The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [59]
Convinced she was close enough, she picked her head up and pulled out the leash, letting it dangle down toward her knees. Now she wasn’t just an investigator, circling the block and checking windows for nosy neighbors. With the leash by her side, she was a member of the community, searching for her lost dog. Sure, it was a lame excuse, but in all her years using it, it never failed. Empty leashes took you anywhere: up driveways… across backyards… even into the narrow alleyway that ran along the side of the brownstone and held the three plastic garbage cans full of Oliver’s and his neighbors’ trash.
Slipping into the alley, Joey counted eleven windows that overlooked the garbage area: four in Oliver’s brownstone, four in the brownstone next door, and three in the one directly across the street. Without a doubt, it’d be better to do this at night, but by then, the Service would have already picked through it. That’s always the race with Dumpster Dives. First come, first served.
Wasting no time, she unzipped her coat and threw it aside. A small microphone was clipped to the top button of her shirt, and a tangle of wires ran down to a belt-attached cell phone. She plugged an earpiece into her right ear, hit Send, and as it rang, quickly flipped open the lids of all three garbage cans.
“This is Noreen,” a young female voice answered.
“It’s me,” Joey said, snapping on a pair of latex surgical gloves. It was a lesson from her first Dumpster Dive, where the suspect had a newborn baby—and Joey got a handful of dirty diapers.
“How’s the neighborhood?” Noreen asked.
“Past its prime,” Joey said as she eyed the worn brick walls and the cracked glass on the basement windows. “I assumed young banking preppyville. This is blue-collar, can’t-afford-the-city first apartment.”
“Maybe that’s why he took the money—he’s sick of being second-class.”
“Yeah… maybe,” Joey said, happy to hear Noreen participating.
A recent graduate of Georgetown Law’s night school program, Noreen spent her first month after graduation getting rejected by Washington, D.C.’s, largest law firms. The next two months brought rejections from the medium and small firms as well. In month four, her old Evidence professor placed a call to his good friend at Sheafe International. Top night student… first impression’s mousy, but hungry as can be… just like Joey the day her dad dropped her off.Those were the magic words. One faxed résumé later, Noreen had a job and Joey had her newest assistant.
“You ready to dance?” Joey asked.
“Hit me…”
Reaching into the first garbage can, Joey ripped open the Hefty bag on top and the scent of ground coffee smacked her in the face. She angled the bag to get a good peek, searching for anything with a… There it was. Phone bill. Caked with wet coffee grinds, but right on top. She wiped away the grinds and checked the name on the first page. Frank Tusa. Same address. Apartment 1.
Next.
The bag below was a dark cinch-sack that, once opened, stank from rotted oranges. Hallmark card envelope was addressed to Vivian Leone. Apartment 2.
Next.
The middle garbage can was empty. That left the one on the far right, which had a cheap, almost see-through white bag with a thin red drawstring. Not Hefty… not GLAD… this was someone trying to save money.
“Anything yet?” Noreen asked.
Joey didn’t answer. She tore open the bag, stared inside, and held her breath at the two-day-old banana smell. “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“He’s a recycler.”
“What do you mean, he?” Noreen asked. “How do you know it’s Oliver’s?”
“There’re only three apartments—he’s got the cheap one in the basement. Trust me, it’s his.” Once again checking the windows, Joey pulled a black garbage bag from her pocket, lined the