The back seat of the black gypsy cab is covered in a stained brown towel that smells like feet. Normally I'd roll down the tinted windows to get some air in, but right now—after hearing all those sirens—we're much better off with the tinted windows rolled up. Crouching down so no one can see us, Charlie and I haven't said a word since we got in the cab. Obviously, neither of us would risk speaking in front of the driver, but when I look at Charlie, who's huddled by the door, staring blankly out the window, I know it's not just because he wants privacy.
"Turn right at the corner," I tell the driver, peering over the headrest to get a better view of Park Avenue. The guy makes a sharp turn onto 50th Street and drives about halfway down the block. Perfect. Right here.
When the car comes to a stop, I toss a ten dollar bill between the front seats, open the door, and make sure he can't get a good look at us. We are a few blocks from Grand Central Station, but it is better not to run in the middle of the street.
"Come on," I say to Charlie, who's already trailing behind me. I walk resolutely towards the door of the Italian bakery that is just a few steps from the taxi. But the moment the car accelerates, I turn around and walk away. This is not the time to take risks. Not with me…let alone with Charlie.
"Come on," I say, running back toward Park Avenue. The cold December wind tries to push us back, but all it does is make the crowd around us, who have just eaten lunch, form a huddle and hunched forward. Better for us. As soon as we reach Park Avenue, I start up the concrete steps. Behind me, Charlie looks up at the ornate pink brick structure and finally understands. Sandwiched between investment banks, law firms and the Waldorf, lies the only island of mercy in an ocean of glitz. And more importantly, it's the closest place that no one will kick us out of, no matter how long we want to stay.
"Welcome to St. Bartholomew's Church," a soft voice whispers as we enter the vaulted stone hall. To my left, from behind a table covered with Bibles and other religious books, a beefy grandmother nods at us, then quickly looks away from her.
I put a couple of dollars in the donation box and head towards the doors of the main sanctuary where, the moment I open them, I am hit by that characteristic smell of incense and old church wood. Inside, the sky rises to form a golden dome, while forty rows of maple benches stretch out on the floor. The entire nave is dim, lit only by a few hanging chandeliers and natural light filtering through stained glass windows along the walls.
Now that lunch is over, most of the benches are empty, but not all. About a dozen worshipers are scattered among the ranks, and even if they're praying, it only takes a quick glance to realize that any one of them could be Crime Fighter of the Week. I examine the sanctuary carefully, looking for something less crowded. When a church is this enormous in size, there's usually... Here we go. On the left wall, approximately at the height of the middle of the nave, there is a door without any plate.
Charlie and I keep our normal pace, trying not to attract attention. The door opens with a loud creak. Instinctively I cringe and yank it open to silence the screeching. We rush in so fast that I stumble into the stone room, which is just big enough to hold a few wooden pews and a small votive altar filled with lighted candles. Other than that, we are alone in the private chapel.
The door closes and Charlie remains silent.
"Please don't do this to yourself," I tell him. Take your own advice: what happened to Shep... it's not my fault and it's not your fault either.
Charlie doesn't answer and collapses on a bench in the corner. His body sags and his neck jerks limply. He is still in shock. Less than half an hour ago I saw a co-worker being killed. Charlie watched someone he considered his friend die. And even though the two of them barely knew each other, even if all they did was talk about some games they played in high school, for Charlie that means a lifetime. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
The mere sight of my brother collapsed makes the feeling of vomit return to my throat.
"Charlie, if you want to talk about it...
"I know," he interrupts me with a shaky voice. He's trying really hard not to fall apart, but some things are just too strong. This isn't just about Shep. To the left, the candles burn and our shadows flicker against the stone wall. They'll kill us, Ollie, like they killed Shep.
I walk over, pat him on the back of the neck, and sit next to him on the bench. Charlie is not a crybaby. When he broke his clavicle trying to ride his bike down the stairs, she didn't shed a single tear. Or when we had to say goodbye to Aunt Maddie at the hospital. But today, however, when I open my arms, he falls into them.
-What are we going to do? she asks in a barely audible voice.
"I have some ideas," I tell him. It's an empty promise, but Charlie doesn't bother to argue. He keeps his head on my shoulder for support. On the wall we are a huge single shadow. Then my cell phone rings.
The sound echoes through the room. I jump; Charlie doesn't move. I reach into the inside pocket of my jacket and turn off my phone. When there is no answer, the person calls back. Whoever it is, he's not giving up. The phone vibrates against my chest. I unplug it.
"Are you sure we shouldn't answer?" Charlie asks, watching my expression.
"I think so," he answered quickly.
He nods like that keeps us safe. We both know it's a lie. Along the stone wall, the tiny candle flames continue to dance. And it doesn't matter that we want to close our eyes, from now on things will only get worse.
-And good? Rooster asked.
