the end of the leash, a little white pup was whimpering, fighting to relieve itself.
A dog? Really?
The Curtain made a mental note. She’d been told Nola was disciplined. Unemotional. That’s what made her so dangerous. But here it was—proof that she could be stirred up, just like every other slob in the world. It was a detail The Curtain wouldn’t soon forget.
Outside, as Nola argued with the man, she suddenly glanced up. For a picosecond, she and The Curtain made eye contact, twenty feet apart, separated only by the front window of the coffee shop. Nola quickly turned back to the fat man, glowering at him until he finally realized this wasn’t the kind of fight he’d be walking away from.
The Curtain made a mental note of that too. Everyone thought Nola Brown was a wild card, but if you watch anyone long enough, even the wildest of cards gets played with its own predictability.
“How’s the coffee?” a young barista called out. He was cute. Trendy but edgy beard. Someone The Curtain would hit on if it were another day.
“Perfect,” The Curtain said, taking a fake sip.
Outside, Nola headed back to the car, her back turned.
52
You look like death,” the man known as Houdini called out.
“It’s called old age,” The Amazing Caesar said as the roll-top back door rose upward, revealing his guest, a forty-something man with thinning black hair who was chewing gum so aggressively, you’d think it was an Olympic event. “What’s your excuse?”
“You’re funny for someone from the Great Depression,” Houdini shot back, stepping inside, hiding his gum in his cheek, and flashing his toothy grin. It was a natural smile, one he used to his advantage to offset the intensity of his pointy fox face and skeptical brown eyes. “Really, though, you don’t look so good.”
“Yeah, well, see how you’re looking when every time you sneeze, you piss a little puddle in your pants,” Caesar said, hitting a button and lowering the door.
Houdini forced a fake laugh as he shook hands with the old man. He didn’t mind the chitchat with Caesar. To be over eighty years old and still in the game, still feeling your blood flowing? Isn’t that what everyone wants? Yet as the door rolled down, Houdini was again chew, chew, chewing—checking over his shoulder, making sure no one was following. He didn’t mind talking with Caesar, but that didn’t mean he trusted him.
“So I hear you’ve got a new rabbit in your hat,” Houdini said, motioning with his chin at the soft leather briefcase on the nearby desk.
“Came in a few hours ago. Same as
always,” the old magician said, meaning it was addressed to Caesar but with an H as his middle initial, for Houdini.
Chewing his gum even harder, Houdini stared at the case. Most of his deliveries came in a bombproof attaché. This was cheap, faux leather, like something from an Office Depot. “No return address?”
Caesar shook his head.
Chew, chew, chew. “You try the lock?” Houdini asked, eyeing the small padlock on the main zipper.
“I’m just a messenger.”
Chew, chew, chew. Houdini could smell the briefcase from here, or at least what was in it. That sweet and sulfury stench. Printer’s ink, which meant counterfeit money, which meant someone new was at the table…or even worse, that someone had found out what Houdini and his partner were really up to. Either way, whoever that someone was, they were trying to get Houdini’s attention. And right now, it was most definitely working.
“You okay?” Caesar asked, adding a final verbal shove. The people who died on that plane deserved his very best.
“Absolutely.” Houdini grabbed the briefcase. It felt light; there wasn’t much in it. Chew, chew, chew. “By the way, last time, that magic trick you gave me for my nephew…?”
“The Teleporting Key? With the metal key that comes free from the key ring? He like it?”
“It was too hard for him. He’s fourteen and lazy. Maybe you got something simpler, like that plastic box where you put the quarter in, then turn it around and the quarter disappears?”
Caesar rolled his eyes. “Magic Money,” he said, leaving the back room and heading into the main part of the store. “It comes in a starter set,” he explained as he reached a bookshelf and grabbed a box labeled Ages 5 & up.
“That’s the one. I know it’s easy, but he’s a stupid kid—he’ll love it,” Houdini said, standing just behind Caesar. “You mind opening it up?”
As the old magician pulled the toy from the box, he was thinking so much about the Alaska victims, he didn’t even feel the gun that was now pressed to the back of his head.
Pffft.
A spray of blood hit the bookshelf. Caesar swayed a moment, then crumbled, his legs first, then his upper body, plummeting to the wood floor like all his bones suddenly disappeared at once.
Thuuump.
The Amazing Caesar took his final bow, his body convulsing as a small red puddle widened below him.
“I humbly apologize to your family, wherever they may be,” Houdini whispered. He meant it. He liked the old man—and certainly appreciated all the help he’d been over these past months. But there was a reason they called him Houdini. The man who made all problems disappear.
Caesar’s body continued to jerk.
Houdini kept his head down, away from the video cameras, then stepped over the body and leaned down, grabbing the plastic magic trick for his nephew. Then he figured, what the heck, and snatched the entire starter set, stuffing the small box in his coat pocket. It was nearly Christmas, for chrissakes.
Within a minute, briefcase in hand, Houdini was out the back door, weaving through the alleys behind the magic shop. His first stop?
Same as always.
* * *
A few blocks away, Houdini turned the corner and checked over his shoulder. No one there. On his left and right, he scanned every parked car. All looked empty. There were plenty of people scattered across the sidewalk, most of them headed to or from the brand-new Safeway supermarket on the next block.
This block, though, was a relic of the past. Which is why Houdini picked it. Across the street was a run-down storefront with a sagging striped awning. The front glass was covered in a giant peeling Prudential Insurance sticker that had these words in a smiley-face curve below the logo: Get a Piece of the Rock with Benjamin R. Powell.
