The Millionaires (28 page)

“Blessed are the drug dealers,” he says, yanking it out.

As he takes off, I follow him through the main room and into the bathroom. Just like we worked out last night. Tiny efficiencies
may be too small for back doors… but they still have back windows. Leaping on the toilet, he cranks open the cheap window
and punches out the screen. I hop up next to him.

“You go first,” Charlie says, cupping his hands to boost me up.

“No, you.”

He won’t budge.

“
Charlie
…” The tone and my scolding eyes are all mom. He knows it’s been ingrained since birth—protect your little brother.

Realizing it’s a fight he’ll never win, he tosses out the machete and steps into my boost. Up and out—he’s gone in an instant.
Another perfect landing. I follow, though I almost kill myself on the landing.

“Ready to run?” he asks, rechecking the narrow concrete alley created by the building ours backs up to. On our left is a swinging
metal gate that leads back to the street; on our right is an open path that snakes around to the main courtyard—right where
they’re hiding. With a shared glance, we scramble toward the gate… and quickly spot the metal chain and padlock that keeps
it shut tight.

“Damn,” Charlie whispers, smacking the lock.

I motion with the gun.
I can shoot it open.

He shakes his head.
Are you crazed? They’ll hear in a second!
Without thinking, he takes off toward the other end of the alley, and I grab him by the arm.

“You’re gonna run right into them,” I whisper.

“Not if they’re already inside… besides, you got a better way out?”

I look around, but there’s no arguing with impossibility.

C’mon,
Charlie motions. He speeds down the alley, sticking to the patches of dried-out grass to keep quiet. At the edge of the building,
he stops and turns my way.
Ready?

I nod, and he peeks around the first corner.
All clear,
he signals, waving me forward.

Like burglars in our own backyard, we slip down behind the building, ducking under the windowsills. Around the next corner
is where we saw him. I hear the stream from the sprinkler still gushing against the glass. The sound drowns out our own footsteps…
and whoever’s waiting for us there.

“Let me go first,” I whisper.

He shakes his head and shoves me back. He’s done letting me play protector. I don’t care. Squeezing in next to him, I check
the ground for stray shadows and slowly stick my head out. Around the corner, a discarded jump rope sits on the lawn, right
next to a deflated beach ball. I scan the courtyard from tree to tree, but I can barely hear myself think. The sprinkler still
pounds against the window. Charlie’s breathing heavy next to me. No one’s in sight, but I can’t shake the feeling that something
isn’t right. Still, there’s no choice. It’s the only way out. Charlie licks a puddle of sweat from the dimple above his lip
and puts up his fist. Counting by fingers, he nods my way.
One… two…

We tear out of there at full speed, ducking under the sprinkler. My heart’s thundering… all I see is the street… almost there…
the metal gate’s in sight…

“Where you off to, Cinderella—late for the ball?” a voice asks from our front steps.

Whirling around, we stop in our tracks. I lift the gun; Charlie raises the machete.

“Easy there, cowboy,” she says, hands already in the air. Forget the Service. It’s the woman from Duckworth’s.

“What’re you doing here?” Charlie challenges.

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on my gun. “You want to tell me who you really are?” she asks.

“This isn’t about you,” I warn.

“Why were you asking about him?”

“So you
do
know Duckworth?” I blurt.

“I asked you a question…”

“So did I,” I shoot back. I wave the gun to get her attention. She doesn’t know us well enough to decide if she should call
the bluff.

“How did you know him?” Charlie demands.

She lowers her hands, but never stops staring at me. “You really don’t know?” she asks. “Marty Duckworth was my father.”

M
aggie Caruso was never a good sleeper. Even when things were going well—during her honeymoon in the Poconos—Maggie had trouble
mustering five hours of continuous sleep. As she got older—when the credit card companies started calling at the end of the
month—she’d be lucky to get three hours straight. And last night, with her sons gone, she sat up in bed, clawed at the sheets,
and barely made two—which was exactly what Gallo was counting on when he brought her in this morning.

“Thought you’d like some coffee,” Gallo said as he entered the bright white interrogation room. Unlike yesterday, DeSanctis
wasn’t by his side. Today it was just Gallo, wearing his standard ill-fitting gray suit and a surprisingly warm grin. He handed
Maggie the coffee with both hands. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said, actually sounding concerned.

“Thanks,” Maggie replied, watching him carefully and studying his new attitude.

“So how’re you feeling?” Gallo asked as he pulled up a chair. Like before, he sat right next to her.

“I’m fine,” Maggie said, hoping to keep it short. “Now is there something I can help you with?”

“Actually, there is…” He let the words dangle in the air. It was a tactic he learned right when he started in the Service.
When it came to getting people to talk, there was no better weapon than silence.

“Agent Gallo, if you’re looking for Charlie and Oliver, you should know that neither of them came home last night.”

“Really?” Gallo asked. “So you still don’t know where they are?”

Maggie nodded.

“And you still don’t know if they’re okay?”

“Not a clue,” she said quickly.

Crossing his arms, Gallo once again embraced the silence.

“What?” Maggie asked. “You don’t believe me?”

“Maggie, did Oliver and Charlie contact you last night?”

For the slightest of seconds, Maggie paused. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Gallo warned. His eyes narrowed and the nice guy disappeared. “If you lie to me, we’ll only take it out
on them.”

Clenching her jaw, she ignored the threat. “I swear to you, I don’t know anything.”

For the third time, Gallo let silence do its work. Thirty seconds of nothing. “Maggie, do you have any idea what you’re up
against?” he finally asked.

