The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [57]
Before my fellow passengers realize what’s going on, the bus bucks to a stop, the doors open, and I’m gone. My trip’s over. Luckily, abandoned phones ride for free.
It takes ten more minutes for the bank teller at Citibank to empty the three thousand five hundred dollars that’s left in my checking account, and it’s one of the few times I’m glad that I can’t afford the private bank minimums. With their access to Lapidus, the Service would’ve had an account at Greene shut down in no time.
Back at the church, I keep my head down and speedwalk through the main sanctuary, straight toward the private chapel. Up ahead, the glow of candlelight seeps out from the crack beneath the door. I grab the doorknob in a tight fist and check once over my shoulder, then again to be safe. No one looks up.
Shoving the door open, I rush into the candlelit room and scan the benches for Charlie. He’s in the same one I left him in—in the corner—still hunched over. But now… there’s something in his hands. His notepad. Once again, he’s writing… no, not just writing. Scribbling. Furiously. The man who can’t be stopped.
I nod to myself. He’s finally coming back. “So what’s the emergency?” I ask.
It’s the only time he stops writing. “I can’t find mom.”
The words collide like a kidney-punch. No wonder he snapped out of his silence. “What’re you talking about?”
“I called her before and—”
“I told you not to call her!”
“Just listen,” Charlie begs. “I called her from a payphone seven blocks away… she never once picked up.”
“So?”
“So, it’s Tuesday, Oliver. Tuesday afternoon and she’s not there?” Falling silent, he lets it sink in. As a seamstress, mom spends most of her time either in the house or at the fabric store—but Tuesdays and Thursdays are reserved for fittings. Out goes the coffee table; in come the clients. All day long.
“Maybe she was in the middle of measuring,” I suggest.
“Maybe we should go check it out,” he shoots back.
“Charlie, you know that’s the first place they’ll look. And if they nab us there, we’re only putting mom at risk.”
His eyes drop back to his notepad. Forget what I said. Everyone can be stopped.
“You okay?” I ask.
Charlie nods, which means it’s a giant lie. Once he’s wound up, he’s allergic to quiet.
“Don’t shut down again,” I tell him. “She’ll be okay. As soon as we get out of here, we’ll figure out a way to get in touch.”
“I’m sure we will,” he says. “But let me tell you something—if they go near her…”
I look up, noticing the change in Charlie’s voice. He doesn’t joke about mom. “She’ll be fine,” I insist.
He nods to himself, trying his best to believe it. With his back to me, he adds, “Now tell me what happened with Duckworth. You find out where he got the money?”
“Not exactly,” I say, carefully relaying my conversation with the woman at the bank. As always, Charlie’s reaction is immediate.
“I don’t get it,” he says. “Even though when we checked, it said three million, Duckworth had the three hundred and thirteen all along…?”
“Only if you believe what it says in the files.”
“You think she was making it up?”
“Charlie, you know how many clients have over a hundred million in assets? Seventeen at last count… and I can name every one of them. Marty Duckworth isn’t on that list.”
Charlie stares at me, completely silent. “How’s that possible?”
“That’s the issue now, isn’t it?” I ask. “Obviously, someone was doing a primo job of making it look like Duckworth only had three million to his name. The real question is, who did it, and how’d they hide it from the rest of the bank?”
“You really think someone can just hide all that cash?”
“Why not? That’s what the bank’s paid to do on a daily basis,” I point out. “Think about it—it’s the one thing every rich person loves: hiding their money. From the IRS… from ex-wives… from snotty