The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [53]
Lapidus looked up. “What do you mean, they?”
“That’s the other part…” DeSanctis said, jumping back in. He glanced at Gallo, almost like he was getting permission. When Gallo nodded, DeSanctis cut across the room and lowered his lanky frame into one of the two seats in front of Lapidus’s desk. “As near as we can tell, Shep was killed by either Charlie or Oliver.”
“Oliver?” Lapidus asked. “Our Oliver? That kid couldn’t—”
“He could—and he did,” Gallo insisted. “So don’t talk to me about some bullshit little-boy innocence. Thanks to these two, I’ve got a man with three holes in his chest and a financial investigation that just flipped to a homicide. Add that to the missing three hundred and thirteen mil and we’ve got one of those cases that Congress holds hearings about.”
Still collapsed in his chair, Lapidus just sat there—the consequences already settling heavy on his shoulders. Lost in thought and refusing to face anyone, he stared anxiously at the Japanese bronze letter opener on his desk. Then, out of nowhere, he shot up in his seat. His voice was racing. “On Friday, Oliver used my password to transfer money to Tanner Drew.”
“See, now that’s something we should know,” Gallo said as he took a seat next to DeSanctis. “If there’s a pattern of misapprop—” Cutting himself off, Gallo felt something on the cushion of the seat. Reaching under his thigh, he pulled out a blue-and-yellow pen emblazoned with the logo of the University of Michigan. Michigan, he thought. The same place Joey’s boss, Chuck Sheafe, went t—
“Where’d you get this?” Gallo blurted, jamming the pen toward Lapidus. “Is it yours?”
“I don’t think so,” Lapidus stammered. “No, I’ve definitely never seen it…”
Gallo pulled off the cap, furiously unscrewed the barrel of the pen, and shook both pieces over the desk. Out popped a pen refill… a metal spring… and from the back part of the pen: a clear plastic tube filled with wires, a miniature battery, and a tiny transmitter. A pinhole in the base held the built-in microphone.
“Son of a bitch!” Gallo exploded. He winged the pen against the wall, where it barely missed the calligraphy scroll.
“Be careful!” Lapidus shouted as Gallo leapt out of his seat.
Knocking his chair to the floor, Gallo raged toward the door, grabbed the oval doorknob, and tugged as hard as he could.
“Can I help you?” Lapidus’s secretary asked from her usual spot behind her desk.
Gallo barreled past her and looked up the hallway… near the bathrooms… by the elevator. He was already too late. Joey was long gone.
15
The backseat of the black gypsy cab is covered with a stained brown towel that smells like feet. Under normal circumstances, I’d roll down the bubbling tinted windows for some air, but right now—after hearing those sirens—we’re better off behind the tint. Ducking down so no one can see us, Charlie and I haven’t said a word since I waved down the car. Obviously, neither of us will risk talking in front of the driver—but as I stare at Charlie, who’s curled up against the door and staring vacantly out the window, I know it’s not just because he wants privacy.
“Make a right up here,” I call out, peeking above the headrest so I can get a better view of Park Avenue. The driver makes a sharp turn on 50th Street and gets about halfway up the block. “Perfect. Right here.” As the car jerks to a halt, I toss a ten-dollar bill between the armrests, kick open the door, and make sure he never gets a good look. We’re only a few blocks from Grand Central, but there was no way I was running on the open street.
“Let’s go,” I call to Charlie, who’s already a few steps behind. I head straight for the front door of the Italian bakery right outside the cab. But the moment the driver speeds away, I turn around and walk out. This is no time to take chances. Not with myself—and certainly not with Charlie.
“C’mon,” I say, rushing back toward Park Avenue. The sharp December wind tries to blow us back, but all it does is make the surrounding after-lunch crowd bundle up and hunch over. Good for