The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [102]
“D is for Death, my dear,” Fudge answered, his voice hoarse with sleep. “It’s also for Destruction, Dismemberment, Disemboweling…”
“So you know the song?” Joey asked, working hard to keep it light.
“Mommie dearest, it’s currently two-fourteen in the bloody morning. You are, indeed, the devil herself.”
“Listen, I’ll make it up to you tomorrow—no playing around—I need you to speed up that phone trace on Margaret Caruso.”
“It’s now two-fifteen in the bloody morning…”
“I’m serious, Fudge! I’ve got a crisis!”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Can’t you get your people at the phone company?”
“Now?” he asked, still groggy. “My people don’t work these hours—these hours are for deviants, and rock stars, and… and deviants.”
“Please, Fudge…”
“Call me tomorrow, sweetie-pie—I’ll have my baby-fresh scent after nine.” With a click, he disappeared.
Pulling the earpiece from her ear, Joey glanced down at the digital map on her global positioning system. Fifteen minutes ago, a blue blinking triangle slowly made its way toward downtown. Whatever Gallo and DeSanctis had seen, they were taking it back to headquarters. As they entered the Service’s garage, though, the blue blinking triangle disappeared and a high-pitched beep screamed through Joey’s car. System Error, the screen flashed. Transfer interrupted. Joey didn’t bat an eye. When it came to locking down external transmitters, there was no messing with the Secret Service.
45
When Charlie was in high school he used to love walking down empty streets at two in the morning. The vacuum of silence. The undertow of darkness around every corner. The noble power of being the last man standing. He used to thrive on it. Now he hates it.
Speedwalking back to our apartment, he sticks to the sidewalks, loses himself under the rows of palm trees, and every few steps, checks anxiously over his shoulder.
“Who’re you looking for?” I ask.
“How about lowering your voice?” he hisses. “No offense, but I want to see if she’s following.”
“Who, Gillian? She already knows where we’re staying.”
“Okay, then I guess we have nothing to worry about…”
“See, now you’re being paranoid.”
“Listen, Ollie, just ’cause you’ve got a new kick in your walk doesn’t mean you can shut your brain.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Shutting my brain?” Crossing into the street, I’m sick of the arguing. And the jealousy.
“Get back here,” he scolds, motioning toward the sidewalk.
“Who made you mom?” I ask. He makes a face; I love the dig. There’s a near-full moon up above, but he doesn’t bother to look. “Why’re you giving Gillian such a hard time anyway?”
“Why do you think?” Charlie asks, once again checking over his shoulder. “Didn’t you see that layer of dust in her bedroom?”
“And that’s what’s got the ants in your undies? She doesn’t touch her nightstand?”
“It’s not just the nightstand—it’s the bathroom and the closets and the drawers and everything else we went through…. If you moved into your dead father’s house, would you still keep his stuff everywhere?”
“Didn’t you hear what she said about sleeping on her couch? Besides, it took mom a year to—”
“Don’t talk to me about mom. Gillian’s been living there for a month, and the place looks like she moved in last week.”
“Oh, so now she’s working against us?” I ask.
“All I’m saying is, she’s got some random clothes and a dozen modern art, neoplastic rip-off paintings. Where’s the rest of her life? Her furniture, her CD collection—after all this time, you’re telling me she doesn’t have her own TV?”
“I’m not saying she doesn’t have her quirks—but that’s what happens when you’re dealing with an artist…”
Right there, he’s ready to lose it. “Do me a favor—don’t call her an artist. Putting tracing paper on an old Mondrian does not an artist make. Besides, have you even looked at her fingernails? That girl hasn’t painted a day in her life.”
“Oh, and suddenly you’re the authority on all things artistic? It’s called washing your hands, Charlie