The Millionaires (33 page)

“Right there!” Gallo shouted. “Hit
Play!
”

The tape whirred back to normal speed. With the camera on the dashboard, Gallo and DeSanctis leaned in close. For the second
time, they watched as Maggie readjusted the sheet. Her left hand clipped on the clothespin. Her right was underneath, holding
it all in place. In one quick movement, Maggie pulled her hand out and sent the sheet across the alley—and just like before,
there was a fuzzy white dot right below where the clothespin was clipped.

“There!” Gallo said, pausing the picture. He pointed right at the white dot. “What’s that?”

“I-I have no idea,” DeSanctis said. “Maybe her arm touched the blanket…”

“Of course her arm touched the blanket—she had it under there for a full minute, moron—but that dot’s still the only thing
that’s lit up!”

DeSanctis leaned in even closer. “You think she had something under there?”

“You tell me—you’re the expert in this nonsense—what could possibly hold a heat signature for that long?”

Squinting at the screen, he shook his head. “If she was hiding it in her hand… if her palms were sweaty… it could be anything—plastic…
a piece of clothing… even some folded-up paper would—”

DeSanctis stopped.

Gallo looked skyward. Four stories up, Maggie Caruso’s white sheet flapped in the night air. Across the alley, the window
directly opposite Maggie’s was black. Without a word, DeSanctis stopped the tape and raised the thermal imager. And as the
dark green picture came into focus, there was something new inside the window—a faint, milky gray silhouette of an older woman
staring out at the clothesline. Watching. And patiently waiting.

“
Son of a bitch!
” Gallo shouted, punching the roof of the car. The dome light blinked on and off at the impact. “
How the hell did we miss that?
”

“Should I—?”

“Find the neighbor!” he continued to yell. “I want to know who she is, how long she’s known them, and most important, I want
a list of every call that’s gone in and out of that house in the last forty-eight hours!”

* * * *

“If she was hiding it in her hand… if her palms were sweaty… it could be anything—plastic… a piece of clothing… even some
folded-up paper would—”

There was a long pause as DeSanctis’s voice faded. Joey glanced up the block, where both agents were staring up at—

“
Son of a bitch!
” Gallo thundered as a high-pitched feedback screech squealed through Joey’s receiver. Wincing from the sound, she turned
the volume down. As she turned it back up, the only thing left was static.

“Oh, c’mon,” she moaned, slapping the side of the receiver. Nothing but static. She hit the
Power
button and restarted the system. Static and more static. “No, no, no…” she begged, madly twisting knobs to retune the frequency.
“Please… not now…” Reaching the end of the dial, she looked back up the block. Gallo pounded the steering wheel with his fist,
screaming something at DeSanctis. Red brake lights lit up and Gallo abruptly started the car.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Joey mumbled.

Tires groaned as they spun angrily against a patch of filthy snow. Finding traction, the car swerved wildly into the street,
almost smacking into a brown Plymouth halfway up the block. And as Joey watched the red brake lights turn the corner and disappear,
she knew right there and then that it was just the start of an even longer night.

W
elcome to Suckville—Population: Two,” Charlie says dryly, knee-deep in the sea of cardboard file boxes.

“Can you please stop complaining and just check that one over there?”

“I already checked it.”

“Are you s—?”

“Yes, Oliver, I’m sure,” he says, carefully pronouncing every syllable. “For the ninety-fifth time, I’m absolutely sure.”

It’s been three hours since Charlie joined me in the Warehouse of Useless Garbage doubling as Duckworth’s garage. In hour
one, we were hopeful. By hour two, we got impatient. Now we’re just annoyed.

“What about those over there?”

Charlie glances at a stack of brown boxes stuffed between a heap of rusty lawn chairs and a broken, rotted-out barbecue. “I.
Checked. Them,” he growls.

“And what was inside?” I challenge.

