The Millionaires

20

Turning onto Oliver’s block and bundled up in an ankle-length olive green winter coat, Joey looked like any other pedestrian in Red Hook – head down, no time to talk, other places to be. Yet while her eyes stayed locked on Oliver’s run-down brownstone, her fingers were far more busy: slowly kneading the empty black garbage bags stuffed in her left pocket, and the red nylon dog leash in her right.

Convinced she was close enough, she picked her head up and pulled out the leash, letting it dangle down toward her knees. Now she wasn’t just an investigator, circling the block and checking windows for nosy neighbors. With the leash by her side, she was a member of the community, searching for her lost dog. Sure, it was a lame excuse, but in all her years using it, it never failed. Empty leashes took you anywhere: up driveways… across backyards… even into the narrow alleyway that ran along the side of the brownstone and held the three plastic garbage cans full of Oliver’s and his neighbors’ trash.

Slipping into the alley, Joey counted eleven windows that overlooked the garbage area: four in Oliver’s brownstone, four in the brownstone next door, and three in the one directly across the street. Without a doubt, it’d be better to do this at night, but by then, the Service would have already picked through it. That’s always the race with Dumpster Dives. First come, first served.

Wasting no time, she unzipped her coat and threw it aside. A small microphone was clipped to the top button of her shirt, and a tangle of wires ran down to a belt-attached cell phone. She plugged an earpiece into her right ear, hit Send, and as it rang, quickly flipped open the lids of all three garbage cans.

“This is Noreen,” a young female voice answered.

“It’s me,” Joey said, snapping on a pair of latex surgical gloves. It was a lesson from her first Dumpster Dive, where the suspect had a newborn baby – and Joey got a handful of dirty diapers.

“How’s the neighborhood?” Noreen asked.

“Past its prime,” Joey said as she eyed the worn brick walls and the cracked glass on the basement windows. “I assumed young banking preppyville. This is blue-collar, can’t-afford-the-city first apartment.”

“Maybe that’s why he took the money – he’s sick of being second-class.”

“Yeah… maybe,” Joey said, happy to hear Noreen participating.

A recent graduate of Georgetown Law’s night school program, Noreen spent her first month after graduation getting rejected by Washington, D.C.’s, largest law firms. The next two months brought rejections from the medium and small firms as well. In month four, her old Evidence professor placed a call to his good friend at Sheafe International. Top night student… first impression’s mousy, but hungry as can be… just like Joey the day her dad dropped her off. Those were the magic words. One faxed résumé later, Noreen had a job and Joey had her newest assistant.

“You ready to dance?” Joey asked.

“Hit me…”

Reaching into the first garbage can, Joey ripped open the Hefty bag on top and the scent of ground coffee smacked her in the face. She angled the bag to get a good peek, searching for anything with a… There it was. Phone bill. Caked with wet coffee grinds, but right on top. She wiped away the grinds and checked the name on the first page. Frank Tusa. Same address. Apartment 1.

Next.

The bag below was a dark cinch-sack that, once opened, stank from rotted oranges. Hallmark card envelope was addressed to Vivian Leone. Apartment 2.

Next.

The middle garbage can was empty. That left the one on the far right, which had a cheap, almost see-through white bag with a thin red drawstring. Not Hefty… not GLAD… this was someone trying to save money.

“Anything yet?” Noreen asked.

Joey didn’t answer. She tore open the bag, stared inside, and held her breath at the two-day-old banana smell. “Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“He’s a recycler.”

“What do you mean, he?” Noreen asked. “How do you know it’s Oliver’s?”

“There’re only three apartments – he’s got the cheap one in the basement. Trust me, it’s his.” Once again checking the windows, Joey pulled a black garbage bag from her pocket, lined the empty garbage can, and quickly tossed Oliver’s brown banana peels into the waiting bin. As a lawyer, she knew that what she was doing was perfectly legal – once you put your trash on the curb, it’s anyone’s to play with – but that didn’t mean you should advertise your every move.

Item by item, Joey shoveled through the muck, grabbing and transferring fistfuls of old spaghetti, discarded rotini, and leftover mac and cheese. “Lots of pasta – not a lot of cash,” she whispered to Noreen, whose job it was to catalogue. “There’s onions and garlic… a wrapper for pre-cut portobello mushrooms – that’s his baby-step to high society – otherwise, nothing expensive in the way of veggies – no asparagus or fru-fru exotic lettuce.”

“Okay…”

“He’s got a torn pair of old underwear – boxers, actually – which somehow seems impressive, though it’s actually gross…”

“I’ll make a note…”

“Some American cheese wrappers… a plastic Shop-Rite deli bag…” She pulled the deli label close to read it. “… a pound of turkey, the store-brand cheap stuff… empty bags of potato chips and pretzels… He’s bringing lunch every day.”

“How’s take-out look?”

“No Styrofoam… no Chinese delivery containers… not even a pizza crust,” Joey said, continuing to dig through the wet mess. “He doesn’t spend a dollar ordering out. Except for the mushrooms, he’s saving every dime.”

“Packaging materials?”

“Nothing. No electronics… no batteries… just a plastic wrapper from a videotape. All within his means. The biggest splurges are high-tech Gillette razors and some double-ply toilet tissue. Ooop – he’s also got a wrapper for some super-absorbent Tampax – looks like our boy’s got a girlfriend.”

“How many wrappers?”

“Just one,” Joey answered. “She’s not here every night – maybe she’s new… or she likes him staying at her place.” At the bottom of the bag, Joey shook out four filters of old coffee and used her fingers to rake through the sand dune of grinds. “That’s it. A week in the life,” Joey announced. “Of course, without the recycling, it’s only half the picture.”

