The Millionaires (29 page)

“Well, he’s got a prescription for something called mexiletine.”

“Mexiletine?”

“That’s exactly what I said—then I called the office of the prescribing physician, who was only too happy to help out with
an ongoing insurance investigation…”

“You’re really getting good at this, aren’t you?” Joey asked. “And the final result?”

“Charlie has a ventricular tachycardia.”

“A what?” “A heart arrhythmia. He’s had it since he was fourteen,” Noreen explained. “That’s where all the hospital bills
came from. All this time, we thought they were mom’s. They’re not. They’re all Charlie’s. The only reason they’re in mom’s
name is because he was a minor at the time. Too bad for them, when the first attack hit, it took a hundred-and-ten-thousand-dollar
operation to fix him up. Apparently, he’s got some bad electrical wiring in his heart that doesn’t let the blood pump correctly.”

“So it’s serious?”

“Only if he misses his medication.”

“Aw, crap,” Joey said, shaking her head. “You think he has it with him?”

“They took off straight from Grand Central—I don’t think he has a second pair of socks, much less his daily dose of mexiletine.”

“And how long can he go without taking it?”

“Hard to say—the doctor guessed three or four days under perfect conditions—less if he’s running around or under any stress.”

“You mean like taking off and scrambling for your life?”

“Exactly,” Noreen said. “From here on in, Charlie’s clock is ticking. And if we don’t find him soon—forget the money and the
murder—those’ll be the least of this kid’s problems.”

H
e’s your father?” Charlie blurts.

“So he’s alive?” I add.

The woman looks at both of us, but stays with me. “He’s been dead for six months,” she says almost a bit too calmly. “Now
what’d you want with him?” Her voice is high-pitched, but strong—not a bit intimidated. I step forward; she doesn’t step back.

“Why’d you lie about who you were?” I ask.

To our surprise, she lets out an amused grin and runs her foot against the top of the grass. It’s the first time I realize
she’s barefoot. “Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“You could’ve said you were his daughter,” Charlie accuses.

“And you could’ve said why you were looking for him in the first place.”

Biting my bottom lip, I know a stalemate when I see one. If we want information, we need to give it. “Walter Harvey,” I say,
extending a handshake and my fake name.

“Gillian Duckworth,” she says, shaking back.

Across the street and up the block, the mailman’s making his morning rounds. Charlie hides his machete behind his back and
motions my way. “Uh… maybe we should take this inside…”

“Yeah… that’s not a bad idea,” I say, stuffing the gun back in my pants. “Why don’t you come in for some coffee?”

“With you two? After you pull a gun and a pirate’s knife? Do I look like I want my photo on a milk carton?” She turns to leave
and Charlie glares at me.
She’s all we’ve got.

“Please just wait,” I say, reaching out for her arm.

She pulls away, but never raises her voice. “Nice meeting you, Walter. Have a good life.”

“Gillian…”

“We can explain,” Charlie calls out.

She doesn’t even slow down. The mailman disappears into the apartment next door. Last chance. Knowing we need the info, Charlie
goes nuclear.

“We think your father may’ve been murdered.”

Gillian stops dead in her tracks and turns around, head cocked. She brushes three black ringlets from her face.

“Just give us five minutes,” I plead. “After that, you can wave us goodbye.” Ripping a page from the Lapidus Book of Pigheaded
Negotiations, I charge for our front door and never give her a chance to say no. Gillian’s right behind me.

* * * *

As I step into our efficiency, I wait for her to make a crack or some backhanded remark. The barren walls… the paper-covered
windows… she’s gotta say something. But she doesn’t. Like a cat exploring, she takes a quick lap around the main room. Her
thin arms sway at her side; her fingers pick at the frayed pockets of her faded jeans. I offer her the foldable chair next
to me in the kitchen. Charlie offers the futon. She heads toward me. But instead of sitting in the seat, she props herself
up on the white Formica countertop. Her bare feet dangle off the edge. My gaze lingers a second too long, and Charlie abruptly
clears his throat.
Oh, please,
he says with a glance.
Like you’ve never been in a girls’ locker room.

I shake my head and turn back to Gillian. “So you were telling us about your dad…” I begin.

“Actually, I wasn’t telling you anything,” she responds. “I just want to know why you think he was murdered.”

I look to Charlie.
Be careful,
he warns with a nod. But even he realizes we have to start somewhere.

“Up until yesterday, the two of us were living in New York, working at a bank,” I begin hesitantly. “Then this past Friday,
we’re going through these old accounts—”

“—and we came across one registered to a Marty Duckworth,” Charlie interrupts, already flying. I’m about to cut him off, but
decide against it. We both know who’s the better liar. “Anyway, as far as we can tell, your father’s account was past its
heyday—it was an old abandoned account in the system. But once we found it, and once we reported it to the head of Security,
well… yesterday there were three of us on the run. Today there’re only two.” Barely able to finish, Charlie turns away and
falls silent. He’s still haunted by what happened. And as he retells the story, it’s clear he still hears Shep… falling as
he crashed into the wooden slats. My brother’s eyes say it all.
God, why’d we do something so stupid?

Charlie looks up at Gillian, who’s staring straight at him. I hadn’t really noticed it before—she rarely turns away; she’s
always watching. Their eyes connect, and just then, she pulls back. Her feet are no longer swinging. She sits on her hands,
perfectly still. Whatever she saw in my brother, it’s something she knows all too well.

“You okay?” I ask her.

Gillian nods, unable to get the words out. “I knew… I-I knew it…”

“Knew what?”

At first she hesitates, refusing to answer. We’re still complete strangers. But the longer we sit there… the more she realizes
we’re as desperate as she is.

“What did you know?” I persist.