"No one's answering," Lapidus said as he hung up the receiver. I'm not surprised, Oliver is too smart to answer the call. Turning to the photocopied letter Gallo left on his desk, Lapidus looked down and skimmed it. So, this is how they did it? He asked-. A fake letter signed by Duckworth?
"According to the technicians, it's the last document Oliver typed into his computer," Gallo explained as he paced across the plush carpet. After what had happened with Joey, he wasn't in the mood to sit back down. And from the backup we found hidden in the bottom of one of Shep's drawers, it looks like he was helping them.
"So, the three of you got together this morning and when things turned sour, Oliver and Charlie killed Shep?" Quincy speculated from his usual spot by the door.
"That's the only explanation that makes sense," DeSanctis said, looking at Gallo arrogantly.
"And what about the investigation?"
Lapidus asked. As he knows, we have a number of very important clients who trust our promise of privacy and discretion. Is there any chance of keeping this matter… how shall I put it… out of the headlines?
That was exactly what Gallo was waiting for.
"I completely agree with you," he replied, seizing the opportunity. If this story makes it to the press, they'll take it upon themselves to relay our every move to Oliver and Charlie. When things get that important, it's best to stay in the shade.
"Exactly... that's exactly our position," Lapidus said, nodding vigorously at Quincy. Don't you think so?
Quincy remained motionless. His ass-licking quota was covered for the day.
"So he thinks he'll be able to find them?" Lapidus asked as Gallo picked up the phone on the corner of the desk.
Gallo looked at Quincy, then back at Lapidus.
"Why don't you leave that in our hands?" Gallo quickly dialed a number and brought the receiver to his ear. Hi, it's me," he said to the person on the other end of the line. I have a mobile lost in the city, are you ready to locate it?
I don't turn the phone back on until we're ten blocks away. And even though the light flickers, it takes me another block and a half to work up the courage to dial the number. To give myself strength I think of Charlie. As I wait for someone to answer, I try to keep my balance at the back of the bus moving towards the center; Seems like it hit all the potholes in town. Granted, the subway is more discreet, but the last time I checked, the cell phone had no reception underground. And right now I need to keep moving, anything to put distance between me and the church.
"Welcome to Greene & Greene Private Bank. What I can help? a female voice asks through the cell phone. I'm not sure who the voice belongs to, but it's not one of the operators I know. Good. That means she doesn't know me either.
"Hi, I'm Marty Duckworth," I say. I had a question and I was hoping that you could help me solve it.
As she checks my account and my Social Security number, I can't help but wonder if the bank's system is still working. If the secret service were smart, they would have closed it by now...
"I have her account in front of me. How can I help you, Mr. Duckworth?
He says the words so fast...so eagerly...I can't help but smell a trap. But I need the cheese.
"You see, I just wanted to check the latest trades on that account," I tell him. A very important deposit was made and I need to know what day it was made effective.
This is, of course, a silly question, but if we want to know what's going on, we need to know how Duckworth's $3 million became $313 million.
'I'm sorry, sir, but in the last week... there is no record of any deposit.
-Forgiveness?
I'm looking at it right now. According to our data, your current balance is zero, and the only activity on record is a $313 million withdrawal of funds yesterday afternoon. Other than that, there were no deposits in...
"And what about the day before?"
I ask, looking at the rest of the bus passengers. Nobody turns. What was my account balance the day before?
There is a short pause.
"Not including interest, it's the same amount, sir, three hundred and thirteen million." And it is the same figure that appears the day before. I don't have any recent deposits on record.
The bus stops and I keep my balance by holding on to one of the metal bars.
"Are you sure the balance wasn't three million dollars?"
"Sorry, sir, I'm just telling you what's on the screen.
She speaks and my hand slides down the metal bar. Can not be. It's not possible. How could we...?
"Mr. Duckworth...?" interrupts the woman on the other line. Can she hold on a second please? I'll be with you soon.
"Of course," I say.
The line goes silent and for thirty seconds I don't think too much about it. But a minute later I can't help but wonder where that woman has gone; it's the first rule they teach you, when you're dealing with rich people you're never supposed to put them on esp...she waits. I feel a lump in my throat. This is still a company line. And the longer I stay on hold, the easier it will be for the secret service guys to rast...
I cut off the communication; I hope I was quick enough. There's no way they can do it at that speed. Not when it's...
The phone vibrates in my hand, sending a chill down the back of my neck. I check the number on the screen, but I don't recognize it. Last time I ignored the call. This time... if they're tracking her... I need to know. -Hello? - She answered with a confident voice.
"Where the hell are you?" Charlie asks.
There is no telephone in the chapel. If you've risked calling from the street, we're in trouble.
-What's going on? These...?
"You better come back here," she says. "Tell me what happened."
