The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [83]
We tear out of there at full speed, ducking under the sprinkler. My heart’s thundering… all I see is the street… almost there… the metal gate’s in sight…
“Where you off to, Cinderella—late for the ball?” a voice asks from our front steps.
Whirling around, we stop in our tracks. I lift the gun; Charlie raises the machete.
“Easy there, cowboy,” she says, hands already in the air. Forget the Service. It’s the woman from Duckworth’s.
“What’re you doing here?” Charlie challenges.
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on my gun. “You want to tell me who you really are?” she asks.
“This isn’t about you,” I warn.
“Why were you asking about him?”
“So you do know Duckworth?” I blurt.
“I asked you a question…”
“So did I,” I shoot back. I wave the gun to get her attention. She doesn’t know us well enough to decide if she should call the bluff.
“How did you know him?” Charlie demands.
She lowers her hands, but never stops staring at me. “You really don’t know?” she asks. “Marty Duckworth was my father.”
34
Maggie Caruso was never a good sleeper. Even when things were going well—during her honeymoon in the Poconos—Maggie had trouble mustering five hours of continuous sleep. As she got older—when the credit card companies started calling at the end of the month—she’d be lucky to get three hours straight. And last night, with her sons gone, she sat up in bed, clawed at the sheets, and barely made two—which was exactly what Gallo was counting on when he brought her in this morning.
“Thought you’d like some coffee,” Gallo said as he entered the bright white interrogation room. Unlike yesterday, DeSanctis wasn’t by his side. Today it was just Gallo, wearing his standard ill-fitting gray suit and a surprisingly warm grin. He handed Maggie the coffee with both hands. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said, actually sounding concerned.
“Thanks,” Maggie replied, watching him carefully and studying his new attitude.
“So how’re you feeling?” Gallo asked as he pulled up a chair. Like before, he sat right next to her.
“I’m fine,” Maggie said, hoping to keep it short. “Now is there something I can help you with?”
“Actually, there is…” He let the words dangle in the air. It was a tactic he learned right when he started in the Service. When it came to getting people to talk, there was no better weapon than silence.
“Agent Gallo, if you’re looking for Charlie and Oliver, you should know that neither of them came home last night.”
“Really?” Gallo asked. “So you still don’t know where they are?”
Maggie nodded.
“And you still don’t know if they’re okay?”
“Not a clue,” she said quickly.
Crossing his arms, Gallo once again embraced the silence.
“What?” Maggie asked. “You don’t believe me?”
“Maggie, did Oliver and Charlie contact you last night?”
For the slightest of seconds, Maggie paused. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t lie to me,” Gallo warned. His eyes narrowed and the nice guy disappeared. “If you lie to me, we’ll only take it out on them.”
Clenching her jaw, she ignored the threat. “I swear to you, I don’t know anything.”
For the third time, Gallo let silence do its work. Thirty seconds of nothing. “Maggie, do you have any idea what you’re up against?” he finally asked.
“I already told you—”
“Let me catch you up on a case we worked on last year,” he interrupted, cutting her off. “We had a target who was using a typewriter to stay in contact with another suspect. It’s pretty ingenious—destroy the ribbon, fax it from an untraceable location—nothing for us to pick up on, right? Too bad for the target, all electric typewriters emit their own electromagnetic emanations. It may not be as easy