Fake ID Read online

  Squinting, I read the marble sign a few yards from Dad’s car.

  No way.

  The sign read: City Hall

  CHAPTER 9

  DAD WAS ROBBING CITY HALL.

  That was my first thought and I wasn’t ashamed of it. Considering Dad’s track record, he might’ve considered it a compliment.

  But it didn’t add up. If he was into something shady, he wouldn’t have driven his own vehicle or parked directly in front of the target building. I cursed my stupidity. If Dad was starting his “empire” again, he’d need contacts. Accomplices. This might just be a meet. He drove here, dropped the car off, got picked up by some enterprising local. Which, of course, meant my entire scheme was useless.

  I walked my bike across the street and fished the SUV’s spare key from my pocket. I retrieved my phone, relocked the vehicle.

  Thumbing the Contacts button, I brought up Dad’s cell and hit Talk. At least I could screw with him. Hit him with a Daddy Guilt Trip for fighting with Mom. The phone rang.

  Twice.

  Once through my phone’s receiver, a second time from the city hall lobby. Dad’s old Isley Brothers ring tone was clearly audible from where I stood. Worse, Dad was clearly visible.

  Tracing the sound toward the plate-glass entrance, I spotted Dad exiting the elevator with a large box cradled in his arms. I jogged my bike to a nearby hedge, where I ducked and killed the call.

  From the bushes, I watched Dad push through the exit door, then do this weird bobbling/balancing act, shifting the box under one arm while unclipping his phone from his belt. He looked at the display, frowned, then pressed a button.

  A chill crawled through me when I couldn’t remember if I’d silenced my cell.

  I snatched it up and tried to work the menu. My fingers felt too fat and too slow as I accessed everything from the internet to the memo recorder. Before I could pull it together, my phone lit up like plutonium and my Lil Wayne ringtone betrayed me.

  A thud, followed by the whip-flap sound of pages in the breeze. Dad whisper-yelled, “Nick! Are you here?”

  I emerged from my shrub cover, righteous, indignant. “Can you blame me, Dad?”

  I expected some snap remark. So much so, I thought I heard, “Boy, I’ll beat the black off you for taking that tone with me.”

  Something in my mind clicked, rewound, then replayed what he really said.

  “Nick, you have to go before he sees you.”

  Not angry.

  Afraid.

  He knelt, crab-clawing papers that had spilled from the box he dropped. I ran to him, concerned by the quake in his voice. Kneeling, too, I helped him retrieve the papers.

  “No, son,” he said, snatching loose sheets from my hands.

  “Dad, wha—”

  DING.

  Another elevator reached the lobby, and the doors parted, spilling a column of light across the marble floor. Dad’s neck craned, then whipped back to me. “Go!”

  I returned to the hedge for my bike but was too slow to make a clean getaway. The mystery man stepped into the city hall courtyard. I couldn’t see him from the bushes, but their conversation was clear.

  “James,” the man said, his voice loud and fake pleasant, like a department store Santa Claus, “I’m sorry to interrupt our meeting, but I had to take that call.”

  “No sweat.”

  “What happened here?”

  “Tripped. Stupid, really.”

  The other guy grunted and I heard dual firecracker pops from stubborn old knees. I pictured him doing what I’d done, helping Dad clean up the mess. “Let’s make sure we get it all. We don’t want to lose any of this critical info because of something stupid, now, do we?”

  “No,” Dad said, quieter now. “Sorry, sir.”

  Sir? It was like hearing a priest curse. Who was this guy?

  They finished gathering the box’s spilled contents. Dad made his way to his vehicle with the guy beside him. I shifted, got a partial view of their backs.

  Dad stuffed the box in the backseat. A few more words were exchanged, but I couldn’t hear over the wind. Mystery Man shook Dad’s hand, then strolled to the BMW. Dad hesitated, his eyes on my bush.

