Charlie turns the bookmark to the side and four photos appear: portraits, all in a row. An older man with graying hair; a pale guy in his forties who looked like a banker; a freckled, red-haired woman; a black guy with a tired expression and a cleft chin. It's like one of those photo booth photos, but since it's laid out horizontally, it looks more like a lineup of suspects.
"What does yours say?" Charlie asks.
I have almost forgotten. Picking up the legal-looking document, I read quickly: "Confidentiality... Restrictions on your disclosure... Not to be limited to formulas, drawings, designs..."—Maybe you never attended law school, but after After four years of dealing with paranoid rich people,' I know DNA when I see one.
-A what? Charlie asks.
"An AND, a non-disclosure agreement. It is a document that is signed during business agreements to guarantee that both parties will keep their mouths shut. It is the way you have to prevent the spread of a new idea.
"And in this case...?"
I hold up the document and point to the signature at the bottom of it. It's a strange scribble done in black ink. But the name is unmistakable. Martin Duckworth.
"I don't get it," Gillian says. Do you think dad made something up?
"Well, there's no doubt he made something up," he says, and my voice has already started racing down the mountainside. And from the looks of it, your father was after something really important.
-What are you talking about? Charlie asks.
He waved the crumpled paper in the air again.
—Read the other signature at the bottom of the contract.
Charlie grabs my wrist to keep my hand steady. «Agreed and signed. Brandt T. Katkin, Chief Strategist, Five Points Capital.»
"Who is Brandt Katkin?" Charlie asks.
"Forget about Katkin, I'm talking about Five Points Capital. With a name like that and a letter like this, I bet my underwear it's a CR.
"CR?" Gillian asks.
"Venture capital," I explain. They lend money to a new company... they keep entrepreneurs moving by investing dough in their ideas. In any case, when a venture capital firm signs a nondisclosure agreement—and you can be sure this is one of those agreements—we're talking about a lot of money.
-How do you know?
'Because that's how the business works; These VC companies see hundreds of new ideas every day: One guy invents Gossip A; another guy invents Gossip B. The two gossip inventors want to get non-disclosure agreements before they hit the stage and lift their skirts. But VC firms, well, those guys hate non-disclosure agreements. They want to see all the skirts they can lay their eyes on. And what is even more important in these cases, if a CR signs an AND, it is exposed to legal and juridical responsibilities. Last year, when our bank took a client to Deardorff Capital in New York, one of the partners said that the only way they would sign such a deal would be if Bill Gates himself walked into the room and said, " I have a great idea, sign this agreement and I will tell you about it.
"So the fact that Duckworth got those guys to sign the deal…" "…means he had an idea the size of Bill Gates," I say. I turn to Gillian. Do you have any clue as to what your father was doing? I ask him.
"No, I…I didn't know he was building anything. All of his previous inventions were small, like that eight-track device.
"It had to be something to do with computers," Charlie adds.
-Really? So you think? Gillian asks with obvious sarcasm. -Not. It's just a guess," Charlie replies with the same irony. "You two… that's enough," I warn them. Gillian, are you sure you're not thinking of anything related to this? Anything your father might be trying to sell? "What makes you think he was selling it?"
—You don't go to a CR firm unless he needs money. Your father managed to convince them to invest in his invention or he sold it directly.
"So that's how he got the money?" Charlie asks. Do you think the idea was good enough to pay him all that money?
"If they gave you three million dollars," Gillian says, "it sure must have been a great idea.
Charlie looks at me. "If they gave him three hundred million bucks, that was a fucking idea."
"What about the photographs?" Gillian suddenly asks.
She seems incredibly turned on, but as Charlie immediately points out, her bare feet are once again two fists clenched in the carpet. What does she expect? We are all looking forward to it.
"So they're not related or anything like that?" -The question Charlie.
"I've never seen them in my life. "Friends, maybe?" -I ask. "I bet one of them is Brandt Katkin," Charlie says, nodding at the nondisclosure agreement.
"It could be anyone," he added, unable to slow down my words. With a taste of hope on my tongue I examine the four snapshots. I bet these guys were his contacts at CR.
"Maybe they were just people he worked with," Charlie adds. Maybe they were guys he trusted.
"Or maybe they were the ones who murdered him," Gillian says. All of them could be members of the secret service.
The three of us were silent. At this stage of events, anything is possible.
-What do we do now? Gillian asks, unable to hide the anxiety in her voice.
"We could try to get in touch with this Brandt Katkin guy and ask him a few questions about Five Points Capital," Charlie suggests.
