The Millionaires (21 page)

Gallo ignored the joke. “You helping or not?”

Nguyen shook his head. “Don’t give me crap, Gallo. What you’re asking for is no small affair.”

“Neither is stealing three hundred million dollars and killing a former agent,” Gallo shot back.

“Yeah… I’m sorry to hear about that,” Nguyen said, no longer willing to argue. He put away his legal pad, knowing better than
to take notes. The last thing he needed was a judge making him hand them over to opposing counsel. “So getting back to your
request,” he added, “have you already exhausted the rest?”

“C’mon, Nguyen…”

“You know I have to ask it, Jimmy. When it comes to wiretaps and video, I can’t pull out the big guns until you tell me you’ve
gone through all your other investigative means—including all the credit card and phone records I subpoenaed for you this
morning.”

Gallo paused and forced his best grin. “I wouldn’t lie to you, buddy—we’re keeping this one on the complete up-and-up.”

Nguyen nodded. That was all he needed. “You’re really going after these two, aren’t you?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Gallo said. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

* * * *

“Omnibank Fraud Department—this is Elena Ratner. How can I assist you?”

“Hi, Ms. Ratner,” Gallo said into his cell phone as his navy Ford hugged the right lane of the Brooklyn Bridge. “This is Agent
Gallo with the United States Secret Ser—”

“Of course, Agent Gallo—sorry to take so long getting back to you. We just got your paperwork…”

“So it’s all taken care of?” he interrupted.

“Absolutely, sir. We’ve flagged and notated both accounts—an Omnibank MasterCard for a Mr. Oliver J. Caruso, and an Omnibank
Visa for a Mr. Charles Caruso,” she said, reading off both account numbers. “Now are you sure you don’t want them shut down?”

“Ms. Ratner,” Gallo scolded through gritted teeth, “if the cards get shut down, how’m I supposed to see what they’re buying
and where they’re going?”

There was a pause on the other line. This was why she hated dealing with law enforcement. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said dryly.
“From here on in, we’ll notify you as soon as either of them makes a purchase.”

“And how long will that notification take?”

“By the time they get their approval code, our computer will have already dialed your number,” she added. “It’s instantaneous.”

* * * *

“Hi, this is Fudge,” the answering machine whirred. “I’m not here right now, unless of course you’re a telemarketer, in which
case, I am here and I’m screening you because, quite honestly, your friendship means nothing to me. I have no time for hangers-on.
Leave a message at the sound of the beep.”

“Fudge, I know you’re there,” Joey shouted into the answering machine. “Pick up, pick up, pic—!”

“Ah, Lady Guinevere, thou doth sing the song of the enchantress,” Fudge crooned, careful not to use Joey’s name.

Joey rolled her eyes, refusing to get into it. When it came to cutouts, it was better not to get involved. And when it came
to Fudge, well… it’d always been her policy not to get too close to men who still go by the name of their favorite Judy Blume
character.

“So what can I do for you this evening? Business or pleasure?”

“Do you still know that guy at Omnibank?” Joey asked.

Fudge paused. “Maybe.”

Joey nodded at the code. That was yes. It was always yes. Indeed, that’s what the cutout business was all about: knowing people.
And not just any people. Angry people. Bitter people. Passed-over-for-promotion people. In every office, there’s someone who’s
miserable with their job. Those were the ones anxious to sell what they knew. And that’s who Fudge could find.

“If I could, what would you be looking for?” Fudge asked. “Client records?”

“Yeah… but I also need monitors on two accounts.”

“Uh-oh, big money talking here…”

“If you can’t handle it,” Joey warned.

“I can handle it just fine. I know a secretary in Fraud who’s still pissed about a snotty comment at an office party with
th—”

“Fudge!” Joey interrupted, turning a blind eye at the source. Sure, it made the lawyer in her cringe, but that’s what the
cutout was there for. Someone else does the dirty work; she gets the final work product. As long as she doesn’t know where
it comes from, she cuts out the liability. Besides, even if it is a legal fiction, it’s worked for the CIA for years.

