The Millionaires (22 page)

“And not just any address—a retirement address.”

Still sniffing the bleached curry, Charlie knows what I’m getting at. People don’t live in apartments like this to save for
retirement—they live here because they have to. “Which means if Duckworth’s retiring to Florida…”

“…it’s because he suddenly came into some money,” Charlie agrees.

“Only problem is, according to the bank’s records, he’s had plenty of money for years. So why’s the prince dressing like a
pauper?”

At the bottom of the stairs, Charlie pulls open the door to the street. “Maybe he’s trying to keep his money hidden…”

“Or maybe
someone else
is trying to keep his money hidden,” I point out, my voice getting quicker. “Either way, it’s not just the hallway that’s
starting to reek.” I speed outside, man on a mission. “Until we talk to Duckworth, we’ll never know for sure.”

Tossing the cardboard box back to its home, I head straight for the payphone on the corner, reach for my phone card, and quickly
dial the number for Florida information.

“In Miami… I’m looking for a Marty or Martin Duckworth at 1004 Tenth Street,” I tell the computerized voice that answers.
There’s a short pause as we wait in silence. It’s only five o’clock, but the sky’s almost completely black, and a night wind
whips down Amsterdam Avenue. As my teeth start to chatter, I step back from the booth and pull Charlie in toward the phone,
hoping to keep him warm. And hidden. I search over my shoulder, checking to make sure we’re safe.

Charlie nods a thank-you and…

“You said
Duckworth?
” a female operator interrupts on the other line.

“Duckworth,” I repeat. “First name Marty or Martin. On Tenth Street.”

Once again, we’re back in silence.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says. “That’s a nonpublished number.”

“Are you sure?”

“M. Duckworth on Tenth Street. Nonpublished. Now is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No… that’s it,” I say, my voice completely losing steam. “Thanks for the help.”

“Well?” Charlie asks as I hang up.

“Unlisted.”

“But not disconnected,” he challenges, stepping out of the booth. “Wherever Duckworth is, he’s still got an active number.”

I look up, unconvinced… and quickly notice that we’re standing on an open street. Motioning with my chin, I point us back
toward the recessed alcove that shields the entrance to Frat Boy’s building. We take a fast scan of the street and head straight
for the alcove. Sliding inside, I add, “Enough with the Sherlock Holmes, Charlie. For all we know, the phone company hasn’t
updated their database since Duckworth died.”

“Maybe,” he admits as he joins me in the alcove. “Though he can just as easily be tucked away in Florida, waiting for us to
come visit.” Before I can argue, he flicks his finger against the Duckworth address sheet in my hands. “Like you said: Unless
we talk to him, we’ll never know for sure.”

“I don’t know… why don’t we check to see if there’s a death certificate first?”

“Ollie, yesterday the bank said this guy only had three million dollars. You really trust records anymore?”

Leaning back against the concrete wall, I weigh it all carefully.

“Don’t make it all analytical, bro. Go with your gut.”

It’s a fair point. Even coming from Charlie. “You really think we should go to Miami?”

“Hard to say,” he answers. “How long you think we can hide in the church?”

Watching a throng of commuters flood off a nearby bus, I’m completely silent.

“C’mon, Ollie—even parents know when their kids are right. Unless we can prove what really happened, Gallo and DeSanctis have
a complete hold on reality. And on us.
We
stole the money…
we
killed Shep… and
we’re
the ones who’ll pay for it.”

Once again, I give him nothing but silence. “You sure we’re not chasing rainbows?” I finally ask.

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Charlie…”

“Fine, even if we are, it’s gotta be better than hiding here.”

I nod my head at that one. When I first started at the bank, Lapidus told me I should never argue with facts. Without another
word, I stand up straight and turn to my brother. “You know they’re going to be watching the airports…”

“Don’t even give yourself a tummy ache,” Charlie says. “I’ve already got a way around it.”

R
eady to go two-for-two?” Joey whispered into the collar of her shirt as she strolled quietly down Avenue U. Surrounded by
commuters returning home from work, she didn’t need the red dog leash. For now, she was one of the crowd.

“You never learn, do you?” Noreen asked.

“Not until we get caught,” Joey said, rounding the corner onto Bedford Avenue and picking up the pace. “Besides, if they invite
you inside, it’s not breaking and entering.” Up the block, she eyed the six-story building that Charlie and his mom called
home.

“Any doorman?” Noreen asked.

“Not in this neighborhood,” Joey said, already plotting her way in. It wouldn’t take much. As long as mom was still in the
dark, any old story would do.
Hi, I’m a Realtor… Hi, I’m one of Charlie’s friends from work… Hi, I’m here to sneak into your apartment and hopefully plug
some of these creatively designed transmitters into your outlets.
Laughing at her own joke, Joey continued to scan the block. Two kids skateboarding on the sidewalk. A navy blue sedan parked
illegally across the street. And out front, a broad-chested man holding the door open for a heavyset woman. Joey recognized
Gallo instantly.

