The Millionaires (18 page)

“Where’d you get this?” Gallo blurted, jamming the pen toward Lapidus. “Is it yours?”

“I don’t think so,” Lapidus stammered. “No, I’ve definitely never seen it…”

Gallo pulled off the cap, furiously unscrewed the barrel of the pen, and shook both pieces over the desk. Out popped a pen
refill… a metal spring… and from the back part of the pen: a clear plastic tube filled with wires, a miniature battery, and
a tiny transmitter. A pinhole in the base held the built-in microphone.

“Son of a bitch!” Gallo exploded. He winged the pen against the wall, where it barely missed the calligraphy scroll.

“Be careful!” Lapidus shouted as Gallo leapt out of his seat.

Knocking his chair to the floor, Gallo raged toward the door, grabbed the oval doorknob, and tugged as hard as he could.

“Can I help you?” Lapidus’s secretary asked from her usual spot behind her desk.

Gallo barreled past her and looked up the hallway… near the bathrooms… by the elevator. He was already too late. Joey was
long gone.

T
he backseat of the black gypsy cab is covered with a stained brown towel that smells like feet. Under normal circumstances,
I’d roll down the bubbling tinted windows for some air, but right now—after hearing those sirens—we’re better off behind the
tint. Ducking down so no one can see us, Charlie and I haven’t said a word since I waved down the car. Obviously, neither
of us will risk talking in front of the driver—but as I stare at Charlie, who’s curled up against the door and staring vacantly
out the window, I know it’s not just because he wants privacy.

“Make a right up here,” I call out, peeking above the headrest so I can get a better view of Park Avenue. The driver makes
a sharp turn on 50th Street and gets about halfway up the block. “Perfect. Right here.” As the car jerks to a halt, I toss
a ten-dollar bill between the armrests, kick open the door, and make sure he never gets a good look. We’re only a few blocks
from Grand Central, but there was no way I was running on the open street.

“Let’s go,” I call to Charlie, who’s already a few steps behind. I head straight for the front door of the Italian bakery
right outside the cab. But the moment the driver speeds away, I turn around and walk out. This is no time to take chances.
Not with myself—and certainly not with Charlie.

“C’mon,” I say, rushing back toward Park Avenue. The sharp December wind tries to blow us back, but all it does is make the
surrounding after-lunch crowd bundle up and hunch over. Good for us. As soon as we turn back onto Park Avenue, I bound up
the concrete steps. Behind me, Charlie looks up at the ornate pink brick structure and finally understands. Nestled between
the investment banks, the law firms, and the Waldorf, it’s the one island of piety in what’s otherwise an ocean of the ostentatious.
More important, it’s the nearest place I could think of that wouldn’t kick us out—no matter how late we wanted to stay.

“Welcome to St. Bart’s Church,” a soft voice whispers as we step inside the arched stone foyer. On my left, from behind a
card table covered with stacks of Bibles and other religious books, a pudgy grandmother nods hello, then quickly looks away.

I shove two dollars into the see-through donation box and head for the doors of the main sanctuary, where—the instant they
open—I’m hit with that incense and old wood church smell. Inside, the ceiling rises to a golden dome, while the floor stretches
out with forty rows of maple pews. The whole room is dark, lit only by a few hanging chandeliers and the natural light that
filters through the stained glass along the walls.

Now that lunch is over, most of the pews are empty—but not all of them. A dozen or so worshipers are scattered throughout
the rows, and even if they’re praying, it only takes one random glance for one of them to be Crimestopper of the Week. Hoping
for something a bit less crowded, I glance around the sanctuary. When a church is this big, there’s usually… There we go.Three-quarters
down the aisle—along the lefthand wall—a single unmarked door.

Trying not to be too quick or noticeable, Charlie and I keep the pace nice and smooth. There’s a loud creak as the door opens.
I cringe and give it a fast push to end the pain. We rush forward so quickly, I literally stumble into the stone room, which
is just big enough to hold a few benches and a brass votive stand filled with burning candles. Otherwise, we’re the only ones
in the private chapel. The door slams shut and Charlie’s still silent.

“Please don’t do this to yourself,” I tell him. “Take your own advice: What happened with Shep… it’s not my fault and it’s
not yours.”

Collapsing on a wooden bench in the corner, Charlie doesn’t answer. His posture sinks; his neck bobs lifelessly. He’s still
in shock. Less than a half-hour ago, I saw a co-worker get shot. Charlie watched someone he thought was a friend. And even
if they barely knew each other—even if all they did was talk a few games of high school football—to Charlie, that’s a lifetime.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

The sight alone makes me taste the lingering vomit in my throat. “Charlie, if you want to talk about it…”

“I know,” he interrupts, his voice shaking. He’s fighting to hold it together, but some things are too strong. This isn’t
just for Shep. On our left, the candles burn and our shadows flicker against the stone wall. “They’re gonna kill us, Ollie—just
like they killed him.”

