The Millionaires (17 page)

“You okay?” Charlie asks, feeling the instant vibe.

“Yeah,” I tell him, still staring dead ahead.

In front of us are two automatic swinging doors. We stomp on the sensor-mat and the doors blink open. I immediately smell
gas fumes. Through the doors, the lights dim and the cavern expands. Brick walls, no windows, and an old wooden teller booth
with a punch clock on the outside. Charlie glances around at the fifty or so cars that’re parked bumper-to-bumper in the underground
garage.

“You got a ticket?” a man with a Puerto Rican accent shouts from the teller booth.

“No, thanks,” Charlie says, catching his breath. Over his shoulder, he checks the automatic doors and searches for Gallo and
DeSanctis. The doors mechanically close. No one’s there. At least, not yet. But before we can relax, my stomach lurches and
I heave uncontrollably. There’s a violent splash against the pavement as I vomit up the milky-brown remainder of this morning’s
Raisin Bran. The smell alone makes me want to do it again. I clench my jaw to keep it in.

“You sure you’re okay?” Charlie asks for the second time.

Bent over, with my hands pressed against my knees, I spit out the final chunks as a string of saliva dangles from my chin.

“Don’t think I’m cleaning that up,” the Puerto Rican guy warns from his booth.

Ignoring him, Charlie puts a hand on my shoulder. “They’re gone,” he promises. “We’re fine.” The words are nice, but he’s
missing the point.

“What?” Charlie asks, studying my green coloring. “What is it?”

My stomach’s empty, and I’m about to pass out. But it’s not until I backhand the spit from my bottom lip and slowly struggle
to stand up that my brother gets his first good look at my eyes. They wander around the garage, dancing anxiously in every
direction.

Without a word, he knows why I wouldn’t look back while we were running. Sure, I was scared—but it wasn’t just from what was
chasing us. It was from what we left behind. Shep. I stare down at the splatter of throw-up by my feet. Forget fear—this is
all guilt.

“It’s not your fault, Ollie. Even when you were willing to hand them the account, Shep told you to stay quiet.”

“But if we weren’t—
Dammit, how could I be such a meathead? I’m smarter than that!
If we weren’t there… If I wasn’t so stupidly enraged about Lapidus…”

“If, if, if. Don’t you get it yet?” he asks. “It doesn’t matter what you were thinking—or why you talked yourself into it—Shep
was stealing that money whether we were there or not. Period. End.”

I pick my head up. “Y-You think?”

“Of course,” he shoots back with a throatful of instant Charlie confidence. But as the words leave his lips, his expression
falls. Reality hits hard. And fast. Now he’s the one who’s suddenly green.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he motions toward the steep ramp that leads up to the snow-lined street. “You ready to go?”

Before I can nod, Charlie takes off and runs straight up it. Behind him, I once again close my eyes and picture Shep’s shattered
body, twisted like a broken puppet across the floor. Unable to shake the image—or the rash decision that got us there—I chase
my brother, racing as hard as I can to the top. Too bad for us, there’re some things you can’t outrun.

I’m still trailing Charlie as the parking ramp dumps us out onto 44th Street. We’re quickly consumed by the lunchtime crowd,
but in the distance, I already hear the sirens.

I look at Charlie; he studies me. We’re not just thieves anymore. By the time Gallo and DeSanctis are done with us, we’re
murderers.

“Should we call mom…?”

“No way,” I counter, still tasting the vomit on my lips. “That’s the first place they’ll look.”

The sirens get closer, and we step into the line that’s curving out of a nearby pizza place. By now, the sound’s almost deafening.
At the end of the block, two police cars slam their brakes and screech toward Grand Central’s Vanderbilt Avenue entrance.
Our heads are lowered, but like everyone else in line, we’re in full stare-mode. Within seconds, car doors slam shut and four
uniformed officers race inside.

“C’mon,” I say, jumping out of line.

You sure you want to run?
Charlie asks with a glance.

I don’t bother to answer. Like he said, this isn’t about my anger anymore. Or some heated, knee-jerk revenge on Lapidus. It’s
about keeping us alive. And after almost fifteen years of freeze-tag, Charlie knows the value of a head start.