His ears burn fiery red. “Let me think… Oh yeah, now I remember—it was
yet another
carton of thumbed-through sci-fi novels and outdated-as-the-dinosaurs computer texts…” Ripping the lid off the top box, he
pulls out two books: a water-damaged paperback copy of
Fahrenheit 451,
and a faded handbook titled
The Commodore 64—Welcome to the Future.

I stare him down and point to the other boxes in the stack. “What about the ones underneath?”

“That’s it… I’m gone,” Charlie announces, flying toward the door. He trips and stumbles over one of Gillian’s oversized canvases,
but for once he doesn’t land right back on his feet. Smacking into a separate stack of boxes, he regains his balance, but
only after knocking the entire pile to the ground. Dozens of books scatter across the floor.

“Charlie, wait up!”

Chasing him into the living room, I quickly spot Gillian, who’s hunched over on the armrest of her dad’s wicker chair. Her
head’s down and her elbows are resting on her knees. As she looks up, her eyes are all red—like she’s been crying.

Charlie blows right by her and disappears into the kitchen. I can’t help but stop.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

She nods silently, but that’s all she’ll give. In her hands, she’s holding a blue wooden picture frame with a tiny Mickey
Mouse painted in the bottom right corner. The picture inside is an old photograph of an overweight man standing in a swimming
pool—and proudly showing off his tiny one-year-old girl. He’s got a crooked-but-beaming smile; she’s got a floppy beach hat
and bright pink bathing suit. Even the moleman had his day in the sun. With the little girl frozen in mid-clap, he holds her
close to his chest, arms wrapped snugly around her. Like he’ll never let go.

I don’t know Gillian Duckworth all that well—but I do know what it’s like to lose a parent.

Kneeling down next to her, I do my best to get her attention. “I’m sorry we’re rummaging through his life like this…”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Actually, it is. If we didn’t get you all riled up, we wouldn’t be—”

“Listen, if I didn’t go through his stuff now, I would’ve done it in six months. Besides,” she adds, looking down at the photo,
“you never promised me anything.” She goes to say something else, but it never comes out. She just stares at the photo, shaking
her head slightly. “I know it sounds pathetic, but it just makes me realize how little I knew him.” Her head stays low and
her curly black hair cascades down the side of her neck.

“Gillian, if it makes you feel any better, we’ve got the exact same photo in our house—I haven’t seen my dad in eight years.”

She looks up and our eyes finally connect. She wipes the tears away with the back of her hand. There’s a tiny gap between
her lips. I reach out and palm her shoulder, but she’s already turned away. She buries her face in her hands, and as the tears
start flowing, she cries to herself. Even with me kneeling next to her, Gillian’s doing her best to keep it private. But eventually…
as I’m learning… we all need to open up. Sagging sideways, she leans her head against my shoulder, wraps her arms around my
neck, and lets the rest out. With each breathless weep, she barely makes a noise, but I feel her tears soak my shirt. “It’s
okay,” I tell her as her breathing slows. “It’s okay to miss him.”

Over her shoulder, I spy Charlie watching us from the kitchen. He’s searching for the glint in her eye… the flicker in her
voice… anything to prove it’s an act. But it never shows. And as he watches her crumble, even he can’t look away.

Realizing I see him, my brother spins around and pretends to recheck the kitchen cabinets. As Gillian’s sobs subside, he circles
back toward us in the room.

“Who’s up for some TV?” Charlie interrupts. “We can—” He stops and suddenly acts surprised. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s okay,” Gillian says, sitting up straight and pulling herself together.

What’re you doing?
I ask with a glance. I’m not sure if he’s jealous or just trying to calm her down, but even I have to admit, she can use
the distraction.

“C’mon,” Charlie adds, putting on his nice-guy voice and waving us over to the TV. “No more heartache—time to relax with some
mindless entertainment.”

She glances my way to check my reaction.

“Actually, it’s probably not a bad idea,” I agree. “Just to clean the mental palate…”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Charlie says as he cruises past us. Spring-boarding off the carpet, he lands on the couch with his feet
already crossed on the coffee table. Gillian follows me to the living room, her fingers holding on to my hand.