Moving in close, I palm the back of his neck and join him on the bench. Charlie’s not a crier. He didn’t shed a tear when
he broke his collarbone trying to ride his bike down the stairs. Or when we had to say goodbye to Aunt Maddie in the hospital.
But, today, as I open my arms, he falls right in.

“What’re we gonna do?” he asks, his voice still a whisper.

“I have a few ideas,” I tell him. It’s an empty promise, but Charlie doesn’t bother to challenge. He just keeps his head against
my shoulder, searching for support. On the wall, we’re one big shadow. Then my phone rings.

The shrill screech echoes through the room. I jerk back; Charlie doesn’t move. Reaching into my suit pocket, I quickly shut
off the ringer. When there’s no answer, the person calls back. Whoever it is, they’re not giving up. The phone vibrates against
my chest. I reach back in and shut it off.

“You sure we shouldn’t get it?” Charlie asks, reading my expression.

“I don’t think so,” I quickly reply.

He nods as if that’ll keep us safe. We both know it’s a lie. Along the back wall, the candles’ tiny flames are dancing in
place. And no matter how much we want to shut our eyes, from here on in, it’s only getting worse.

W
ell?” Gallo asked.

“No answer,” Lapidus said as he hung up the receiver. “Not that I’m surprised—Oliver’s too smart to pick up.” Turning to the
photocopied letter that Gallo left on his desk, Lapidus looked down and quickly skimmed it. “So this is how they did it?”
Lapidus asked. “A fake letter signed by Duckworth?”

“According to the tech boys, that’s the last document Oliver typed into his computer,” Gallo explained as he limped across
the vintage carpet. After what happened with Joey, he was in no mood to sit. “And from the hard copy we found hidden in the
back of Shep’s drawer, it looks like Shep was helping them along.”

“So the three of them met this morning, and when things went sour, Oliver and Charlie took his head off,” Quincy hypothesized
from his usual spot by the door.

“That’s the only thing that makes sense,” DeSanctis said, shooting a cocky look at Gallo.

“And what about the investigation?” Lapidus asked. “As you know, we have a number of important clients who rely on our promise
of privacy. Any chance of keeping it… how do you say… out of the papers?”

There it was—the one thing Gallo was waiting for. “I completely agree,” he replied, seizing the opportunity. “If we throw
this to the press, they’ll broadcast our every move straight to Charlie and Oliver. When it gets this big, we’re all better
off on the quiet side.”

“Exactly—that’s exactly our point,” Lapidus said, nodding vigorously at Quincy. “Isn’t that right?”

Quincy didn’t nod back. He’d had enough sucking up for one day.

“So you think you’ll be able to find them?” Lapidus asked as Gallo picked up the phone on the corner of Lapidus’s desk.

Gallo glanced at Quincy, then back to Lapidus. “Why don’t you leave that to us.” Quickly dialing a number, Gallo raised the
receiver to his ear. “Hey, it’s me,” he said to the person on the other line. “I got a cell phone loose in the city—you ready
to do some tracking?”

I
don’t turn the phone back on until I’m ten blocks away. And even as it flicks on, it takes me another block and a half to
work up the nerve to dial. For strength, I think of Charlie. As I wait for someone to answer, I try to keep my balance in
the back of the bus while it crawls uptown and crashes through the city’s potholes. Sure, the subway is more inconspicuous,
but last I checked, my phone didn’t get a signal underground. And right now, I need to keep moving—anything to put distance
between me and the church.

“Welcome to Greene & Greene Private Bank. How can I assist you?” a female voice sings through my cell phone. I’m not sure
who it belongs to, but it’s not any of the phonebankers I know. Good. That means she doesn’t know me.

“Hi, this is Marty Duckworth,” I say. “I had a quick question I was hoping you could help me with.” As she checks my account
and Social Security number, I can’t help but wonder whether the bank’s system is even going to be up and running. If the Secret
Service were smart, they would’ve already shut it d—

“I have your account right in front of me. Now what can I help you with today, Mr. Duckworth?” She says the words so quickly…
so eagerly… I can’t help but smell a trap.Too bad for me, I need the cheese.

“Actually, I just wanted to check the most recent activity on my account,” I tell her. “There was a large deposit that came
in, and I need to know what day it posted.” Clearly, it’s a nonsense question, but if we plan on figuring out what’s going
on, we need to know how Duckworth’s three million turned into three hundred and thirteen.

“I’m sorry, sir, but in the last week… I’m not showing any deposits.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m looking at it right now. According to our records, your current balance is zero, and the only activity on record is a
three-hundred-and-thirteen-million-dollar withdrawal yesterday afternoon. Other than that, there were no deposits to—”

“What about the day before?” I ask, watching the passengers on the bus. No one turns around. “What was the balance on the
day before?”

There’s a short pause. “Not including interest, it’s the same amount, sir—three hundred and thirteen million. And it’s the
same on the day before. I have no record of any recent deposits.”

The bus bucks to a halt and I grab a metal pole for balance. “Are you sure the balance wasn’t three million dollars?”

“I’m sorry, sir—I’m just telling you what’s on my screen.”

She says the words and my hand slides down around the pole. It can’t be. It’s not possible. How can we—?