The Millionaires (20 page)

Turning toward the votive stand, I watch the melted wax trickle down the necks of the candles. It doesn’t take long for each
one to burn down. Just a little time. That’s all we have.

T
urning onto Oliver’s block and bundled up in an ankle-length olive green winter coat, Joey looked like any other pedestrian
in Red Hook—head down, no time to talk, other places to be. Yet while her eyes stayed locked on Oliver’s run-down brownstone,
her fingers were far more busy: slowly kneading the empty black garbage bags stuffed in her left pocket, and the red nylon
dog leash in her right.

Convinced she was close enough, she picked her head up and pulled out the leash, letting it dangle down toward her knees.
Now she wasn’t just an investigator, circling the block and checking windows for nosy neighbors. With the leash by her side,
she was a member of the community, searching for her lost dog. Sure, it was a lame excuse, but in all her years using it,
it never failed. Empty leashes took you anywhere: up driveways… across backyards… even into the narrow alleyway that ran along
the side of the brownstone and held the three plastic garbage cans full of Oliver’s and his neighbors’ trash.

Slipping into the alley, Joey counted eleven windows that overlooked the garbage area: four in Oliver’s brownstone, four in
the brownstone next door, and three in the one directly across the street. Without a doubt, it’d be better to do this at night,
but by then, the Service would have already picked through it. That’s always the race with Dumpster Dives. First come, first
served.

Wasting no time, she unzipped her coat and threw it aside. A small microphone was clipped to the top button of her shirt,
and a tangle of wires ran down to a belt-attached cell phone. She plugged an earpiece into her right ear, hit
Send,
and as it rang, quickly flipped open the lids of all three garbage cans.

“This is Noreen,” a young female voice answered.

“It’s me,” Joey said, snapping on a pair of latex surgical gloves. It was a lesson from her first Dumpster Dive, where the
suspect had a newborn baby—and Joey got a handful of dirty diapers.

“How’s the neighborhood?” Noreen asked.

“Past its prime,” Joey said as she eyed the worn brick walls and the cracked glass on the basement windows. “I assumed young
banking preppyville. This is blue-collar, can’t-afford-the-city first apartment.”

“Maybe that’s why he took the money—he’s sick of being second-class.”

“Yeah… maybe,” Joey said, happy to hear Noreen participating.

A recent graduate of Georgetown Law’s night school program, Noreen spent her first month after graduation getting rejected
by Washington, D.C.’s, largest law firms. The next two months brought rejections from the medium and small firms as well.
In month four, her old Evidence professor placed a call to his good friend at Sheafe International.
Top night student… first impression’s mousy, but hungry as can be… just like Joey the day her dad dropped her off.
Those were the magic words. One faxed résumé later, Noreen had a job and Joey had her newest assistant.

“You ready to dance?” Joey asked.

“Hit me…”

Reaching into the first garbage can, Joey ripped open the Hefty bag on top and the scent of ground coffee smacked her in the
face. She angled the bag to get a good peek, searching for anything with a… There it was. Phone bill. Caked with wet coffee
grinds, but right on top. She wiped away the grinds and checked the name on the first page. Frank Tusa. Same address. Apartment
1.

Next.

The bag below was a dark cinch-sack that, once opened, stank from rotted oranges. Hallmark card envelope was addressed to
Vivian Leone. Apartment 2.

Next.

The middle garbage can was empty. That left the one on the far right, which had a cheap, almost see-through white bag with
a thin red drawstring. Not Hefty… not GLAD… this was someone trying to save money.

“Anything yet?” Noreen asked.

Joey didn’t answer. She tore open the bag, stared inside, and held her breath at the two-day-old banana smell. “Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“He’s a recycler.”

“What do you mean,
he?
” Noreen asked. “How do you know it’s Oliver’s?”

“There’re only three apartments—he’s got the cheap one in the basement. Trust me, it’s his.” Once again checking the windows,
Joey pulled a black garbage bag from her pocket, lined the empty garbage can, and quickly tossed Oliver’s brown banana peels
into the waiting bin. As a lawyer, she knew that what she was doing was perfectly legal—once you put your trash on the curb,
it’s anyone’s to play with—but that didn’t mean you should advertise your every move.