“I already told you—”

“Let me catch you up on a case we worked on last year,” he interrupted, cutting her off. “We had a target who was using a
typewriter to stay in contact with another suspect. It’s pretty ingenious—destroy the ribbon, fax it from an untraceable location—nothing
for us to pick up on, right? Too bad for the target, all electric typewriters emit their own electromagnetic emanations. It
may not be as easy to read as a computer, but our tech boys had no problem picking it up. And once we told them the make and
model number of the typewriter, it took less than three hours to re-create the message from the sound that each key makes.
He hit
A,
we saw
A.
We had ’em both locked up within the week.”

Maggie squared her shoulders, struggling to hold it together.

“They can’t outrun us,” Gallo added. “It’s only a matter of time.” Refusing to let up, he added, “If you help us find them,
we can work out a deal, Maggie—but if I have to do this myself… the only way you’ll ever see your boys is through two-inch-thick
glass. That is, assuming they make it that far.” In one smooth motion, Gallo slowly scratched at the back of his neck, and
the front of his jacket spread open. Right there, Maggie caught a glimpse of Gallo’s gun in its leather holster. Staring straight
down at her, Gallo didn’t have to say a word.

Her chin was trembling. She tried to get up, but her legs were dead.

“It’s over, Maggie—just tell us where they are.”

She turned away and pressed her lips together. The tears streamed down her cheeks.

“It’s the only way to help them,” Gallo pushed. “Otherwise, their blood’s on your hands.”

Wiping her eyes with her palm, Maggie searched desperately for something—anything—to focus on. But the stark whiteness of
the walls kept leading back to Gallo.

“It’s okay,” he added, leaning in close. “Just say the words, and we’ll make sure they’re safe.” He put a hand on her shoulder
and slowly lifted her chin. “Be the good mother, Maggie. It’s the only way to help them. Now where are Charlie and Oliver?”

Staring up, Maggie felt the world melt in front of her. All that was left were her sons. They were all she had. And all she’d
ever needed. Sitting up straight, Maggie Caruso jerked her shoulder out of Gallo’s reach and finally opened her mouth. “I
don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice measured and smooth. “I haven’t heard from them at all.”

* * * *

“Don’t be such a momma’s boy,” Joey scolded through the phone. She sat back in her car and stared across the street at Maggie’s
building. “Just tell me what’s in the files.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Randall Adenauer said in his native Virginian accent. “Ask again though.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Joey moaned, rolling her eyes. Still, if she wanted a law-enforcement-level search of Charlie’s and Oliver’s
records, there was only one way to play the game: “Are these the type of people I want to hire?” Joey asked.

There was a pause on the other line. As the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit, Adenauer had access
to the FBI’s best files and databases. And as an old friend of Joey’s father, he also had a few chits that were long overdue
for payback. “Absolutely,” he said. “I’d hire both of them today.”

“Really?” Joey asked, surprised, but hardly shocked. “So everything’s clean?”

“Squeaky,” he answered. “The younger one had a few snags for loitering, but there’s nothing after that. According to our records,
these two are angels. Why, what were you expecting?”

This time, Joey was the one who paused. “No… nothing,” she replied. Before she could say another word, there was a beep on
the other line. Caller ID showed Noreen. “Listen, I should run,” Joey added. “I’ll speak to you later. Thanks, Poochie.”

With a click, she was on with her assistant. “Gallo and mom back yet?” Noreen asked.

Joey glanced down at her passenger seat, where a digital screen showed a blinking blue triangle moving across an electronic
map toward the Brooklyn Bridge. “They’re on their way back now,” she relayed. “What about you? Anything interesting?”

“Just some old college records from the bank’s personnel office. Academically, Oliver’s grades were good, but not great…”

“Little fish, big pond… new level of competition…”

“… but according to his résumé, he was working two different jobs at the time, one of them his own business. He sold T-shirts
one semester, set up limo rides another, even had his own moving business at the end of each year. You know the type.”

“Forever the young entrepreneur. What about Charlie?”

“Two years at art school, then he dropped out and finished up at City College. In both, though, the worst kind of C student:
Straight As in the subjects he cared about; Cs and Ds in the rest.”

“And why’d he leave? Fear of success, or fear of failure?”

“No idea—but he’s clearly the wild card.”

“Actually, Oliver’s the wild card,” Joey pointed out.

“You think?”

“Take another glance at the details. Charlie may be better on a date, but when it comes to taking risks, Oliver’s the one
who stepped further into a world that wasn’t his.” Joey waited, but Noreen didn’t argue. “Now what else did you find besides
the transcripts?”

“That was it,” Noreen said. “Zip, zada, zilch. Except for mom’s apartment, all Charlie and Oliver have are some overdue credit
cards and a now empty bank account.”

“And you checked everywhere?”

“Do I listen when you speak? Driver’s license, Social Security, insurance records, corporate records, property records, and
every other piece of our private lives that the government’s been selling to the credit agencies for years, but only now—as
they blame it on the Internet—is finally getting some press play. Otherwise, nothing fishy. How’d the FBI go?”

“Same dance—no convictions, no warrants, no recent arrests.”

“So that’s it?” Noreen asked.

“Are you kidding? This is just the first mile. Now when did Fudge say we’d have credit card and phone details?”

“Any minute,” Noreen answered, her voice quickening. “Oh, and there is one thing you might find interesting. Remember that
pharmacy you wanted me to check out? Well, I called up, said I was from Oliver’s insurance company, and asked if they had
any outstanding prescriptions for a Mr. Caruso.”

“And?”

“Nothing for Oliver…”

“Damn…”

“Though they did have one for a Caruso named Charles.”

Joey stopped. “Please tell me you…”

“Oh, I’m sorry—did I say
Oliver?
I meant
Charles.
That’s right—Charlie Caruso.”

“Beautiful, beautiful,” Joey sang. “So what’d you find?”