The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [13]
Charlie shoots me a way-too-excited grin. “Maybe we’re not dealing with a millionaire.”
“What’re you saying? You think Duckworth didn’t send this letter?”
“You tell me—have you spoken to him lately?”
“We’re not required to—” I cut myself off, suddenly seeing what he’s driving at. “All we do is send a letter to his last known address, and one to his family,” I begin. “But if we want to be safe, there’s one place open late…” I sit up in bed, flick on the speakerphone, and start dialing.
“Who’re you calling?”
The first thing we hear is a recorded voice. “Welcome to Social Se—”
Without even listening, I hit one, then zero, then two on the phone. I’ve been here before. The speaker fills with Muzak.
“The Beatles. ‘Let It Be,’” Charlie points out.
“Shhh,” I hiss.
“Thank you for calling Social Security,” a female voice eventually picks up. “How can I help you?”
“Hi, this is Oliver Caruso calling from Greene & Greene Bank in New York,” I say in that overly sweet voice I know turns Charlie’s stomach. It’s the tone I save for customer service reps—and no matter how much Charlie despises it, deep down, he knows it works. “I’m wondering if you can help us out,” I continue. “We have a loan application that we’re working on, and we just wanted to verify the applicant’s Social Security number.”
“Do you have a routing number?” the woman asks.
I give her the bank’s nine-digit ID. Once they get that, we get all the private info. That’s the law. God bless America.
Waiting for clearance and unable to sit still, I pick at the seams of my sage green comforter. It doesn’t take long to come undone.
“And the number you’d like to check?” the woman asks.
Reading from the printout of abandoned accounts, I give her Duckworth’s Social Security number. “It’s under the name Marty or Martin.”
A second passes. Then another. “Did you say this was for a loan application?” the woman asks, confused.
“Yeah,” I say anxiously. “Why?”
“Because according to our files here, I have a June twelfth date of death.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m just telling you what it says, sir. If you’re looking for Martin Duckworth, he died six months ago.”
4
I hang up the phone, and Charlie and I stare down at the fax. “I don’t believe this.”
“Me either,” Charlie sings. “How X-Files is this moment?”
“It’s not a joke,” I insist. “Whoever sent this—they almost walked away with three million dollars.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“It’s a perfect crime when you think about it. Pose as a dead person, ask for his money, and once the account’s reactivated, you close up shop and disappear. It’s not like Marty Duckworth’s going to complain.”
“But what about the government?” Charlie asks. “Won’t they notice their money’s missing?”
“They have no idea,” I say, waving the master list of abandoned accounts. “We send them a printout, minus anything that’s been reactivated. They’re just happy to get some free cash.”
Charlie bounces restlessly on the bed, and I can see his wheels spinning. When you eat the dandelions, everything’s a thrill ride. “Who do you think did it?” he blurts.
“Got me—but it has to be someone in the bank.”
Now his eyes go wide. “You think?”
“Who else would know when we sent out the final notice letters? Not to mention the fact that they’re faxing from a Kinko’s around the corner…”
Charlie nods his head in steady rhythm. “So what do we do now?”
“Are you kidding? We wait until Monday, and then we turn this bastard in.”
No more nodding. “Are you sure?”
“What do you mean, Am I sure? What else are we gonna do? Take it ourselves?”
“I’m not saying that, but…” Once again, Charlie’s face flushes red. “How cool would it be to have three million dollars? I mean, that’d be like… it’d be like—”
“It’d be like having money,” I interrupt.
“And not just any money—we’re talkin’ three million monies.” Charlie jumps to his feet and his voice picks up speed. “You give me cash like that and I’d… I’d get me a white suit and hold up a