The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [90]
“What’s with the Disney fetish?” Charlie asks.
“That’s where he used to work—fifteen years as an Imagineer in Orlando.”
“Really? So did he ever design any cool rides?” Charlie asks.
“To be honest, I don’t even know—I barely knew him growing up. He used to send a stuffed Minnie doll every year for my birthday, but that was really it. That’s why my mom left—we were just his second job.”
“When did he move back to Miami?”
“I think it was five years ago—said goodbye to Disney and found a job at a local computer game company. The pay was barely half, but luckily, he had a pocketful of Disney stock options. That’s how he bought the house.”
“And maybe that’s how he opened the account at Greene,” Charlie says, adding the rest with a glance. But we both know that even Disney stock options don’t add up to three hundred million.
I nod in agreement. “He wasn’t a bigshot at Disney, was he?”
“Dad?” she asks in that completely disarming laugh. “Naw, even with the engineering degree, he was pure worker bee. The closest he got to the action was linking the computer systems so when Disney’s central weather station sees rain coming, all the gift shops in the park get immediate messages to put out umbrellas and Mickey ponchos. The shelves get stocked before a single drop hits.”
“That’s still pretty cool.”
“Yeah… maybe—though knowing my dad, his role might be a bit… overstated.”
“Join the club,” I say with a nod. “Our dad was a—”
“Our dad?” she stops. “You two are brothers?”
Charlie pummels me with a look, and I bite my tongue.
“What?” Gillian asks. “What’s the big deal?”
“Nothing,” I tell her. “It’s just… after yesterday… we’re just trying to keep a low profile.” As I say the words, I watch her weigh each one. But like Charlie on his best day, Gillian lets it roll away. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’d never say a word.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” I smile back.
“Can we get on with this?” Charlie interrupts. “We’ve still got a house to search.”
* * * *
Twenty minutes later, we’re lost in paper. Charlie has the piles on the top of the desk, I’ve got the drawers below, and Gillian’s working the file cabinet in the corner. As far as we can tell, most of it’s useless. “Listen to this one,” Charlie says, wading through a stack of science newsletters. “The Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers’ Lasers and Electro-Optics Society Journal.”
“Ready to be shamed?” I ask. “Dear Martin, If Abby lived across the sea, what a great swimmer you would be. Happy Valentine’s Day. Your friend, Stacey B.”
“You think that beats the Lasers and Electro-Optics Society?”
“It’s a Valentine’s card from the 1950s!” I shout, waving the musty card through the air. In front of me, the bottom drawer of the cabinet is packed tight with thousands of others. “He’s got every postcard, thank-you note, and birthday card he’s ever been sent. Since birth!”
“These are all magazines and old newspapers,” Gillian says, slamming her own file drawer shut. “Everything from Engineering Management Review to the Disney employee newsletter—but nothing that’s actually useful.”
“I don’t get it,” Charlie says. “He keeps everything he ever touched, but doesn’t have a single bank statement or phone bill?”
“I’m guessing that’s what he kept here…” I say, pulling open the file drawer above the birthday cards. Inside, a dozen empty file folders sway on metal brackets.
“They must’ve grabbed them when they grabbed the computer,” Gillian says.
“Then that’s it—we’re dead,” Charlie blurts.
“Don’t say that,” I tell him.
“But if the Service already picked through this—”
“Then what? We should give up and walk away? We should assume they took everything?”
“They did take everything!” Charlie shouts.
“No, they didn’t!” I snap. “Look around—Duckworth’s got junk stuffed everywhere—fifteen