The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [123]
Grabbing her cell phone from her purse, she went right for speed-dial.
“How was your flight? You get free peanuts?” Noreen answered.
“Ever hear of a guy named Martin Duckworth?” Joey asked, staring down at the rolled-up Wired.
“Isn’t that the guy whose name is on the bank account?”
“That’s the one. According to Lapidus and the records at Greene, he’s living in New York—but I’ll bet if we put him through the meat grinder, we’ll get something more.”
“Give me five minutes. Anything else?”
“I also need you to find their relatives for me,” Joey explained as she walked closer to the wall. “Charlie and Oliver—anyone and everyone they might know in Florida.”
“C’mon, boss—you think I didn’t do that the moment you stepped on a plane for Miami?”
“Can you send me the list?”
“There’s only one name on it,” Noreen said. “But I thought you said they were too smart to hide with relatives.”
“Not anymore—from the look of things here, they had a little surprise visit from Gallo and DeSanctis.”
“You think they got nabbed?”
Still picturing the stain on the carpet, Joey stood up on the lounge chair and ran her fingertips against the missing chunk of the concrete wall. No blood anywhere. “I can’t speak for both of them, but something tells me at least one got away—and if he’s on the run…”
“… he’ll be desperate,” Noreen agreed. “Give me ten minutes—you’ll have everything.”
57
When I was twelve years old, I lost Charlie in the mall at Kings Plaza. Mom was in one of the old discount stores, deciding what to put on layaway; Charlie was sneaking through Spencer Gifts, trying his best to sniff the “Adults Only” erotic candles; and I… I was supposed to have him right by my side. But when I turned around to show him their selection of nudie playing cards, I realized he was gone. I knew it instantly—he wasn’t hiding or wandering off in a corner of the store. He was missing.
For twenty-five minutes, I frantically ran from store to store, shouting his name. Until the moment we found him—licking the glass at JoAnn’s Nut House—there was a stabbing pain that burrowed into my chest. It’s nothing compared to what I’m feeling right now.
“Can I help you?” the security guard at the front desk asks. He’s an older man with a Kalo Security uniform and white orthopedic shoes. Welcome to the Wilshire Condominium in North Miami Beach, Florida. The one place to go in an emergency.
“I’m here to see my grandma,” I say, using my nice-boy voice.
“Write your name,” he says, pointing to the sign-in book. Scribbling something illegible, I scan every signature above mine. None of them is Charlie’s. Still, we went over this a dozen times. If we ever got lost, go to what’s safe. Under Resident,I add the words “Grandma Miller.”
“So you’re Dotty’s?” he asks, suddenly warming up.
“Y-Yeah, Dotty’s,” I say, stepping into the lobby. Sure, it’s a lie, but it’s not like I’m a stranger. For almost fifteen years, my grandmother, Pauline Balducci, lived in this building. Three years ago, she died here—which is precisely why I use the name of her old neighbor to get us in.
“Dotty’s grandson!” the security guy boasts to passing residents in the lobby. “He’s got the same nose, no?”
Dragging Gillian by the arm, I cut through the lobby, pass the bank of elevators, and follow the exit signs down the twisting, peeling-wallpapered hallway that reeks of chlorine. Pool area, straight ahead. Mom used to send us here for some quality time with the good side of the family. Instead, it was two weeks of splash fights, breath-holding contests, and the Condo Commandos complaining that we were diving too loud, whatever that meant. Even now, as I step outside, a brother and sister are knee-deep in a ruthless game of Marco Polo. The boy closes his eyes and yells, “Marco!” The girl shouts, “Polo!” When he gets close, she darts up the stairs, runs around the pool, and jumps back in. Blatant cheating.