“I don’t believe it…”

“What?” Noreen asked.

“Guess who’s here?” she growled, lowering her head, but refusing to turn away. Slowly backing up toward the used bookstore
on the corner, Joey ducked into the doorway and poked her neck out just enough to steal a good look.

“Who is it?” Noreen pleaded. “What’s going on?”

Up the block, Gallo opened the passenger seat to his car and escorted Mrs. Caruso into place. She clutched her purse close
to her chest, completely in shock. Paying no attention, Gallo slammed the door in her face.

“What a gentleman,” Joey muttered. But as Gallo crossed around to the driver’s side, he stared up the block, almost like he
was searching for someone. Someone who wasn’t there. But would be soon.

“Oh, crap,” Joey added, reading the cocky look on his face.

“Can you please tell me what’s going on!?” Noreen demanded.

Gunning his engine, Gallo sped up the block. Joey took off instantly, darting back toward the building. “He’s got a crew coming,”
Joey warned.

“Right now?”

“That’s what I’m guessing… in the next two to ten minutes…”

“They’re putting ears on her already? How’d they get warrants so fast?”

“I have no idea,” Joey said as she jerked open the building’s front door. As an elderly woman came out from the lobby, Joey
caught the interior door, cut inside, and flew for the elevator.

There was a short pause on the other line. “Please tell me you’re not running toward the building…”

“I’m not running toward the building,” Joey said, attacking the elevator call button like a Morse code operator.

“Dammit, Joey, this is stupid.”

“No, what’s stupid is trying to do this after the Service have their eyes and ears in place.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t do it at all.”

“Noreen, remember what I told you about the tug of home? I don’t care how hardened these kids are, once they’re on the run,
they’ll eventually feel it. And in this case… when one of them’s paying mom’s bills and the other’s still living with her…
When the ties are that tight, it’s like a magnet in their chest. They may only call in for two seconds, but when it happens,
I plan to hear it. And trace it.”

Once again, Noreen was silent. For about half a second. “Just tell me what you need me to d—”

Joey stepped into the elevator, and the line went dead. That’s the way it was with cell phones and old buildings. She checked
the lobby one last time, but there was nothing to see. As the doors slid shut, Joey was on her own.

Y
ou sure this is a good idea?” I ask, keeping lookout as Charlie punches the number into the Excelsior Hotel’s payphone. It
may not be the best hotel in the city, but it is the closest one with the best selection of phonebooks.

“Oliver, how else do you plan on getting on a plane?” he counters as he puts the receiver to his ear. “If we use our real
IDs, we’re fools; if we use our credit cards, they track us.”

“Then maybe we should check out some other forms of transportation.”

“Like what? Renting a car and driving? You still need a credit card and ID…”

“What about the train?”

“Oh, please—you really wanna spend two days riding Amtrak? Every second we waste lets the Secret Service tighten the thumbscrews.
Trust me, if we want to get out of town, this is our best option.”

Unconvinced, I lean in and make him share the receiver. In my ear, the phone rings for the third time. “C’mon…” Charlie grumbles,
staring down at the New Jersey Yellow Pages. “Where the hell are y—”

“Law offices,” Bendini answers without the slightest stutter. “Whattya need?”

T
he first fifteen minutes were supposed to calm her down. No one to yell at… no one to speak to—just her—alone in a room, with
nothing to stare at but a single wooden desk and four mismatched office chairs. All around her, the walls were stark white—no
pictures, nothing to distract—except for the enormous mirror that ran along the righthand wall. Obviously, the mirror was
the first thing Maggie Caruso noticed. It was supposed to be. As the Secret Service well knew, with today’s miniaturized video
technology, there was no practical reason to still use two-way mirrors. But that didn’t mean that, even when there was no
one behind them, they didn’t have their own psychological effect. Indeed, the sight alone had Maggie twisting uncomfortably
in her seat. And that’s what the next fifteen minutes were all about.

Trying to block it out, Maggie used her right hand to shield her eyes. In her head, she reminded herself that everything was
okay. Her sons were fine. That’s what Gallo told her. He said it right to her face. But if that were the case, what was she
doing downtown, at the New York headquarters of the Secret Service? The answer came with a sharp rattle and a twist of the
doorknob. She turned to her left, and the door swung wide.

“Maggie Caruso?” DeSanctis asked as he stepped inside. With a file folder swinging at his side, he was dressed in a navy suit,
but without the jacket. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Serious, but hardly threatening. Behind him, Gallo followed, nodding
a fast hello. Forever the seamstress, Maggie couldn’t help but notice his poorly fitted suit—a clear sign of either bad taste,
vast impatience, or an oversized ego (men always thought they were bigger than they were). Despite the forty-minute car ride
from Brooklyn, she still didn’t know which. But she did know what she wanted. Her voice cracked as she said the words.

“
Please
… when can I see my boys?”