“A hundred for the records. A grand for the ears,” Fudge said. “Anything else?”

“Phone company. Unlisted numbers and maybe a few taps on the line.”

“What state?”

Joey shook her head. “Where do you find these people?”

“Honey, go to any chatroom in the world and type the words: ‘
Who hates their job?
’When you see a return e-mail address with AT&T.com on it, that’s who you write back,” Fudge said. “Think about that next
time you’re a jackass to the copy boy.”

* * * *

“What’s this?” DeSanctis asked, flipping through a two-page document as he leaned on the trunk of his winter-worn Chevy.

“It’s a mail cover,” Gallo said, cupping his hands and breathing into them. “Bring it to their local post offices and they’ll…”

“… pull Oliver’s and Charlie’s mail and photocopy every return address,” DeSanctis interrupted. “I know how it works.”

“Good—then you also know who in the post office to hand it to. When you’re done, take the search warrant to Oliver’s. I’ve
got one more stop to make.”

* * * *

“What’s this?” the Hispanic woman in the dark blue post office sweater asked.

“It’s a thank-you gift,” Joey said as she held out a hundred-dollar bill.

Standing between two rickety metal bookshelves stacked with rubber-banded piles of mail, the woman leaned out of her makeshift
cubicle and scanned the wide-open back room. Like the distribution area in most post offices, it was a human antfarm of activity:
In every direction, bags of mail were dumped, separated, and sorted. Convinced that no one was looking, she studied the hundred
dollars in Joey’s hand. “You a cop?”

“Private,” Joey said, turning on just enough lawyer calm to put the woman at ease. She hated doing this herself, but like
Fudge said, when it came to mail, the scale was too large. If you wanted to build a real profile—and you needed every return
address—you had to go in and find the local carrier yourself. “Private and willing to pay,” she clarified.

“Drop it on the floor,” the woman said.

Joey hesitated, searching the corners of the room for cameras.

“Just drop it,” she repeated. “No harm done.”

Lowering her arm, Joey let go, and the bill sailed to the floor. When it hit, the woman took a tiny step forward and covered
it with her foot. “Now what can I help you with?”

Joey pulled a sheet of paper from her purse. “Just a little photocopy work on some friends in Brooklyn.”

* * * *

“Whattya mean it’s gone?” Gallo growled into his cell phone as he pounded the elevator button for the fourth floor. There
was a sharp lurch and the beat-up elevator slowly kicked into gear.

“Gone—as in,
no longer here,
” DeSanctis shot back. “The garbage’s been picked through, and the recycling bins are on the curb, completely cleaned out.”

“Maybe they already got picked up. What day’s recycling?”

“Tomorrow,” he said dryly. “I’m telling you, she’s been here. And if she figures out how we—”

“Don’t be a moron. Just because she stole Oliver’s garbage doesn’t mean she knows what’s going on.” The elevator doors opened
and Gallo followed the alphabet around to Apartment 4D. “Besides, in the grand scheme of things, we’re about to get something
a whole lot better than junk mail and some old newspapers…”

“What’re you talking about?”

Ringing the doorbell, Gallo didn’t answer.

“Who is it?” a soft female voice asked.

“United States Secret Service,” Gallo said, lifting his badge so it could be seen through the door’s eyehole.

There was a silent pause… then a fast thunking as a totem pole of locks unclicked. Slowly, the door creaked open, revealing
a heavyset woman in a yellow cardigan. She pulled two pins from her mouth and stuck them into the red pin-cushion she wore
around her left wrist. “Can I help you?” Maggie Caruso asked.

“Actually, Mrs. Caruso, I’m here about your sons…”

Her mouth opened and her shoulders dropped. “What’s wrong? Are they okay?”

“Of course they’re okay,” Gallo promised, reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder. “They just got into a little trouble
at work, and, well… we were hoping you could come downtown and answer a few questions.”

Instinctively, she hesitated. The phone started ringing in the kitchen, but she didn’t answer it.