“You know where we’re going?” he asks as he follows.

I’m already running toward the opposite end of the block. “Not really,” I say. “But I have an idea.”

J
oey was the eighth to be called. Naturally, the first was the underwriter at KRG Insurance who wrote the policy. Lapidus chewed
his head off in picoseconds and forced a fast transfer to a fidelity claims analyst, who, when he heard the amount, called
the head of the fidelity claims unit, who called the president of claims, who then called the CEO himself. From there, the
CEO made two calls: one to a forensic accounting firm, and one to Chuck Sheafe, head of Sheafe International, to personally
request their top investigator. Sheafe didn’t hesitate. He immediately recommended Joey.

“Fine,” the CEO said. “When can he be here?”

“You mean
she.
”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t be a pig, Warren. Jo Ann Lemont,” Sheafe explained. “Now do you want our best or do you want a boy scout?”

That’s all it took. The eighth call went to Joey.

“So do you have any idea who stole it?” Joey asked from the seat opposite Lapidus’s desk.

“Of course I don’t know who stole it,” Lapidus barked back. “What the hell kind of stupid question is that?”

Stupid, maybe, Joey thought—but she still had to ask it. If only to see his reaction. If he was lying, there’d be some sort
of tell. A look-away, an uneasy grin, a hollow stare she could see in his eyes. As she brushed her short auburn hair from
her forehead, she knew that was her gift—sharpening focus and finding the tell—she learned it playing poker with her dad,
and honed it during law school. Sometimes it was in the body language. Sometimes it was… somewhere else.

When Joey first walked into Lapidus’s office, the first thing she noticed was the intricate Victorian bronze oval doorknob.
Embossed with an egg-and-dart motif, it was cold to the touch, difficult to turn, and it didn’t match any other doorknob in
the building. But as Joey knew—when it came to CEOs—that was the point. Anything to make an impression.

“Now is there anything else, Ms. Le—?”

“It’s Joey,” she interrupted, her chocolate eyes looking up from her yellow legal pad. Although she had a pen in her hand
and the pad in her lap, she hadn’t written a word—ever since her first notepad was subpoenaed, she knew better than that.
Still, the pad helped people open up. So did using first names. “Please… call me Joey.”

“Well, no offense, Joey, but as I remember it, you were hired to find our missing three hundred and thirteen million. So why
don’t you get back to it?”

“Actually, that’s what I was about to ask…” she began as she pulled a digital camera from her briefcase. “Do you mind if I
take some photos? Just for insurance purposes…”

Lapidus nodded, and she clicked off four quick shots. One in every direction. For Lapidus, it was a minor inconvenience. For
Joey, it was the easiest way to document a potential crime scene.
Put it all on film,
she was taught early on.
It’s the one thing that won’t lie.

Through the lens, Joey studied the cherry-paneled walls and Aubusson carpet that embraced the room with their deep burgundy
hues. The room itself was filled with Asian artifacts: on her left, a framed calligraphy scroll containing a Japanese poem
applauding spring; on her right, a pre–World War II step-tansu, which was a simple wood chest with small drawers; and straight
ahead, behind Lapidus’s desk, the obvious pride of his collection: a thirteenth-century Kamakura Period samurai helmet. Made
of carved wood and layered with shiny black lacquer, it had a forged-silver crescent moon embedded in the forehead. As Joey
knew from an old college history class, the shogun used to use the silver insignias to identify his samurais and see how they
were doing in battle.
Just another boss who doesn’t like to get too close,
she thought to herself.

“How do you get along with your employees, Mr. Lapidus?” Joey asked as she stuffed the camera back into her briefcase.

“How do I—” He stopped and watched her carefully. “Are you trying to accuse me of something?”

“Not at all,” she quickly backed off. But she clearly found her first button. “I’m just trying to figure out if anyone had
a motiv—”

Across the room, the door to Lapidus’s office flew open. Quincy stepped in, but didn’t say a word. He just held tight to the
oval doorknob.