  The other guy said something else. Dad forced a laugh and climbed into his vehicle. The other guy did the same, flicking on sun-bright headlights that made Dad wince behind the wheel. A moment passed. Neither car pulled off. Finally—reluctantly—Dad drove away, and only then did the Mystery Man leave city hall plaza.

  Shifting to my feet, I registered the sound of rustling paper. A sheet was balled in my hand, damp from palm sweat. It was from Dad’s box; when he told me to run, I took it—didn’t mean to.

  I smoothed the paper against my stomach. Just two columns of random numbers that meant nothing to me. I checked the header, expecting to see Page 54 or something just as useless. The page number was there, but that’s not what sucked all the air from my chest.

  Next to the number were two words: Designate Whispertown.

  Whispertown isn’t boring at all. It’s pretty big-time.

  I remembered to breathe and visually traced the path Dad’s truck had taken, as if I expected to see some explanation in his exhaust fumes. No answers. Just questions. Two big ones.

  What was Dad into this time?

  And what the hell did it have to do with Eli Cruz?

  CHAPTER 10

  I CALLED ELI, UNWILLING TO DEAL with the delay of texting on this. His voice was bland when he picked up. “How’s the party?”

  “We need to talk. In person. Now.”

  “Um, okay,” he said, wary. “Your house?”

  “No way. Is there a place where we can meet?” The cold wind gusted, and it felt like getting slapped with an ice pack. “Someplace warm?”

  A few minutes later I rolled into the desolate business district I’d found after my first day of school. Of the occupied storefronts, most were dark, with Closed signs facing the street. The exceptions were a pharmacy and a shop I’d missed before. RAGE AGAINST THE CAFFEINE—the caps lock is theirs, not mine. Its sign was airbrushed in neon reds, yellows, and purples, like graffiti. It was barely lit inside, but I spotted Eli in a window seat. I dropped my bike on the sidewalk next to a parked lime-green Volkswagen Beetle, and went inside.

  The blast of furnace heat was amazing, and I realized my hands had gone numb only when I sat across from Eli and couldn’t feel the table. There were seven seats in the whole place, and five were still empty. An elderly barista in young clothing shouted from behind the counter, “Get something started for ya?”

  “Large hot chocolate,” I said, assuming it was on the menu.

  She went to work and Eli said, “You forgot to ask for extra marshmallows.”

  “What’s Whispertown?” I wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

  He stiffened. “Did something happen at the party?”

  “I didn’t go to the party. This doesn’t have anything to do with the party.” Another assumption. I had a bad habit with those. I said, “Tell me.”

  He sipped from his own drink. Slowly. Gazed through the window. “No.”

  “What?”

  “I said no, Nick. I’m not going to tell you because you told me not to.”

  “When did I—?”

  “‘No secret schemes.’ Your words. I can show you the text. You didn’t want to be involved in my more . . . troublesome projects. Remember?”

  My frustration spiked. Before it erupted in the form of foul language, the barista arrived with my drink. “Four fifty.”

  I paid with a five and waved off her halfhearted effort to fish change from her pocket. When she disappeared into the back of the shop, I said, “Forget before, Eli. What’s so secretive about Whispertown?”

  “Tell me why you want to know.”

  I resisted another urge to curse. I still had the paper I’d taken from Dad on the city hall steps. Showing it to Eli wasn’t the right play. He’d want to know where it came from. How I got it. I couldn
’t go there with him. Ever.

  He said, “Now who’s keeping secrets?”

  I tasted my drink. It was lukewarm and gross. I chugged it down anyway to avoid talking, reverting to a game me and my old babysitter played before she got fired.

  It was called Keep Quiet. When two people were alone, the one who kept quiet the longest was the smartest in the room, she said. It was really her way of getting me to shut up when her favorite shows were on. That didn’t mean there wasn’t something to it.

  Eli broke first. “Since you moved here, have you looked around? I mean really looked?”

  I looked. At the tiny coffee shop, at the empty street. “I guess.”