Item by item, Joey shoveled through the muck, grabbing and transferring fistfuls of old spaghetti, discarded rotini, and leftover
mac and cheese. “Lots of pasta—not a lot of cash,” she whispered to Noreen, whose job it was to catalogue. “There’s onions
and garlic… a wrapper for pre-cut portobello mushrooms—that’s his baby-step to high society—otherwise, nothing expensive in
the way of veggies—no asparagus or fru-fru exotic lettuce.”

“Okay…”

“He’s got a torn pair of old underwear—boxers, actually—which somehow seems impressive, though it’s actually gross…”

“I’ll make a note…”

“Some American cheese wrappers… a plastic Shop-Rite deli bag…” She pulled the deli label close to read it. “… a pound of turkey,
the store-brand cheap stuff… empty bags of potato chips and pretzels… He’s bringing lunch every day.”

“How’s take-out look?”

“No Styrofoam… no Chinese delivery containers… not even a pizza crust,” Joey said, continuing to dig through the wet mess.
“He doesn’t spend a dollar ordering out. Except for the mushrooms, he’s saving every dime.”

“Packaging materials?”

“Nothing. No electronics… no batteries… just a plastic wrapper from a videotape. All within his means. The biggest splurges
are high-tech Gillette razors and some double-ply toilet tissue. Ooop—he’s also got a wrapper for some super-absorbent Tam-pax—looks
like our boy’s got a girlfriend.”

“How many wrappers?”

“Just one,” Joey answered. “She’s not here every night—maybe she’s new… or she likes him staying at her place.” At the bottom
of the bag, Joey shook out four filters of old coffee and used her fingers to rake through the sand dune of grinds. “That’s
it. A week in the life,” Joey announced. “Of course, without the recycling, it’s only half the picture.”

“If you say so…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know… it’s just… do you really think rummaging through garbage is going to help us find them?” Noreen asked sheepishly.

Joey shook her head to herself. Oh, to be that young. “Noreen, the only way to tell where someone’s going is if you know where
they’ve been.”

There was a long pause on the other end. “Think we can get the recycling?” Noreen asked.

“You tell me. What day do they—?”

“Pickup’s not till tomorrow,” Noreen interrupted. “I got the web page up in front of me.”

Joey nodded. Even the mouse had to sometimes roar.

“I bet it’s still in his apartment,” Noreen added.

“Only one way to find out…” Shoving the garbage cans back in place, Joey took her red leash on a walk toward the front of
the house and down Oliver’s shaky brick stairs. Next to the painted red door was a small four-pane window that held a single
blue-and-white sticker: “Warning! Protected by Ameritech Alarms.”

“My butt,” Joey muttered.
This kid won’t order Domino’s; he’s certainly not springing for an alarm.

“What’re you doing?” Noreen asked.

“Nothing,” Joey said as she pressed her nose between the bars that covered the window. Squinting tight, she peered through
the tiny apartment. That’s when she saw it—on the floor in the corner of the kitchen—the royal blue plastic recycling bin
filled with cans… and the bright green bin stuffed with paper.

“Please tell me you’re not breaking in,” Noreen asked, already panicking.

“I’m not breaking in,” Joey said dryly. She reached into her purse and pulled out a zippered black leather case. From there,
she removed a thin, wire-tipped instrument and shoved it straight into Oliver’s top lock.

“You know what Mr. Sheafe said about that! If you get caught again…!”

With a quick flick of the wrist, the lock popped and the door swung open. Pulling her last garbage bag from her pocket, Joey
took a quick scan and grinned. “Come to momma…”

* * * *

“Why’re you making such a big deal?” Joey asked, kneeling in front of and flipping through the two-drawer file cabinet that
served as Oliver’s nightstand. To keep it out of sight, and keep his papers safe, Oliver draped a piece of burgundy fabric
over the entire cabinet. Joey went right for it.