"Oliver, come back here. Now! I press the stop button with the base
of the fist Goodbye, fire... Hello, embers.
"Have we caught him?" Lapidus asked, leaning over de Sanctis's shoulder.
"Wait..." DeSanctis said, looking at his laptop. On the screen, courtesy of the cell phone company's Connection Office, was the log of calls made from Oliver Caruso's cell phone.
-Why it takes so long? Rooster asked.
-Wait...
"You already said...
The screen flickered and a grid of information suddenly scrolled down. Gallo, DeSanctis, and Lapidus walked over, examining each entry: Time, Date, Duration, Current call in progress...
-We are! Lapidus exclaimed, immediately recognizing the number for the customer service line. He's on the phone with someone from the bank!
-At this building? Rooster asked.
"Yes... on the first floor..."
"It's moving," he interrupted.
From Sanctis. On the screen appeared the mobile sites that carried the call:
Initial Mobile Site: 303C Last Mobile Site: 304A
"How can you...?"
"Each number is a different tower," DeSanctis explained. When you make a call, your phone finds the nearest cell tower with a signal, but in this case your call started in one place and continues in another…" At his computer, DeSanctis scanned the cell phone map. stretched out on top of the desk—... 303C is 79th and Madison; 304A is 83rd with Madison.
"Are you going up Madison Avenue?"
DeSanctis examined the screen again.
"The call was made only two minutes ago. To get from 79 to 83... he moves too fast to walk.
"Maybe he took the subway," Lapidus suggested.
-It's not possible. The subway doesn't have a line on Madison Avenue," Gallo said. Travel on wheels, by taxi or by bus. As she ran for the door, struggling with his limp, Gallo turned to Lapidus. I need the person who is in customer service to maintain communication for as long as possible. Give him conversation... keep him on hold... anything that works.
"Do you want me to...?"
—Don't even think about picking up the phone, if he hears his voice we'll have lost him.
It's still at 304A," DeSanctis said, as he tucked a bunch of computer cables under his arm. With the laptop balancing in his palm like a pizza, he ran for the door and out into the hallway. That leaves us with a four-block radius.
"Do you think you can...?"
"You can bet on it," Gallo said as he bolted for the private elevator. You'll never see us coming.
When the bus pulls up in front of an old building at the corner of 81st, I dial the number of the Kings Plaza movie theater in Brooklyn and press send. When the recorded voice answers the call, I pick up a journal someone has left on the seat next to me, wrap it around my phone, and slide the package under the seat. If they're tracking the call, this will buy us at least an hour... and the infinite time loop should give them a moving signal that will lead them on a hunt to Harlem.
Before the rest of the passengers realize what is happening, the bus stops at a stop, the doors open, and I quickly get out. My journey is over. Fortunately, abandoned mobiles travel for free.
It takes the Citibank teller ten minutes to empty the remaining three thousand and five dollars in my account and it is one of the few times that I feel happy not being able to meet the minimum required by private banks. With its access to Lapidus, the Service would have closed an account with Greene in no time.
When I return to the church, I keep my head down and walk briskly through the main nave toward the private chapel. Ahead of me the glow of burning candles seeps under the door. I grip the doorknob tightly and look over my shoulder again to double check that there is no danger. Nobody looks at me.
I open the door, walk quickly into the small, candlelit stone room, and search the few rows of pews for Charlie. He is where I left him, in a corner, still hunched over. But now... he is carrying something in his hands. His notebook. He's writing again... no, not just writing. doodling. Fiercely. The man you can't stop.
I nod in silence. Charlie finally returns.
"What's the emergency?" - I ask.
It is the only time that he interrupts the writing.
I can't find mom.
Words have the same effect as a blow to the kidneys. No wonder it emerged from his silence.
-What are you talking about?
I called her earlier and...
"I told you not to call her!" "Listen," Charlie implores. The
I called from a phone booth seven blocks from here... he didn't pick up the phone.
-And?
"It's Tuesday, Oliver. Tuesday afternoon and she's not home?
He falls silent and lets the words take effect. As a seamstress, Mom spends most of her time at home or at the knitting store, but Tuesdays and Thursdays are reserved for fittings. Outside, the coffee table, inside, the clients. And so all day.
"Maybe she was with a client in the middle of a fitting," I venture.
"Maybe we'd better go check it out," she replies.
"Charlie, you know very well this will be the first place they'll go looking for us." And if they catch us there, we'll only endanger Mom.
Her eyes return to rest on the notebook. Forget what I said. Anyone can be stopped.
-You are well? -I ask.
Charlie nods, which is a huge lie. Once he's turned on, he's allergic to silence.
"Don't be silent again," I tell him. Mom will be fine. As soon as we get out of here, we'll figure out some safe way to get in touch with her.
"I'm sure we will," he says. But let me tell you something... if they get close to her...
