The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [101]
“So they’re not relatives or anything?” Charlie asks her.
“Never seen ’em before in my life.”
“What about friends?” I ask.
“I bet one of them’s Brandt Katkin,” Charlie says, motioning with his chin at the nondisclosure agreement.
“They could be anyone,” I add, unable to slow down. With the taste of hope on my tongue, I stare down at the four headshots. “I’m betting they were his contacts at the VC.”
“Maybe they were people he was working with,” Charlie adds. “Maybe they were the people he trusted.”
“Or maybe they were the ones who killed him,” Gillian says. “They could all be Secret Service.”
All three of us fall silent. At this point, anything’s possible.
“So what do we do now?” she adds.
“We should call up this guy Brandt Katkin and ask him about Five Points Capital,” Charlie suggests.
“At two in the morning?” Gillian asks.
“The later the better,” he glares back at her, refusing to give a centimeter. “We should go down there and bust through a window. In high school, Joel Westman once taught me how to take out an alarm with a kitchen magnet. We can rummage through the files Watergate-style.”
“No, that’s a great idea,” I chime in. “Then you two can lower me on a rope from the airvents, where I’ll try to stop a single drop of sweat from falling to the ridiculously overprotected floor and simultaneously grab the NOC list.”
Charlie’s eyes narrow. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“Stay focused,” I tell him. “Why risk it all sneaking through the back when we can walk right in the front?”
“Say what?”
“Work with what you have,” I say, pointing to Gillian. “If they made that kind of investment in Duckworth’s future, don’t you think they’ll want to meet his next of kin…?”
“So you really want to go down there?” Charlie asks.
“First thing tomorrow morning,” I say, still feeling the sugar rush. “Me, you, Gillian… and all our new friends at Five Points Capital.”
44
You’re not going to like it,” DeSanctis warned as he entered Gallo’s office in the downtown Field Office of the Secret Service.It was almost two in the morning and the halls were dead-empty, but DeSanctis still shut the door.
“Just tell me what it says,” Gallo demanded.
“Her name’s Saundra Finkelstein, fifty-seven years old…” DeSanctis began, reading from the top sheet of the stack. “Tax returns say she’s been renting there for almost twenty-four years—plenty of time to become best friends.”
“And the phone records?”
“We went back six months. On average, she spends at least fifteen minutes a day on the horn with Maggie. Since last night, though, not a single call.”
“What about long distance?”
“See, that’s where it starts getting ugly. At one A.M. last night, she accepted her first-ever collect call—from a number we identified as—ready for this?—a payphone in Miami International Airport.”
Biting at the knuckle of his thumb, Gallo stopped. “What?”
“Don’t look at me…”
“Who the hell else am I supposed to look at!?” he asked, slamming the desk with his fist. “If they’re at Duckworth’s—”
“Believe me, I’m well aware of the consequences.”
“Have you looked into flights?”
“Two tickets. They’re booking them as we speak.”
Ramming his chair backwards as he stood up, Gallo let it crash into his credenza. The impact shook the half a dozen Secret Service plaques and photographs that decorated his wall. “There’s nothing to find there,” he insisted.
“No one said there was.”
“We should still call—”
“Already did,” DeSanctis said.
Nodding to himself, Gallo stormed toward the door. “When did you say we leave?”
“Next flight out—six A.M. into Miami,” DeSanctis added, chasing behind him. “We’ll be standing on their necks by breakfast.”
* * * *
“Fudge, I know you’re there!” Joey yelled into the answering machine. “Don’t act like you’re sleeping—I know you can hear me! Pick up, pick up, pick up…” She waited, but no one answered. “Are you there, God, it’s me, Joey.” Still nothing. “Okay, that