The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [56]
The bus bucks to a halt and I grab a metal pole for balance. “Are you sure the balance wasn’t three million dollars?”
“I’m sorry, sir—I’m just telling you what’s on my screen.”
She says the words and my hand slides down around the pole. It can’t be. It’s not possible. How can we—?
“Mr. Duckworth…?” the woman on the other line interrupts. “Can you hold on a second? I’ll be right back.”
“Of course,” I agree. The line goes silent, and for thirty seconds I don’t think much of it. After a minute, I can’t help but wonder where my phonebanker went—it’s the first rule they teach you—when you’re dealing with rich people, you’re never supposed to put them on hol… hold on. My chest twitches. This is still a company line. And the longer she keeps me on it, the easier it is for the Secret Service to tra—
I slap the phone shut, hoping I’m fast enough. There’s no way they can do it that fast. Not when it’s—
The phone vibrates in my hand, sending a frozen chill across the back of my neck. I check the number on Caller ID, but it’s nothing I recognize. Last time, I ignored it. This time… if they’re tracing it… I need to know.
“Hello?” I answer, keeping it confident.
“Where the hell are you?” Charlie asks. There’s no phone in the chapel. If he’s risking a call from the street, we’ve got problems.
“What’s wrong? Are you—?”
“You better get back here,” he demands.
“Just tell me what happened.”
“Oliver, get back here. Now!”
I pound the bus’s Stop-Request strip with the base of my fist. Goodbye frying pan—Hello, fire.
18
Did we get him?” Lapidus asked, leaning over DeSanctis’s shoulder.
“Hold on…” DeSanctis said, staring down at his laptop. Onscreen, courtesy of the cellular company’s Mobile Telephone Switching Office, was the call log for Oliver Caruso’s cellular phone.
“What’s taking so long?” Gallo demanded.
“Hold on…”
“You already said—”
The screen of the laptop blinked and a grid of information suddenly appeared. Gallo, DeSanctis, and Lapidus all pulled in close, studying each entry: Time, Date, Duration, Current Outgoing Call…
“That’s us!” Lapidus blurted, quickly recognizing the number for the customer service line. “He’s on the phone with someone here!”
“In this building?” Gallo asked.
“Y-Yeah… on the first fl—”
“He’s moving,” DeSanctis interrupted. Onscreen were the cell sites that carried the call:
Initial Cell Site: 303C
Last Cell Site: 304A
“How do you…?”
“Each number is a different tower,” DeSanctis explained. “When you make a call, your phone finds the nearest cell tower with a signal—but here, his call started in one place and continues in another…” Next to his laptop, DeSanctis scoured the cellular map spread out across the desk. “… 303C is 79th and Madison; 304A is 83rd and Madison.”
“So he’s heading up Madison Avenue?”
DeSanctis rechecked the screen. “The call’s only two minutes long. To get from 79th to 83rd… he’s moving too fast to be on foot.”
“Maybe he’s on the subway,” Lapidus suggested.
“Not up there. Subway doesn’t run on Madison,” Gallo said. “He’s on wheels, though—either cab or bus.” Rushing for the door and fighting his limp, Gallo looked back at Lapidus. “I need your customer service person to stall as long as she can. Make small talk… keep him on hold… whatever works.”
“Do you want me to—”
“Don’t even think of picking up—he hears your voice, he’s gone.”
“He’s still in 304A,” DeSanctis called out, madly tucking computer wires under his armpit. With his laptop balanced in his palm like a delivered pizza, he rushed to the door and out into the hallway. “That gives us about a four-block radius.”
“So you think you can…”
“Good as dead,” Gallo said as they darted for the private elevator. “He’ll never see us coming.”
19
As the bus pulls up to a pristine brownstone on the corner of 81st Street, I dial the number for the Kings Plaza Movie Theater in Brooklyn and hit Send. When the prerecorded voice picks up, I grab a newspaper