“What?” Lapidus asked. “What’s wrong?”

Quincy glanced at Joey, then back to Lapidus. Some things were better said in private.

“Is he in there?” a hoarse voice shouted from the hallway. Before Quincy could answer, Agents Gallo and DeSanctis shoved their
way into the room. Joey grinned at the interruption. Baggy suit… barrel chest… cheap shoes scuffed up from running. These
two weren’t bankers. Which meant they were security or—

“Secret Service,” Gallo blurted, flashing her the badge on his belt. “Can you excuse us for a moment?”

Joey couldn’t help but stare at the swollen cut on Gallo’s cheek. She didn’t see it when he first walked in. His head was
turned. “Actually, I think we’re all on this together,” Joey said, hoping to make nice. “I’m here from Chuck Sheafe’s place.”
It wasn’t often that she dropped her boss’s name, but Joey was all too aware of how trust worked in law enforcement. Fifteen
years ago, Chuck Sheafe was third in command of the Secret Service. To fellow agents, that meant he was family.

“So you’re working for the insurance company?” Gallo asked.

It wasn’t the reaction she was looking for, so Joey just nodded.

“Then that still makes you a civilian,” Gallo shot back. “Now like I said: Please excuse us.”

“But…”

“Goodbye, ma’am, it was n—”

“You can call me Joey.”

Gallo cocked his head with a predatory glare and once again revealed the bruise on his cheek. He didn’t like being interrupted.
“Goodbye, Joey.”

Too smart to push, Joey tucked her notepad under her arm and headed for the door. All four men watched her as she crossed
the room, which wasn’t something that happened often. With her relatively athletic build, she was attractive, but not gawking
attractive. Still, she didn’t acknowledge any of them. She made her living knee deep in male egos. There’d be plenty of time
to fight later.

As the door slammed behind Joey, Lapidus rubbed his palm against his bald head. “Please tell me you have good news.”

Quincy tried to answer, but nothing came out. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop them from shaking.

“Are you okay?” Lapidus asked.

“Shep’s dead,” DeSanctis blurted.

“
What?
” Lapidus asked, his eyes going wide. “Are you… How did he…?”

“Shot in the chest three times. We rushed in when we heard the noise, but it was already too late.”

Once again, the whole room was silent. Nobody moved. Not Lapidus. Not Quincy. No one.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Gallo added.

Grabbing at his own chest, Lapidus sank in his seat. “W-Was it for the money?”

“That’s what we’re still trying to figure out,” Gallo explained. “We’re not sure how they got it, but it looks like they may’ve
had help from Shep.”

Lapidus looked up. “What do you mean,
they?
”

“That’s the other part…” DeSanctis said, jumping back in. He glanced at Gallo, almost like he was getting permission. When
Gallo nodded, DeSanctis cut across the room and lowered his lanky frame into one of the two seats in front of Lapidus’s desk.
“As near as we can tell, Shep was killed by either Charlie or Oliver.”

“Oliver?” Lapidus asked. “
Our
Oliver? That kid couldn’t—”

“He
could
—and he
did,
” Gallo insisted. “So don’t talk to me about some bullshit little-boy innocence. Thanks to these two, I’ve got a man with
three holes in his chest and a financial investigation that just flipped to a homicide. Add that to the missing three hundred
and thirteen mil and we’ve got one of those cases that Congress holds hearings about.”

Still collapsed in his chair, Lapidus just sat there—the consequences already settling heavy on his shoulders. Lost in thought
and refusing to face anyone, he stared anxiously at the Japanese bronze letter opener on his desk. Then, out of nowhere, he
shot up in his seat. His voice was racing. “On Friday, Oliver used my password to transfer money to Tanner Drew.”

“See, now that’s something we should know,” Gallo said as he took a seat next to DeSanctis. “If there’s a pattern of misapprop—”
Cutting himself off, Gallo felt something on the cushion of the seat. Reaching under his thigh, he pulled out a blue-and-yellow
pen emblazoned with the logo of the University of Michigan.
Michigan,
he thought.
The same place Joey’s boss, Chuck Sheafe, went t
—