Crossing the street and approaching the thick glass door, Houdini smelled the stale cigarettes inside. For the money they were paying, couldn’t they clean up the place a bit?
Glancing over his shoulder one last time, he again scanned all the parked cars and every nearby storefront window.
Convinced he was alone, Houdini opened the front door.
It closed silently behind him.
53
Six minutes ago
Powell Insurance,” a woman answered.
“I want to buy insurance,” Nola blurted into her phone, sitting in the driver’s seat, once again sketching in her notepad with the green pencil. She was drawing the woman on the phone, based solely on her voice. Curt. Trying to sound nice, but subtly annoyed. Someone who had no problem lying.
“I’m sorry, all our agents are really busy right now. Can I take your number?”
“I can hold,” Nola said, looking out the front windshield and down the block at the storefront that clearly had a light on, but no movement inside. “I’m a friend of Benjamin’s,” she added, reading the name from the front window. Get a Piece of the Rock with Benjamin R. Powell.
The receptionist went silent. “Ben passed away in 2003.”
“Did I say Benjamin? I think I had the wrong guy,” Nola said, noticing just how many people were headed to the nearby Safeway supermarket now that work was over. This late in the day, like any commercial block in Washington, it was a mix of faces—whites, blacks, Asians—the usual professionals in their usual professional wear. Underneath their coats was a fashion range that, for women, stretched from Banana Republic to Ann Taylor, and for men, Joseph A. Bank to Brooks Brothers. Still sketching away, she started drawing the coffee shop across the street, suddenly recalling the Native American woman with the long black ponytail. Nola looked for her. She was gone.
“What’d you say your name was again?” the receptionist challenged, a bit too aggressively.
“I didn’t,” Nola replied, her green pencil no longer moving. She turned her attention down the block, to the insurance agency. “I appreciate the help. I’ll call back later.”
“Ma’am, if you just tell me your na—”
Nola shut the phone, eyes still on the storefront. Whatever was happening inside, there was only one way to find out. Time to go in.
On the front dashboard was an open pencil tin. Nola tossed her green pencil inside and snapped the tin shut. From her waistband, she pulled out her gun, sliding it in her coat pocket.
Nola started to elbow open the car door, and then—
Up on the next block, a man darted across the street. Balding. Close-cropped black hair. Fox-shaped face. Nola thought he looked familiar. He was carrying a briefcase, chewing gum like a teenager…and heading straight for Powell’s Insurance.
Taking out her phone, Nola pulled up a photo. LinkedIn headshot. Same receding hairline. Same fox face. This was him. Perfect match.
Last night on the boat, as Markus begged for his life and pissed all over himself, he finally gave up his boss, or at least who he reported to. And now, here he was—Foxface with the briefcase. Real name, Rowan Johansson—also known as Houdini—one of the few people who knew what Operation Bluebook really was—and who no question had a hand in putting down the Alaskan plane that took Kamille’s life.
Mongol…Faber…Staedtler…Ticonderoga…Swan, Nola said to herself. She clenched her jaw so hard, her teeth made an audible crack. Out the front windshield, Nola watched as Houdini glanced over his shoulder, taking one last look around. For a second, it looked like he was staring right at her.
Mongol…Faber…Staedtler…Ticonderoga…Swan.
Deep down, Nola secretly hoped she’d been spotted. Then her next move would be easy. But the way the bill of her cap was blocking her face, plus the fading light, no way could he know she was here.
Down the block, convinced he was alone, Houdini switched his briefcase to his left hand and used his right to tug open the front door of the insurance place. Right-handed.
The door was old. Heavy. It slapped shut behind Houdini as he disappeared inside. Nola counted to herself.
One…two…
Kicking open her car door, Nola crossed the street at mi
d-block. In her pocket, she gripped her gun. Mongol…Faber…Staedtler…Ticonderoga…Swan.
Like before, it wasn’t helping. Though sometimes that wasn’t a bad thing.
54
Six minutes ago
You still see him?”
“He’s there. I see him,” Zig whispered, ducking down by the steering wheel as Houdini turned the corner diagonally across the street. He was heading away from Zig.
“I assume he can’t see you?” Dino asked through the phone.
It was an absurd question, making Zig wonder if looping Dino in was a mistake. Naturally, Zig tried Waggs first, but for the past half hour, Waggs was nowhere to be found. At least with Dino, Zig had extra eyes and ears—as well as someone to pull the emergency cord if it all went bad.
“What about the old magician?” Dino asked. “Any word from The Amazing Caesar?”
“I called. He didn’t pick up,” Zig whispered.
“You sure he’s okay?”
“I told you, he didn’t pick up.”
“You should still check in on him. Even if he was feeling guilty, this guy Caesar put his life at risk for you. Make sure he’s okay.”
“I will. After we—” Zig cut himself off.
Diagonally across the street, Houdini paused at the front door of an insurance shop, checking over his shoulder. Zig scooched down slightly, but otherwise didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.
Houdini tugged on the door and stepped inside, disappearing.
“I gotta go,” Zig said.
“Stop. Tell me where Houdini is.”
“Insurance place. Prudential. I need you to look it up. See who owns it.”
“Ziggy, don’t be stupid. Stay where you are. You have no idea what you’re walking into.”
“This guy knows what Operation Bluebook is. He’s the one— That’s the reason the plane crashed in Alaska. Whatever this Bluebook thing is—”
“You don’t even know if this is part of it!”
