The Millionaires (38 page)

P
lease tell me you’re joking,” Joey pleaded through her cell phone as her car tore around the corner in the USAir parking lot.

“How many different ways you need me to say it?” Debbie asked. As a USAir ticket counter agent, Debbie was used to dealing
with short-tempered customers. But as Joey’s oldest high school friend, she knew this was one who couldn’t be ignored and
sent to the back of the line. “The computers froze—the whole system’s down. Stop giving me heartache. They’ll have it back
up in ten minutes.”

“I don’t have ten minutes,” Joey said as she screeched into an open spot. “I need it now.”

“Yeah, well, I need a push-up bra that works minor miracles and a husband who remembers how to make my toes curl in bed, but
sometimes you’re stuck with what you’ve got.”

“What about frequent-flier miles? Can’t you track them by that?”

“Joey, the computers are down—it’s all on the same system. Besides, how do you even know they’re on USAir?”

“Why else would you leave your car in the USAir parking lot?” Joey asked as she cut the engine. Taking one last look at the
blue triangle on the electronic screen, she hopped outside, squinted in the slowly rising sun, and feverishly scanned the
packed-to-capacity lot. According to this, the car should be right—

There.

In the corner… close in toward the terminal—Gallo’s government-issued navy Ford—parked illegally in a handicapped spot.

“Crap,” Joey whispered as she turned back and yanked her bags from the trunk. Tacklebox under one arm; duffel bag under the
other. With the earpiece still dangling from her ear, she ran off-balance toward the terminal. Dashing across the crosswalk,
she cut off two honking taxicabs. “What about searching by government-issued tickets? Or on the manifest list?” she called
to Debbie. “Isn’t that how you found out who Marsha’s lowlife husband was sitting next to?”

“How many different ways can I say it? It’s all on the same—”

“What about the LEO list?” Joey asked, referring to the airline’s list of law enforcement officers. “Don’t they have to file
special paperwork if they want to travel with their guns?”

There was a pause on the other line. “Y’know what…” Debbie began. “Hold on a sec. Lemme call the gate…”

Shoving her way through the automatic doors and ignoring the baggage claim carousels, Joey made a sharp right and flew up
the escalator stairs two at a time. At the top, along the ticket counters, she surveyed the sparse early morning crowd. Businessman
in a rumpled suit, high school student in an oversized sweatshirt, old lady in a pale yellow turtleneck—but no one who resembled
Gallo or DeSanctis.

“You better thank the Lord for useless government paperwork,” a familiar voice sang in her ear.

“You found them?” she asked Debbie.

“I swear to you, sometimes I think some of this stuff was invented by the CIA to keep track of us…”

“So what’d you—”

“According to our records, Agent James Gallo and Agent Paul DeSanctis just hit the LEO list on our 6:27
A.M.
flight to Miami.”

Joey went right for her watch. 6:31. “Are they—?”

“Long gone.”

“When’s the next—?”

“Hour and a half. I already told them to book you a seat as soon as the system goes up.”

Shaking her head, Joey checked the TV screen.
Miami—Flight 412—Departed.
“How the hell did I miss them?”

“Don’t wet your eyes,” Debbie said. “All they have is a head start.”

W
hat floor?” Charlie asks early Thursday morning as we step into the elevator.

“Seven,” I say as he pushes the button. I straighten my tie; Charlie licks his hand and flattens his matted blond hair. If
we’re going to reprise our roles as bankers, we have to look the part. Next to us, Gillian does the female equivalent with
her long flowered skirt. When she’s done smoothing it out, she looks my way. Letting my eyes linger on her legs, I can’t help
but stare—that is, until I notice Charlie watching me. I glance at the floor; he shakes his head. You can’t fool little brothers.

The elevator jerks to a stop and the doors slip open. In the hallway, a tasteful and understated (for Miami) silver-and-gold
logo hangs on the wall: shaped like a star, but with a circle at the end of each point. The silver letters across the bottom
tell us we’ve reached our destination: Five Points Capital—where Duckworth made his deal.

Gillian bounces off the brass railing of the elevator and glides out. Before I can follow, Charlie grabs me by the arm. “You
touched her cookies, didn’t you?” he whispers.

“What’re you talking about?” I ask, annoyed as I step out of the elevator.

“That’s the best you can muster? Anger, but no denial?”

This time, I don’t answer.

“When was it? Last night? When you went to get the clothes this morning?”

Pulling out of his grip, I make a hard left and head for the glass doors of the reception area. Charlie’s right behind me.
He doesn’t have to say it. From here on in, he’s not letting me out of his sight.

“You sure you’re ready?” Gillian asks, reading what she thinks is fear on my face.

“I’m fine,” I say, still eyeing Charlie. But as I take a deep breath, reality collides. He sees it on my face. It’s one thing
to call up and ask for an appointment. It’s quite another to pull it off.

To the right of the doors, a small sign says
Ring Bell for Reception.
But it’s what’s above the bell that gets our attention—a gray keypad that looks like the one we have at the bank. Next to
the numbers, though, there’s also a flat space just big enough for a thumbprint.
Biometric ID
it says across the top.

I ring the bell, and Charlie raises an eyebrow. “Fingerprint recognition?” he asks. “Someone’s taking themselves a bit too
seriously.”