He looked up, noting the subtle change in tone in Charlie's voice. He never jokes when it comes to mom.
"Nothing will happen to him," I insist.
He nods to himself, trying very hard to believe it. With his back to me, he adds:
"Now tell me what happened to Duckworth." Have you been able to find out where he has gone to the money?
"Not exactly," I say, explaining in detail my
conversation with the woman from the bank. As always, Charlie's reaction is immediate.
"I don't get it," he says. Even though when we checked he said three million, Duckworth had the three hundred and thirteen million dollars...?
"Only if you believe what he says in the files."
"Do you think she was making it up?"
"Charlie, do you know how many clients have over a hundred million dollars in assets?" Seventeen at last count... and I can name every one of them. Marty Duckworth is not on that list.
Charlie looks at me silently. -How is it possible?
"That's the question now, isn't it?" -I ask-. Obviously, someone was doing a very fine job of making it look like Duckworth only had three million dollars to his name. The important question here is: who did it and how did they manage to hide it from the rest of the bank?
"Do you really think that someone is capable of hiding all that money?"
-Why not? The bank pays us to do just that every day," I say. Think about it. It's all the rich think about: hiding their money. From the Treasury... from his ex-wives... from uncontrollable brats...
"…that's the main reason people come to us," Charlie adds, getting the idea on the fly. So with a specialty like that, there's got to be someone here who figured out a way to make an account look like one thing and actually be another. "Yes, Mr. Duckworth, his account balance is three million dollars… wink, wink, nudge, nudge." — Stupid of us, when Mary transferred the balance, we took all the dough.
Staring at the shadows the candlelight drew on the walls, we made our way through logic.
"Not bad…" Charlie admits. But for someone on the inside to...
'I don't think it was someone inside the bank, Charlie; whoever it was was getting help from...
"Gallo and his Service partner?"
"You heard what Shep said too; he was not the one who called them. They showed up at the time the money disappeared.
We both nodded slowly. It's not a bad theory.
"So, they were involved from the start?" Charlie asks.
"Tell me: what are the chances that two Secret Service agents get involved in a criminal case and then kill Shep just to return the stolen money?" I don't care how much money was at stake, Gallo and DeSanctis weren't assigned to the case by chance. They came to protect your investment.
—Maybe they were part of the plan, they sold their services...
"Maybe they've been working with the bank from the beginning.
"You mean laundering money?" Charlie asks.
He shrugged at me, thinking about it.
"Whatever it was, these guys were into something dirty, something big…something that, if all went well, would have made them a three hundred and thirteen million George Washington profit.
"Not bad for a day's work," Charlie agrees. Who do you think they planned it with?
"It's hard to say. All I know is that you can't write "secret service" without the word "secret".
"Yeah, well, you can't write 'asshole' without Lapidus or Quincy either," Charlie says, pointing.
"I don't know," he said without much conviction. You saw his reaction, they were even more scared than us.
"Yeah...because you and me and everyone else was watching." Actors do not exist without an audience. Besides, if it wasn't Lapidus or Quincy, who could it be?
"Mary," I say.
Charlie looks at me, fingering an imaginary goatee.
-Could be.
"I tell you, it could have been anyone. But we still haven't answered the first question: Where did Duckworth get three hundred and thirteen million dollars?
The candles continue their dance. I remain motionless.
"Why don't you ask the person concerned?" Charlie says.
"Duckwoodrth?" He is dead.
-Are you sure about that? Charlie asks, raising an eyebrow. If everything else is a room of mirrors, what makes you think that this is the only wall?
It's a good argument. In fact, it's a great argument.
"Do you still have his...?"
Charlie reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded sheet of paper.
"That's the nice thing about putting on the same pants you wore the day before," he says. I have it here.
When he unfolds the paper, the Duckworth address on the Midland National Bank account appears: 405 Amsterdam Avenue. With the fuse lit from him he heads towards the door.
"Charlie," I whisper. Maybe it's better to go to the police.
"Why…so they can hand us over to the Secret Service and fill our heads with lead?" I don't want to offend you, Ollie, but the fact that we have the money and the way they caught us with Shep... nobody's going to believe a word of it.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine another situation. But all I see is Shep's blood... bathing our hands. It doesn't matter what we say. Even I would not believe our words.
I go back and sit on one of the benches.
"We're dead, right?"
"Don't say that," Charlie snaps at me. I can't tell if it's about denying the evidence or being stubborn as a little brother, but it's the same. If we find Duckworth… it will be our first step in finding answers," he insists. It's our chance to shake the Magic Eight Balls. I'm not going to throw in the towel. He — Opens the door of the chapel and disappears into the great central nave.
I turn to the votive altar, contemplate the melted wax that runs down the body of the candles. It doesn't take long for it to burn completely. Only a little. That's all we have.