“I’m not making a big deal,” Noreen said. “I just think it’s odd. I mean, Oliver’s supposed to be the mastermind behind a
three-hundred-million-dollar pie swipe—but according to what you just read me, he’s writing monthly checks to cover mom’s
hospital bills and paying almost half her mortgage.”

“Noreen, just because someone smiles at you, doesn’t mean they won’t shove a knife in your back. I’ve seen it fifty times
before—welcome to your motive. Our boy Oliver spends four years at the bank thinking he’s going to be a bigshot, then wakes
up one day and realizes all he has to show for it is a stack of bills and a tan from the fluorescent lights. Then, to make
things worse, his brother comes in and finds out he’s in the same trap. The two of them have a particularly bad day… there’s
a moment of opportunity… and voilà… the dish runs away with the spoon.”

“Yeah… no… I guess,” Noreen added, anxious to get back on track. “What about the girlfriend? See anything with a phone number
on it?”

“Forget digits—ready for the full address?” Flipping through the recycling bin, Joey quickly pulled out all the magazines.
Business Week… Forbes… SmartMoney…
“Here we go,” she said, grabbing a
People
magazine and going straight for the subscription label. “Beth Manning. 201 East 87th Street, Apartment 23H. When the girlfriends
come over, they always bring something to read.”

“That’s great—you’re a genius,” Noreen said sarcastically. “Now can you please get out of there before the Service comes in
and whips your ass?”

“Actually, speaking of which…”Tossing the magazine back into the bin, Joey ran toward the bathroom and jerked open the medicine
cabinet. Toothpaste… razor… shaving cream… deodorant… nothing special. In the trash was a crumpled-up white plastic bag with
the words “Barney’s Pharmacy” written in black letters. “Noreen, the place is called Barney’s Pharmacy—we want a list of outstanding
prescriptions for Oliver and his girlfriend.”

“Fine. Can we go now?”

Moving back to the main room, Joey noticed a black laminate picture frame on top of the kitchen table. In the photo, two little
boys—dressed exactly the same in tight-fitting red turtlenecks—were sitting on an oversized sofa, their feet dangling over
the cushions. Oliver looked about six; Charlie looked two. Both were reading books… but as Joey looked closer… she realized
Charlie’s book was upside down.

“Joey, this isn’t funny anymore,” Noreen barked through the earpiece. “If they catch you breaking and entering…”

Joey couldn’t help but nod at the challenge. Making a beeline for the TV, she reached around to the back of it, snared the
electrical cord, and traced it down toward the wall socket. If the house was as old as she thought…

“What’re you doing?” Noreen begged.

“Just a little electrical work,” Joey teased. At the end of the cord, she saw the orange adapter that, once attached to the
three-pronged TV plug, let it fit into the two-pronged wall socket. You gotta love old houses, she thought as she crouched
down next to the outlet. Dragging her purse next to her, she again went for the small zipper case. Inside was an almost identical
orange two-pronged adapter.

Unlike the battery-operated transmitter she’d left in Lapidus’s office, this one was specially made for long-term use. Looks
like a plug and acts like a plug, but transmits a solid four miles in residential neighborhoods. No one looks at it, no one
questions it—and the best part is—as long as it’s plugged in, it has an endless supply of juice.

“Are you done yet?” Noreen pleaded.

“Done?” Joey asked, yanking the plug from the wall. “I’m just getting started.”

* * * *

“Can you get it or not?” Gallo asked, standing over Andrew Nguyen’s desk.

“Take it easy,” Nguyen shot back. A lean, but muscular Asian man prematurely graying at the temples, Andrew Nguyen was in
his fifth year at the United States Attorney’s Office. In that time, he’d learned that although it was important to be tough
on criminals, it was sometimes just as vital to be tough on law enforcement. “You want to lose another on appeal…?”

“Spare me the Constitution. These two are dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Nguyen said with a laugh. “I hear they sent you and DeSanctis chasing buses all afternoon…”