“I promise, it’s nothing bad, Mrs. Caruso. We just thought you might be able to help us clear it up. You know… for the boys.”

“S-Sure…” she stammered. “Let me get my purse.”

Watching her scurry back into her apartment, Gallo stepped inside and slammed the door. Like he was always taught, if you
want the rats to come running, you have to start messing with their rathole.

I
s this even right?” Charlie asks.

“That’s what it says,” I point out. I recheck the address, then look up at the numbers stickered to the filthy glass door:
405 Amsterdam. Apartment 2B. Duckworth’s last known address.

“No. There’s no way,” Charlie insists.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Open an eyeball, Ollie. This guy’s got a three-hundred-million-dollar piggy bank. This should be some Upper West Side, snooty
doorman snazzfest. Instead, he’s living in a scrubby bachelor pad that’s tucked above a bad Indian restaurant and a Chinese
laundromat? Forget three hundred million… this isn’t even three hundred thousand.”

“Looks can still be a liar,” I counter.

“Yeah, like when three million turns out to be three hundred?”

Ignoring the comment, I point to the unlabeled button for Apartment 2B. “Should I ring it or not?”

“Sure—what else we got to lose?”

It’s not a question I’m ready to answer. The gray sky’s getting dark. In a few hours, mom’ll start to panic. Unless, of course,
the Service has already been in touch.

I ring the buzzer.

“Yeah?” a man’s voice shouts back.

Charlie spots an empty brown box in front of the laundromat. “I got a delivery here for 2B,” he says.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, the raspy buzzer explodes, and Charlie pulls on the door. He holds it open;
I grab the brown box. Duckworth, here we come.

* * * *

As we climb the stairs, the poorly lit hallway is haunted by the potent smell of Indian curry and laundromat bleach. The paint
on the walls is cracked and mildewy. The old tile floor is missing pieces in every direction. Charlie lobs me another glance.
Bank customers don’t live in places like this. He expects it to slow me down, but all it does is make me pick up the pace.

“That’s it…” Charlie says.

At 2B, I stop and hold the brown box up to the eyehole. “Delivery,” I announce, banging on the door.

Locks crackle and the door swings open. I’m ready for a fifty-year-old man on the verge of tears—just dying to tell us the
full story. Instead, we get a frat boy with a perfectly curved Syracuse baseball cap and oversized lacrosse shorts.

“You got a delivery, yo?” he asks in full white-boy accent.

I shoot a glance at Charlie. Even in his Brooklyn-rapper phase, my brother wasn’t this cliché.

“Actually, it’s for Marty Duckworth,” I say. “Does he live here?”

“You mean that freaky little guy? Kinda looked like the mole-man?” he laughs.

Flustered, I don’t answer.

“That’s him,” Charlie jumps in just to keep him talking. “Any idea where he went?”

“Florida, baby. Ocean retirement.”

Retirement,
I nod. Charlie’s got the same thought.
That means he’s got money. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is this dump.

“What about a forwarding address?” Charlie asks. “Did he leave one for you to—”

“What country do you think this is?” Frat Boy teases. “Everybody loves their mail…” Crossing back through the studio apartment,
he grabs his electronic organizer from the top of his TV. “I keep it under ‘M,’ for
M
oleman,” he sings, plenty amused.

Charlie nods appreciatively. “Sweet, dude.”

From my back pocket, I pull out the letter where we wrote down Duckworth’s other address.

“Here you go,” Frat Boy announces, reading from his organizer. “1004 Tenth Street. Sun-shining Miami Beach. 33139.”

Charlie reads over my shoulder, checking to see if it matches. “Same Bat-time. Same Bat-channel,” he whispers.

Saying our goodbyes, we leave the apartment. Neither of us says a word until we hit the stairs.

“What’d you think?” I ask.

“About Duckworth’s life state? I got no idea—though the walking Abercrombie catalogue up there didn’t act like he was dead,”
Charlie says.

“That’s who you’re putting your faith in?”

“All I’m saying is, that’s two people confirming a Miami address.”