“That’s it—there’s room for everyone—one big happy family,” Charlie teases as he grabs the remote. He clicks it at the TV,
but nothing happens. Again, he clicks. Again, nothing.

“Did you hit
Power?”
I ask.

“No, I hit
Mute
—the sad thing is, I can still hear you.” Flipping the remote over, Charlie presses his thumb against the back and shoves
open the battery compartment.

Raising an eyebrow, he looks up at Gillian. The party’s over. “It’s empty.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she says. “I meant to put some new ones in.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Charlie, didn’t you say there were some in the closet?”

“Yeah,” he says coldly, still locked on Gillian. “There’s a whole toolbox of ’em. Every size imaginable.”

Running back and forth to the closet, I return with a handful of fresh double-As. Gillian’s already manually turned on the
TV, but Charlie’s focused on the remote. He slides the batteries in and gives it another shot. Nothing happens.

“Maybe it’s broken.”

“In this house?” Gillian asks. “Dad fixed everything.”

“Here, give it here,” I say to Charlie as I sit on the edge of the coffee table. Time for the trick I used to use on my old
Walkman. Pulling the batteries out of the back, I bring the remote up to my lips and blow a quick puff of air into the empty
battery area. To my surprise, I hear a fast, fluttering sound—like when you blow hard against a blade of grass… or the edge
of a sheet of paper.

Charlie’s head slowly cocks off-center. I know what he’s thinking.

“Maybe it
is
broken,” Gillian admits.

“No way,” Charlie insists. His eyes are wide with that hungry look on his face. In any other house, a broken remote is just
that. But here… like Gillian said, Duckworth fixed everything. “Let me have it,” Charlie demands.

I’m already one step ahead. Cramming two fingers into the battery compartment, I start feeling around for whatever made that
noise. Nothing there.

Charlie’s out of his seat, anxiously standing over me. “Break it open.”

Gillian shakes her head. “You really think he…”

“Break it!” he repeats.

With my fingers still inside, I yank hard on the back of the remote. It doesn’t give. Not enough leverage.

“Here,” Charlie says, tossing me a nearby pencil. I jam it into the battery area, and pull hard on the lever. There’s a loud
crack… plastic snaps… and the entire back of the remote breaks off, flying straight into Gillian’s lap.

“Well blow me down,” Charlie says.

I’m not sure what he’s talking about. Then I look down. Inside the remote, tacked down by two thick staples, is a sheet of
paper folded up so small and tight, it has the length and width of a flattened cigarette. The Secret Service may’ve ripped
through every other nook and cranny, but they certainly didn’t come to watch TV.

Gillian’s mouth gapes open.

“What is it?” Charlie asks.

I wedge the staples out with the tip of the pencil. With a yawn, the folded-up paper slowly fans open. The excitement hits
so fast, I can barely…

“Open it!” Charlie shouts.

I unfold it in a blur of fingertips—and from inside the first sheet of paper—a glossy, much shorter piece of paper falls to
the floor. Charlie dives for it.

At first, it looks like a bookmark, but there’s a confused squint on Charlie’s face.

“What’s it say?” I ask.

“I have no idea.” Flipping it around, Charlie turns the bookmark sideways and reveals four photos—headshots, all in a row.
A salt-and-pepper-haired older man, next to a pale mid-forties banker type, next to a freckled woman with frizzy red hair,
next to a tired-looking black man with a cleft chin. It’s like one of those photo-booth strips, but since it runs horizontally,
it looks more like a lineup.

“What’s yours say?” Charlie asks.

I almost forgot. Gripping the legal-looking document, I skim as fast as I can:
Confidentiality… Limits on Disclosure… Shall not be limited to formulae, drawings, designs
… “I may’ve never gone to law school, but after four years of dealing with paranoid rich people, I know an NDA when I see
one.”