A receptionist with teased brown hair looks up and buzzes us in. Charlie’s first in line, ambassador of smiles. Every bigshot
needs an assistant. “Hi, we called this morning…” he says, copying my salesman voice and pointing my way. “From Greene Bank—I
have Henry Lapidus here to see Mr. Katkin.”

“Of course,” she says as she nods at me. “I’ll page him for you, Mr. Lapidus.”

Charlie grinds his teeth as she says the name.
You sure this is right?
he asks with a glance.

Trust me,
I insist. Over the past four years, I’ve taken tons of clients on the venture capital roadshow. And even in Florida, it takes
a big name to open a big door.

Fidgeting with the tie he borrowed from Duckworth, Charlie sits back on the cream-colored sofa. The instant Gillian sits next
to him, he gets up and paces. I scowl, but he doesn’t care. Ignoring me, he pretends to check out the view of Brickell Avenue
from the enormous plate glass windows.

“Mr. Lapidus, can you please sign in for me?” the receptionist asks me. She points to a free-standing computer kiosk right
next to her desk. Onscreen, there’s a blank for your name. I type in
Henry Lapidus
and hit
Enter.
Behind the receptionist, a high-tech laser printer hums and spits out an ID sticker.
Henry Lapidus—Visitor.
But unlike a normal guest pass, the front of this one has a liquid, almost translucent quality to it. Underneath, if you
angle it in the light, the word
Expired
appears in faint red letters.

“What’s this made of?” I ask, rubbing my thumb against the smooth pass.

“Aren’t they wild?” the receptionist croons. “After eight hours, the ink on the front dissolves and the
Expired
part becomes bright red.”

I nod, impressed.

“You guys take security pretty seriously, don’t you?” Charlie adds.

“We don’t have a choice,” the receptionist says with a laugh. “I mean… considering who we’re partners with…”

“Totally,” Charlie says, forcing his own fake laugh.

“Absolutely,” I agree.

We stare at the woman. She stares right back. We’re clueless.

“So what’s it like working with them?” Charlie asks, searching for details.

“Honestly? It’s not that big a deal. I thought they’d show up in dark suits and sunglasses—but they’re like everyone else—they
put on their tank tops one armhole at a time.”

Charlie eyes me; I eye Gillian.

“The only difference is, we now get government tank tops,” she adds with a laugh.

My whole face freezes. “You’re part of the government?”

“Not directly, but—” Cutting herself off, she adds, “Oh, I’m sorry—I thought you knew. It’s in all our clippings…” She hands
me a press kit in a forest green folder.

I flip it open as Charlie and Gillian read over my shoulder. It’s right there on the front page:
Welcome to Five Points Capital, the venture fund of the United States Secret Service.

Behind us, a door swings open. “Mr. Lapidus?” a baritone voice asks. We turn around and a tall man with military shoulders
and thick forearms extends a handshake. His watch has a gold presidential seal. “Brandt Katkin,” he introduces himself. “Please…
c’mon in.”

S
ecret Service—this is Marta.”

“Hi, Marta,” Quincy said calmly into his speakerphone. “I’m looking for Agent Jim Gallo…”

“One moment and I’ll transfer you to a supervis—”

“I don’t want to be transferred—I’ve already been transferred twice.” Sitting with his hands folded tightly on his desk, Quincy
was determined to keep his cool. After last night’s partner meeting… there’d already been enough yelling. Even threatening.
Now, though—now was the time for calm. “The supervisor I spoke to transferred me back to Agent Gallo’s voicemail. It doesn’t
do me any good,” he explained. “Now can you please find him for me? It’s an emergency.”

“Is someone in physical danger, sir?”

“No, but he—”

“Then Agent Gallo will get back to you as soon as he returns.”

Tightening his grip on the phone, Quincy drummed his fingers against the crystal bowl of caramels on the corner of his desk.
The candy was just for clients. Made grown men feel like boys. Beyond the crystal bowl—through the glass paneling next to
his door—Quincy eyed the flurry of people who swarmed back and forth across the seventh floor. On the opposite end, the door
to Lapidus’s office suddenly flew open and his partner stormed out. When Lapidus was walking that fast, there was only one
place he was headed.

“Ma’am, you don’t understand,” Quincy insisted. “I need to find Agent Gallo.
Now.
”

“I’m sorry, sir—the supervisor transferred you back, and Agent Gallo isn’t at his desk.”

“Clearly he’s not at his desk. That’s why I want to know where he is.”

“Even so, sir, we don’t give out that information.”

“But he’s supposed to—”

“I’m sorry, sir—there’s nothing I can do.”

“But—”

“I’m sorry, sir. Have a good day.” There was a click on the line and a knock at the door. Quincy kept the receiver close as
Lapidus stepped inside.

“Yeah… no… don’t worry—everyone’s sitting tight,” Quincy said into the phone. “Okay… Thanks, Jim… I’ll speak to you later.”

“You found Gallo?” Lapidus asked as Quincy hung up.

“Ask and thou shalt receive.”

“So what’d he say?” Lapidus asked.

“Nothing really—he won’t get into specifics.”

“Does he know where they are?”

“Hard to tell,” Quincy said as he reached for a caramel. “But if I had to guess, I’d say it won’t be long now—it’s just a
matter of waiting it out.”