The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [143]
“He still should’ve called.”
“Can you please stop with the guilty mother routine?” his associate pleaded. “He said you already went through this—once Oliver and Charlie found what was in the remote, we were better off putting out the whole fire. After everything else, the last thing we need is to get burned by a loose end.”
“He still should’ve dropped word with me—especially when he’s just sitting on his ass in New York.”
“No, no, no—not anymore. He flew in first thing this morning.”
“Really?” Gallo asked as the Florida interstate whizzed past his window. “So he’s close?”
“Close as he can get. But if it makes you feel any better, next time we’ll send a Hallmark.”
“Actually, you should send it to DeSanctis. He’s the one that got gashed in the head.”
“Yeah… sorry about that…”
“Sure you are,” Gallo said coldly. Turning toward DeSanctis, he pointed to the sign for the Florida Turnpike.
“You positive?” DeSanctis whispered as Gallo nodded.
“Listen, I gotta run. I’m in demand these days.”
Gallo rolled his eyes. “So you’re sure they’re going to Disney World?” he asked.
“That’s where the backup copies are,” she replied. “And the one remaining place where Charlie and Oliver can still prove what happened.”
Gallo squeezed his phone as he thought about the tapes. “I still don’t see why we don’t clip their necks now and save ourselves the headache.”
“Because contrary to what the macho portion of your brain says, torturing them isn’t the way to get your hands on the money.”
“And your way is?”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Gillian said as her voice sank down to a whisper. “A few hours, to be exact.”
69
You sure we shouldn’t rent a minivan or something more Disney-ish?” Charlie asks as he takes a full whiff of the gas station. He’s tucked in the backseat and calling the questions out the driver’s side window. I’m squeezing the nozzle and pumping the car full of gas. He already started to join us outside, but stopped himself before his foot hit the pavement. He’s finally learned caution. The less seen, the better.
“And how do you plan on renting this van? With what credit card?” I ask as I squeegee the front window. Anything to keep us looking normal. “Remember what that guy said in Hoboken? It’s the big purchases that get you noticed.”
“Didn’t he also say something about scorned women?” he counters.
I make a face. A week ago, I would’ve gotten into it. Today, it’s not worth it.
The gas nozzle clicks, telling us the tank is full. Stuck in the backseat and lost in the fumes, Charlie looks like he’s six years old. Back then, when dad took us to the gas station on Ocean Avenue, he used to always say, “Ten bucks, please.” Not “Fill it up.” He only said “Fill it up,” when he closed a big deal. That was twice. Everything else was ten bucks. But—dad being dad—he still used full service. Just to prove we had some class.
“We ready?” Gillian asks, turning the corner and returning from the minimart bathroom. I nod as I slap the gas tank shut. Gillian hops in the driver’s seat and readjusts the rearview. She glances at Charlie in the mirror, but when he catches her eye, she looks away, hits the gas, and sends us whipping back in our seats. Cats and dogs.
According to the guy in the gas station, it’s a three-hour drive to Orlando. If we’re fast, we’ll be there before dark.
Fourteen miles later, we’re at a dead stop in traffic. The Florida Turnpike may be the fastest route to Orlando, but as we wait in line at the Cypress Creek toll booth, nothing moves quickly.
“This is ridiculous,” I complain as we inch forward. “They’ve got two hundred cars and four open toll lanes.”
“Welcome to Florida math,” Gillian replies. Swerving to the left, she angles for the one lane that actually looks like it’s moving. Directly in front of us, while other cars roll forward, a black Acura sits still for about thirty seconds too long. “Let’s go! ” Gillian shouts as she pounds the horn. “Pick a lane and move!”
“Can I ask a silly question?” Charlie interrupts from the backseat.