"At two in the morning?" Gillian asks.
"The later the better," Charlie replies, glaring at her; she refuses to budge an inch. I think we should go there and enter the house through a window. When we were in high school, Joel Westman taught me how to disable an alarm with one of those magnets you use to hold things on refrigerator doors. We can go through the files in the best Watergate style.
"No, that's a great idea," I offer my opinion. Then you two can rope me down from the air duct and I'll try to stop a bead of sweat from falling onto the ridiculously protected floor, while grabbing the VIP list. Charlie narrows his eyes.
"Are you being sarcastic with me?" "Don't be distracted," I tell him. Why risk sneaking in the back when we can easily sneak in the front door?
-As you say?
"It's about working with what we have," I say, pointing at Gillian. If they decided to make that investment in Duckworth's future, don't you think they'd want to meet their next of kin...?
"So you really want to go there?" Charlie asks.
"It'll be the first thing we do tomorrow morning," I say, still feeling the sugar rush. You, Gillian, me... and all our new friends at Five Points.
"You're not going to like this at all," DeSanctis warned as he walked into Gallo's office at the Secret Service Field Office. It was almost two in the morning and the halls were deserted and silent, but DeSanctis closed the door even so.
"Just tell me what it says," Gallo demanded.
"Her name hers is Saundra Finkelstein, fifty-seven years old…" DeSanctis began, reading from the top sheet of the stack in his hands.
Her tax return says she's been renting that apartment for almost twenty-four years...a long time to become close friends.
"And the record of the phone calls?"
"We've investigated the calls made and received in the last six months. That woman spends an average of fifteen minutes a day talking to our Maggie. Since last night, however, there has been no call.
"What about the conferences?"
"You see, that's where things start to get ugly. Last night, at one in the morning, she accepted for the first time in her life a collect call from a number we identified as (are you ready for this?) belonging to a pay phone at Miami International Airport.
-What? exclaimed Gallo, biting the knuckle of his thumb.
-Do not look at me...
"And who the hell am I supposed to look at?" Gallo asked, pounding his fist on the desk. If they're at the Duckworth house...
"Believe me, I am perfectly aware of the consequences.
"Have you found out what flights are to Miami?"
—Two tickets. They're making reservations as we speak.
Throwing the chair back as he rose, Gallo let it crash violently against the bookcase. The impact rattled the half dozen Secret Service badges and photographs that decorated the wall.
"There's nothing to find there," she insisted.
"Nobody said there was." "We should still call…" "I already have," DeSanctis said. Nodding to himself, Gallo left.
shot towards the door.
What time did you say we left?"
"The next flight to Miami is at six in the morning," DeSanctis added, following him out. At breakfast time we will be blowing our breath on the back of their necks.
"Fudge, I know you're there!" Joey yelled into the answering machine. Don't act like you're sleeping, I know you can hear me! Take it, take it, take it…" He waited but there was no response. Are you there? God, it's me, Joey. -Nothing-. Okay, now you can sing my niece's alphabet song with me: A for Acrobat, B for Bubbles, C for Cramp, D for...
"D for Dead, my dear," Fudge replied, his voice hoarse and thick with sleep. And also Destruction, Dismemberment, Disembowelment...
"Do you know the song?" Joey asked, trying hard not to lose patience.
"Dear Mom, it's a quarter past two in the fucking morning. You really are the devil himself.
"Listen, I'll explain it to you tomorrow, I'm serious, but I need you to speed up that Margaret Caruso call trace.
"It's a quarter past two in the fucking morning!"
"This is important, Fudge!" I'm in the middle of a crisis!
-What do you want me to do?
"Can't you get in touch with your people at the phone company?"
-Now? Fudge asked, still half asleep. My people don't work these hours... these hours are for perverts, rock stars and... and perverts.
"Please Fudge...
"Call me tomorrow, honey."
After nine o'clock I will already have put on my cologne for children.
He disappeared from the line with a click.
Joey removed the small earpiece from her ear and examined the digital map of his GPS. Barely fifteen minutes ago, a flickering blue triangle had moved toward the center of the city. Whatever Gallo and DeSanctis had seen, they were heading back to headquarters. However, as they pulled into the garage of the building where the Secret Service had its offices, the blue triangle disappeared from the screen and a high-pitched beep echoed from Joey's car. The warning "System error. Transmission interrupted." Joey remained indifferent. When it came to disabling external transmitters, no one could hold their own against the Secret Service.