The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [67]
Joey stepped into the elevator, and the line went dead. That’s the way it was with cell phones and old buildings. She checked the lobby one last time, but there was nothing to see. As the doors slid shut, Joey was on her own.
23
You sure this is a good idea?” I ask, keeping lookout as Charlie punches the number into the Excelsior Hotel’s payphone. It may not be the best hotel in the city, but it is the closest one with the best selection of phonebooks.
“Oliver, how else do you plan on getting on a plane?” he counters as he puts the receiver to his ear. “If we use our real IDs, we’re fools; if we use our credit cards, they track us.”
“Then maybe we should check out some other forms of transportation.”
“Like what? Renting a car and driving? You still need a credit card and ID…”
“What about the train?”
“Oh, please—you really wanna spend two days riding Amtrak? Every second we waste lets the Secret Service tighten the thumbscrews. Trust me, if we want to get out of town, this is our best option.”
Unconvinced, I lean in and make him share the receiver. In my ear, the phone rings for the third time. “C’mon…” Charlie grumbles, staring down at the New Jersey Yellow Pages. “Where the hell are y—”
“Law offices,” Bendini answers without the slightest stutter. “Whattya need?”
24
The first fifteen minutes were supposed to calm her down. No one to yell at… no one to speak to—just her—alone in a room, with nothing to stare at but a single wooden desk and four mismatched office chairs. All around her, the walls were stark white—no pictures, nothing to distract—except for the enormous mirror that ran along the righthand wall. Obviously, the mirror was the first thing Maggie Caruso noticed. It was supposed to be. As the Secret Service well knew, with today’s miniaturized video technology, there was no practical reason to still use two-way mirrors. But that didn’t mean that, even when there was no one behind them, they didn’t have their own psychological effect. Indeed, the sight alone had Maggie twisting uncomfortably in her seat. And that’s what the next fifteen minutes were all about.
Trying to block it out, Maggie used her right hand to shield her eyes. In her head, she reminded herself that everything was okay. Her sons were fine. That’s what Gallo told her. He said it right to her face. But if that were the case, what was she doing downtown, at the New York headquarters of the Secret Service? The answer came with a sharp rattle and a twist of the doorknob. She turned to her left, and the door swung wide.
“Maggie Caruso?” DeSanctis asked as he stepped inside. With a file folder swinging at his side, he was dressed in a navy suit, but without the jacket. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Serious, but hardly threatening. Behind him, Gallo followed, nodding a fast hello. Forever the seamstress, Maggie couldn’t help but notice his poorly fitted suit—a clear sign of either bad taste, vast impatience, or an oversized ego (men always thought they were bigger than they were). Despite the forty-minute car ride from Brooklyn, she still didn’t know which. But she did know what she wanted. Her voice cracked as she said the words.
“Please… when can I see my boys?”
“Actually, that’s what we were hoping you could help us with,” DeSanctis said. He took the seat on her left; Gallo took the one on her right. Neither of them sat straight across, she noticed. Both were on her side.
“I don’t understand…” she began.
Gallo looked at DeSanctis, who slowly slid the file folder on the table. “Mrs. Caruso, sometime last night, someone stole a… well… a significant amount of money from Greene Private Bank. This morning, when the thieves were confronted, gunfire was exchanged and—”
“Gunfire?” she interrupted, her voice shaking. “Was anyone…”
“Oliver and Charlie are fine,” he reassured her, cupping his hands over her own. “But in the process, a man named Shep Graves was shot and killed by the two suspects, who managed to escape.”
Maggie turned to Gallo, who was biting at a blood-red cut on his lip. “What does this have