  “There’s something wrong with Stepton, Nick. No one’s talking about it. I’m trying to figure out why.”

  “Wrong how?”

  “There’s a guy on my street, Mr. Languiso, his house got burglarized last month. A week ago, a teacher’s car got stolen right out of her driveway, broad daylight. Two days ago, a couple of kids dealing meth on the west side of town got freaking shot, Nick. Shot!”

  “That, um, sucks.” What was he getting at?

  “Not sucky. Invisible. Like it never happened.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Did you know that most cities’ crime stats are public record? Like, if you wanted to buy a house you could go online and make sure the place you like isn’t in gang territory.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know that, but whatever.

  He said, “The Stepton Police Department releases their stats online every month. None of those major felonies show up in the reports.”

  “You just said two of the crimes happened in the last week. The month’s not over. How could they be in the reports?”

  He shook his head. “Not those crimes specifically. Others like them. If you look at the available information, Stepton’s like the safest town in America. The crimes making the list for the last six months have been mostly misdemeanors, and those numbers seem exaggerated.”

  “What does all this have to do with the high school paper?”

  “Nothing, except, I’m the only paper in town. The Stepton Chronicle stopped printing years ago. There’s no one else left to look into this but me. This isn’t about printing a few hundred copies for everyone’s homeroom. I’ve got bigger plans for this story.”

  “Big plans? Yeah, right. Prove it,” I said, hoping he’d feel challenged and try to impress me.

  He didn’t take the bait. Instead, he sat back like he was done talking. “Your turn to share. What’s got you so interested?”

  I said the only thing I could say without revealing information that protected the lives of me and my family. “I don’t like to be half in. I want to learn everything. It’s not right that you have to carry the whole load of running the paper by yourself.”

  He laughed. “I shouldn’t have tried to play you over the Dust Off, now I know how crappy it feels.”

  I played Keep Quiet again.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” Eli said. “I accept your offer.”

  “You’ll tell me more about Whispertown?”

  “No. Not until I see how serious you are about learning everything.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek.

  “Hit the J-Room before and after school starting Monday so I can get you up to speed on some other parts of the operation.”

  “How long is that going to take?”

  “As long as it takes. Unless you want to tell me the truth about why Whispertown’s on your mind this evening.”

  “I’ll be there, Monday.” I got up to leave.

  “You want a ride home?” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and pressed two buttons on a silver remote. Three seconds later the lime Volkswagen at the curb grumbled on, its headlights cutting the dark like blue lasers.

  I said, “That’s you? I didn’t know you drove.”

  “Never got around to taking my driver’s test. But laws seem to be more fluid around here these days. When in Rome . . .”

  I didn’t feel like talking on the way home, but Eli wasn’t letting me off that easy.

  “Your newfound dedication to the paper is admirable, Nick.”

  “Glad you think so.” I wasn’t. I could feel the setup coming. What kind of reporter would he be if he didn’t keep pumping me for information on my interest in Whispertown? Well, he could ask all the questions he wanted, I wasn’t cracking.

  That’s probably why he went with a different tactic.

  “I’m sure Reya will forget about you blowing her off when she discovers your passion for reporting.”

  “I didn’t blow her off,” I said, with more concern in my voice than I intended. “Let me out, I’ll go to Dustin’s now.”

  Eli was a shark smelling blood. “Too late. Someone set a couch on fire. Party’s over. There are photos on Facebook if you want to see. That’s almost like being there.”

  I stared through the window, playing it cool while cursing myself.

  “We could explain it to her,” he went on. “Let her know it’s my fault you didn’t meet her at the party. She’d buy it. Thinking I’m somehow screwing up her life is like a hobby for Reya.”

  He wanted me to talk about her, to ask for his help, give him some leverage. Nope.

  “I’ll see her in school,” I said, knowing how unlikely that was thanks to my banishment to alternate schedule land. If I’d messed things up with her, I’d have to deal. Keeping my secrets was more important.

  Eli nodded. “I understand.”