“That something was wrong. I knew it the moment I got the report.” Reading the confusion on our faces, she explains, “Six
months ago, it’s like any other morning. I’m pouring myself some Cheerios, then suddenly the phone rings. They tell me my
dad died in a bicycle accident—that he was riding over the Rickenbacker Causeway when a car veered out of its lane…” She shifts
in her seat as she relives the memory. Burying it back down, she adds, “Have you ever seen the Rickenbacker?”

We shake our heads simultaneously.

“It’s a bridge that’s as steep as a small mountain. When I was sixteen, it was a tough ride. My dad was sixty-two. He had
trouble tackling the paved road along the beach. There’s no way he was biking the Rickenbacker.”

We’re all silent. Charlie’s the first to react. “Did the cops—?”

“The day after the accident, I drove to his house to pick out the suit he was going to be buried in. When I opened the door,
the place looked like it was hit by a hurricane. Closets ripped apart… drawers overturned… but as far as I could tell, nothing
was taken except his computer. The best part is, instead of sending the police, the break-in was investigated by—”

“The Secret Service,” I say.

Gillian turns with a sideways glance. “How’d you know that?”

“Who do you think’s chasing us?”

That’s all it takes. Like she did with Charlie, Gillian locks her gaze on me. I can’t tell if she’s looking for the truth,
or just a connection. Either way, she’s found it. Her soft blue eyes stare straight through me.

Charlie lets out a loud, fake cough. “So what do you think they were looking for?” he asks.

“Who? The Service?” I ask.

“Of course, the Service.”

“I never found out,” Gillian explains, her voice still soft and lost. “When I called their Miami office, they had no record
of an investigation. I told them I met the agents, but without their names, there was nothing they could do.”

“So that’s it? You just gave up?” Charlie asks. “Didn’t you think that was a weensy bit odd?”

“Charlie…!”

“No, he’s right,” Gillian says. “But you have to understand, when it came to my dad’s business, secrets were just part of
the game. That’s just… that’s just how he was.”

Charlie watches her closely, but I give her a reassuring nod. When it comes to our own jackass dad, I’ve been able to forgive.
Charlie never forgets. “It’s okay,” I say. “I know what it’s like.” As I reach out to touch her arm, Gillian’s bra strap falls
from under her tank top and sinks to her shoulder. She lifts it back into place with perfect grace.

“Okay, hold on,” Charlie interrupts. “I’m still having trouble with the timeline: Your dad died six months ago, right? So
was that right after he moved from New York?”

“New York?” Gillian asks, confused. “He never lived in New York.”

He glances at me and studies Gillian. “You sure about that? He’s never had an apartment in Manhattan?”

“Not that I know of,” she says, never one to insist. “He took a few business trips there every once in a while. I know he
was scraping cash together for one of them this past summer—but otherwise, he’s lived in Florida his entire life.”

His entire life.
The words ricochet through my brain like pinballs off a bumper. It doesn’t make sense. All this time, we thought we were
looking for a New Yorker who made some cash and moved to Florida. Now we find out he’s a Floridian who could barely afford
the few trips he’d taken to New York. Marty Duckworth, what the hell were you up to?

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” Gillian asks as her eyes shift nervously between us.

I nod to Charlie; he nods to me. Time to give her another piece of the puzzle. It takes Charlie ten minutes to tell her everything
we know about her father’s run-down New York apartment.

“I don’t understand,” she says, once again sitting on her hands. “He owns a place in New York?”

“Actually, if I had to guess, I’d bet he was renting,” I clarify.

“How long did you say he was away last summer?” Charlie jumps in.

“I-I don’t know,” Gillian sputters. “Two and a half… maybe three weeks. I never really paid much… I barely even saw him when
he was here…” Her voice fades, and it looks like she’s been stabbed in the stomach. Her fair skin goes albino white. “How
much did you say was in that account you found?” she asks.

“Gillian, you don’t have to get involved wi—”

“Just tell me how much!”

Charlie takes a deep breath. “Three million dollars.”

Her mouth almost hits the floor. “
What?
In my dad’s? There’s no way. How could he possibly—?” She cuts herself off and the cogs quickly start spinning… whirling
through the possibilities. All the while, even though Charlie told her the news, she’s locked on to me. “You think that’s
why they killed him, don’t you?” she eventually asks. “Because of something that happened with the money…”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I explain, hoping to keep her moving.

“Did your dad know anyone in the Secret Service?” Charlie adds.

“I-I don’t know,” she replies, still clearly overwhelmed. “We weren’t that close, but… but I still thought I knew him better
than that.”

“Do you still have any of his stuff in the house?” he asks.

“Some of it… yeah.”

“And have you ever gone through it?”

“Just a little,” she says, her voice slowly starting to highstep. “But wouldn’t the Service have—”

“Maybe they overlooked it,” he tells her. “Maybe there’s something they missed.”

“Why don’t we take a look together?” I add. It’s the perfect offer. Safety in numbers.

Nice,
Charlie grins.

I turn away from the compliment, already feeling guilty. Regardless of how much it helps us, it’s still her dead father’s
house. I saw it in her eyes before. The pain doesn’t go away.

With Gillian’s hesitant nod, Charlie hops out of his seat, and I follow him to the door. Behind us, Gillian lingers on the
countertop.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Just tell me one thing,” she interrupts. “Do you really think they killed my dad?”

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think,” I say. “But twenty-four hours ago, I watched these guys murder one of our friends.
I saw them pull the trigger, and I saw them turn their guns on us—all because we found an account with your dad’s name on
it.”

“That doesn’t mean…”

“You’re right—it doesn’t mean they killed him,” Charlie agrees. “But if they didn’t, then why aren’t they here, trying to
find him?”

Sometimes I forget how aggressively sharp Charlie is. She doesn’t have an answer for that one.