The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [37]
“I don’t underst—”
“Stay by the door and watch reactions,” he barks, his patience long gone. “I know we’ve got an agent taking attendance… but whoever did this… they’re too smart to call in sick. That’s why I want you to keep an eye on people when they walk in. If they’ve got a guilty conscience, the agent alone’ll freak them out… you can’t hide panic. Even if it’s just a pause or an open mouth. You know the people, Oliver. Find out who did it for me.” He puts an arm on my shoulder and rushes me toward the door. Lapidus and Shep march off to the conference room. Searching for options, I head downstairs. I just need a second to think.
By the time the elevator doors open in the lobby, I’m completely exhausted. The hurricane’s hit too fast. Everything’s spinning. Still, there’s not much of a choice. Follow orders. Anything else is suspicious.
Sliding up to the teller booth that runs along the righthand wall, I grab a deposit slip and pretend to fill it out. It’s the best way to watch the door, where the agent with the blond hair is still checking people off.
One by one they walk in and give their names. Not a single one of them pauses or thinks twice about it. I’m not surprised—the only one with the guilty conscience is me. But the more I sit there, the more the whole thing doesn’t make sense. Sure, for me and Charlie, three million is a solid hunk of change, but around here… it’s not a life-changer. And the way Shep asked me about it—about whether it was me—he wasn’t just worried about being caught… he lost something too. And now that I finally stop to think about it… maybe… so did we.
Searching the always bustling front lobby, I check to see if anyone’s watching. Secretaries, analysts, even the agent in charge—everyone’s caught up in their day-to-day. The crowd comes in the revolving door and their names are checked off. I glide toward the same door, figuring it’s my best way out—
“Have you signed in?” the agent with blond hair snaps.
“Y-Yeah,” I say as the co-workers in line stare me down. “Oliver Caruso.”
He checks his list, then looks up. “Go ahead.”
I plow forward shoulder-first and push the door as hard as I can. As it gives, I’m thrown out on the frozen street, skidding full speed around the corner.
Racing up Park Avenue, I look around for a newsstand. I should know better. This neighborhood doesn’t exactly attract the crowd who buys off the street. Except for payphones, the corners are empty. Ignoring the pain of running in dress shoes, I make a sharp left on 37th and take off toward the end of the block. The concrete’s making me feel every step. The moment I hit Madison Avenue, I slam on the brakes and slide up to an outdoor newsstand.
“Do you have phone cards?” I ask the unshaven guy who’s warming himself on a space heater behind the counter.
He motions Vanna White—style at his world of wares. “Whattya you think?”
I look around, searching for—
“Here,” he interrupts, pointing over his own shoulder. Next to the toilet-paper-rolls of scratch-off lottery tickets.
“I’ll take the twenty-five-dollar one,” I tell him.
“Beautiful,” he says. He pulls the Statue of Liberty one from the clipboard, and I toss him two twenties.
Waiting for my change, I rip off the plastic wrapper right there. Sure, I could go back to the law firm, but after this morning, I don’t want anything tracing me to yesterday. “Will these work to call out of the country?” I ask.
“You can call the Queen of France and tell her to shave her pits!”
“Great. Thanks.” Gripping the card in a tight fist, I dart back toward Park Avenue, cross the six-lane street, and stop at a payphone diagonally down the block from the entrance to the bank. There’re more inconspicuous places to call from, but this way, no one in the bank has a clear view of me. More important, since I’m only a few blocks from the subway, I have the best possible location for spotting Charlie.
I dial the 800 number on the back of the Lady Liberty calling card and punch in the PIN code. When it asks for the number