  I detected grudging respect in his tone. Maybe he admired my play, too.

  Outside my house, Eli popped the Beetle’s hatchback so I could retrieve my bike. When it was on two wheels again, I rolled it to the driver’s side window, gears clicking.

  He lowered the glass with a mechanical hiss. “Yeah?”

  “Those meth dealers you told me about, the ones who got shot, did they live?” I don’t know why I asked the question. I’d spend a lot of time thinking about it later, but not nearly as much as the answer he gave.

  “They did. It was a good thing, too. The way things are going, if they’d died, it probably would’ve been ruled a suicide.” He laughed. “Mierda, bet you didn’t know I was such a cynic.”

  Oh, I had a feeling. I slapped the car’s roof. “Monday, man.”

  “Monday.”

  He pulled off and left me in the cold.

  CHAPTER 11

  SUNDAY. THE PEARSONS WENT TO CHURCH, a Southern Baptist fire-and-brimstone sermon. Not that we were particularly religious, but the legend—an exercise in contradictions—insisted we were good, Godfearing folks. Afterward, Dad flopped on the couch to watch football while Mom announced she was going for a walk. Talk of meth dealers being shot made me offer to walk with her.

  “I’ll be fine on my own,” she said. I was set to protest when she shut me down with a look. “I’m okay. I need some time to think.”

  “About what?”

  “When that’s your business I’ll let you know.”

  When she was gone I joined Dad in the living room, waited for a commercial break. While some rock band sang a love song to a pickup truck, I said, “About last night—”

  “Nothing happened last night.” He cranked the volume on the TV, and I didn’t push. I’d only brought it up as a courtesy before I did something I knew him and Mom would flip over. If it ever came to their attention.

  I biked to a convenience store to purchase a disposable phone. After that, I needed privacy.

  The day we moved here, while Mom and Dad fought over which wall the couch should go against, I went exploring for the first time and found Monitor Park, a couple of miles from my house. Pavilions, grills bolted to short concrete posts, a playground, and a gravel path leading to a manmade lake. Quiet. Secluded.

  I dropped my bike along the lakeshore and dialed a number.

  It rang twice. “Hello.”

  “This Lucky Dragon Chinese?” I asked.

  CLICK.r />
  I tossed stones in the water, waiting. The first few I threw for distance, making it about twenty yards offshore. The flatter stones I threw underhand, skipping them across the surface. Fifteen minutes later my new phone rang. The man who taught me to skip rocks was on the other end.

  I picked up. “Can you talk?”

  “I’m free now,” he said.

  “What took you so long to call back?”

  “Business, kid.”

  His name was Stefan “Bricks” Bianchi. His business meant that the world’s seven-billion-person population just got decreased by one, at least. He was a hit man. And my godfather.

  Not the Godfather. Just mine.

  “You doing okay, Tony?”

  Tony. He never knew any other name to call me by. Safer for both of us.

  “I’m cool,” I said, without much conviction.

  “Don’t sound like it.”

  We hadn’t talked in months—our system worked because we didn’t do this frequently—and I felt a need to spill everything. Whispertown. Dad. Eli and Reya. Even Zach Lynch. Especially Zach Lynch. Though Bricks didn’t know what school I attended, or what state I lived in, I was still tempted to drop a dime on Reya’s psycho ex-boyfriend to my loving professional killer.

  I knew better, though. Anything specific was more info than Bricks wanted; ignorance was his protection. But there was something he might be able to clear up for me. “Are there any reasons, other than for the sake of reputation, that would make a city downplay their major crime stats?”

  A pause. “You watchin’ old episodes of The Wire?”

  “Hypothetically.”

  “A bunch of reasons. Mostly political.”

  Politics. The only thing I knew about politics was how to spell it. Still, I’d caught Dad at city hall, so what Bricks said lined up. It was the only thing that lined up. “Would altering crime stats ever make a difference in your business? Like, could you benefit from making things seem better than they really are?”