The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [96]
* * * *
“I hate it when she does this,” DeSanctis said, glaring at the laptop. “It’s the same as last night—she stares down at the crossword, but never puts in an answer.”
“It’s not the puzzle,” Gallo began. “I’ve seen it before—when people know they’re in the fire, they freeze. They’re so scared of making the wrong move, they’re completely paralyzed.”
“So go to bed,” DeSanctis yelled at Maggie on the screen. “Make it easy on yourself!”
“We all have our habits,” Gallo said. “This one’s clearly hers.”
* * * *
Fifty minutes later, Maggie’s eyes continued to tick-tock between her watch and the newspaper. On any other night, the waiting alone would’ve put her to sleep. Tonight, her feet tapped against the floor to keep her awake. Two more minutes, she counted to herself.
* * * *
Annoyed and impossibly antsy, DeSanctis flicked on the thermal imager and aimed it up the block. Through the viewfinder, the world had a dark green tint. Street lamps and house lights glowed bright white. So did the hood of Joey’s car, which was now impossible to miss even though it was tucked into an alley. If she wanted the heat to work, the engine had to be at least partially on.
“Guess who’s still watching us?” DeSanctis asked.
“I don’t wanna hear it,” Gallo rumbled. Pointing to the laptop, he added, “Meanwhile, look who’s finally ready for bed…”
* * * *
Battling exhaustion, Maggie shuffled toward the kitchen and pretended to take a final gulp of tea. But as she tilted her head back, she reached into the pouch of her apron and felt around for her newest note. That was it. Time to get moving. With a twist of her wrist, she poured out the full mug of tea. But instead of marching off to her bedroom, she turned back toward the kitchen window.
* * * *
“What’s she doing now?” Gallo asked.
“Same thing she’s been doing all day—being cheap about dry cleaning.”
* * * *
Leaning out toward the clothesline, Maggie tugged hand over fist to rein in the night’s final load. Halfway through, she stopped to stretch her fingers, which were suddenly burning with pain. Forget the arthritis and the hours hunched over the sewing machine—the stress alone was finally taking its toll.
* * * *
“She’s ready to break,” Gallo said, studying the small screen and reading her body language from behind. “She can’t take another night like this.”
“Check it out—you can see her arms,” DeSanctis gloated, still looking through the thermal imager. He flipped open the LCD screen on the side of the camera so Gallo could get a look. Sure enough, sticking out of the green-tinted building were two pasty white arms that glowed like incandescent snakes slithering through the night.
“What’s that stuff over here?” Gallo asked as he pointed to tiny white splotches on the rope of the clothesline.
“That’s the residue from her touch,” DeSanctis explained. “The rope’s so cold, every time she grabs it, it holds the warmth and gives us a thermal afterglow.”
Gallo’s eyes narrowed as he studied the white spots on the glowing conveyor belt. As they scrolled away from Maggie, each spot faded and disappeared.
* * * *
One by one, Maggie inspected each piece of clothing on the line. Dry came in; wet stayed out. By the time she was done, the only thing left was the still damp white sheet. Keeping her head down, Maggie eyed the dark window across the alley. In the shadows, as before, Saundra Finkelstein nodded.
* * * *
On the LCD screen, Gallo and DeSanctis watched Maggie unclip the clothespins, reach under the sheet, and rotate it a half-turn. Thanks to the low temperature of the wet fabric, her arms glowed faintly underneath. Clipping the pins back in place, she gave