The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [65]
“Here you go,” Frat Boy announces, reading from his organizer. “1004 Tenth Street. Sun-shining Miami Beach. 33139.”
Charlie reads over my shoulder, checking to see if it matches. “Same Bat-time. Same Bat-channel,” he whispers.
Saying our goodbyes, we leave the apartment. Neither of us says a word until we hit the stairs.
“What’d you think?” I ask.
“About Duckworth’s life state? I got no idea—though the walking Abercrombie catalogue up there didn’t act like he was dead,” Charlie says.
“That’s who you’re putting your faith in?”
“All I’m saying is, that’s two people confirming a Miami address.”
“And not just any address—a retirement address.”
Still sniffing the bleached curry, Charlie knows what I’m getting at. People don’t live in apartments like this to save for retirement—they live here because they have to. “Which means if Duckworth’s retiring to Florida…”
“…it’s because he suddenly came into some money,” Charlie agrees.
“Only problem is, according to the bank’s records, he’s had plenty of money for years. So why’s the prince dressing like a pauper?”
At the bottom of the stairs, Charlie pulls open the door to the street. “Maybe he’s trying to keep his money hidden…”
“Or maybe someone else is trying to keep his money hidden,” I point out, my voice getting quicker. “Either way, it’s not just the hallway that’s starting to reek.” I speed outside, man on a mission. “Until we talk to Duckworth, we’ll never know for sure.”
Tossing the cardboard box back to its home, I head straight for the payphone on the corner, reach for my phone card, and quickly dial the number for Florida information.
“In Miami… I’m looking for a Marty or Martin Duckworth at 1004 Tenth Street,” I tell the computerized voice that answers. There’s a short pause as we wait in silence. It’s only five o’clock, but the sky’s almost completely black, and a night wind whips down Amsterdam Avenue. As my teeth start to chatter, I step back from the booth and pull Charlie in toward the phone, hoping to keep him warm. And hidden. I search over my shoulder, checking to make sure we’re safe.
Charlie nods a thank-you and…
“You said Duckworth?” a female operator interrupts on the other line.
“Duckworth,” I repeat. “First name Marty or Martin. On Tenth Street.”
Once again, we’re back in silence.
“I’m sorry,” she finally says. “That’s a nonpublished number.”
“Are you sure?”
“M. Duckworth on Tenth Street. Nonpublished. Now is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No… that’s it,” I say, my voice completely losing steam. “Thanks for the help.”
“Well?” Charlie asks as I hang up.
“Unlisted.”
“But not disconnected,” he challenges, stepping out of the booth. “Wherever Duckworth is, he’s still got an active number.”
I look up, unconvinced… and quickly notice that we’re standing on an open street. Motioning with my chin, I point us back toward the recessed alcove that shields the entrance to Frat Boy’s building. We take a fast scan of the street and head straight for the alcove. Sliding inside, I add, “Enough with the Sherlock Holmes, Charlie. For all we know, the phone company hasn’t updated their database since Duckworth died.”
“Maybe,” he admits as he joins me in the alcove. “Though he can just as easily be tucked away in Florida, waiting for us to come visit.” Before I can argue, he flicks his finger against the Duckworth address sheet in my hands. “Like you said: Unless we talk to him, we’ll never know for sure.”
“I don’t know… why don’t we check to see if there’s a death certificate first?”
“Ollie, yesterday the bank said this guy only had three million dollars. You really trust records anymore?”
Leaning back against the concrete wall, I weigh it all carefully.
“Don’t make it all analytical, bro. Go with your gut.”
It’s a fair point. Even coming from Charlie. “You really think we should go to Miami?”
“Hard to say,” he answers. “How long you think we can hide in the church?”
Watching a throng of commuters flood off a nearby bus, I’m completely silent.
“C’mon, Ollie—even parents know when their kids are right. Unless we