“If you say so…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know… it’s just… do you really think rummaging through garbage is going to help us find them?” Noreen asked sheepishly.

Joey shook her head to herself. Oh, to be that young. “Noreen, the only way to tell where someone’s going is if you know where they’ve been.”

There was a long pause on the other end. “Think we can get the recycling?” Noreen asked.

“You tell me. What day do they-?”

“Pickup’s not till tomorrow,” Noreen interrupted. “I got the web page up in front of me.”

Joey nodded. Even the mouse had to sometimes roar.

“I bet it’s still in his apartment,” Noreen added.

“Only one way to find out…” Shoving the garbage cans back in place, Joey took her red leash on a walk toward the front of the house and down Oliver’s shaky brick stairs. Next to the painted red door was a small four-pane window that held a single blue-and-white sticker: “Warning! Protected by Ameritech Alarms.”

“My butt,” Joey muttered. This kid won’t order Domino’s; he’s certainly not springing for an alarm.

“What’re you doing?” Noreen asked.

“Nothing,” Joey said as she pressed her nose between the bars that covered the window. Squinting tight, she peered through the tiny apartment. That’s when she saw it – on the floor in the corner of the kitchen – the royal blue plastic recycling bin filled with cans… and the bright green bin stuffed with paper.

“Please tell me you’re not breaking in,” Noreen asked, already panicking.

“I’m not breaking in,” Joey said dryly. She reached into her purse and pulled out a zippered black leather case. From there, she removed a thin, wire-tipped instrument and shoved it straight into Oliver’s top lock.

“You know what Mr. Sheafe said about that! If you get caught again…!”

With a quick flick of the wrist, the lock popped and the door swung open. Pulling her last garbage bag from her pocket, Joey took a quick scan and grinned. “Come to momma…”

“Why’re you making such a big deal?” Joey asked, kneeling in front of and flipping through the two-drawer file cabinet that served as Oliver’s nightstand. To keep it out of sight, and keep his papers safe, Oliver draped a piece of burgundy fabric over the entire cabinet. Joey went right for it.

“I’m not making a big deal,” Noreen said. “I just think it’s odd. I mean, Oliver’s supposed to be the mastermind behind a three-hundred-million-dollar pie swipe – but according to what you just read me, he’s writing monthly checks to cover mom’s hospital bills and paying almost half her mortgage.”

“Noreen, just because someone smiles at you, doesn’t mean they won’t shove a knife in your back. I’ve seen it fifty times before – welcome to your motive. Our boy Oliver spends four years at the bank thinking he’s going to be a bigshot, then wakes up one day and realizes all he has to show for it is a stack of bills and a tan from the fluorescent lights. Then, to make things worse, his brother comes in and finds out he’s in the same trap. The two of them have a particularly bad day… there’s a moment of opportunity… and voilà… the dish runs away with the spoon.”

“Yeah… no… I guess,” Noreen added, anxious to get back on track. “What about the girlfriend? See anything with a phone number on it?”

“Forget digits – ready for the full address?” Flipping through the recycling bin, Joey quickly pulled out all the magazines. Business Week… Forbes… SmartMoney… “Here we go,” she said, grabbing a People magazine and going straight for the subscription label. “Beth Manning. 201 East 87th Street, Apartment 23H. When the girlfriends come over, they always bring something to read.”

“That’s great – you’re a genius,” Noreen said sarcastically. “Now can you please get out of there before the Service comes in and whips your ass?”

“Actually, speaking of which…” Tossing the magazine back into the bin, Joey ran toward the bathroom and jerked open the medicine cabinet. Toothpaste… razor… shaving cream… deodorant… nothing special. In the trash was a crumpled-up white plastic bag with the words “Barney’s Pharmacy” written in black letters. “Noreen, the place is called Barney’s Pharmacy – we want a list of outstanding prescriptions for Oliver and his girlfriend.”

“Fine. Can we go now?”

Moving back to the main room, Joey noticed a black laminate picture frame on top of the kitchen table. In the photo, two little boys – dressed exactly the same in tight-fitting red turtlenecks – were sitting on an oversized sofa, their feet dangling over the cushions. Oliver looked about six; Charlie looked two. Both were reading books… but as Joey looked closer… she realized Charlie’s book was upside down.

“Joey, this isn’t funny anymore,” Noreen barked through the earpiece. “If they catch you breaking and entering…”

Joey couldn’t help but nod at the challenge. Making a beeline for the TV, she reached around to the back of it, snared the electrical cord, and traced it down toward the wall socket. If the house was as old as she thought…

“What’re you doing?” Noreen begged.

“Just a little electrical work,” Joey teased. At the end of the cord, she saw the orange adapter that, once attached to the three-pronged TV plug, let it fit into the two-pronged wall socket. You gotta love old houses, she thought as she crouched down next to the outlet. Dragging her purse next to her, she again went for the small zipper case. Inside was an almost identical orange two-pronged adapter.

Unlike the battery-operated transmitter she’d left in Lapidus’s office, this one was specially made for long-term use. Looks like a plug and acts like a plug, but transmits a solid four miles in residential neighborhoods. No one looks at it, no one questions it – and the best part is – as long as it’s plugged in, it has an endless supply of juice.

“Are you done yet?” Noreen pleaded.

“Done?” Joey asked, yanking the plug from the wall. “I’m just getting started.”

“Can you get it or not?” Gallo asked, standing over Andrew Nguyen’s desk.

“Take it easy,” Nguyen shot back. A lean, but muscular Asian man prematurely graying at the temples, Andrew Nguyen was in his fifth year at the United States Attorney’s Office. In that time, he’d learned that although it was important to be tough on criminals, it was sometimes just as vital to be tough on law enforcement. “You want to lose another on appeal…?”

“Spare me the Constitution. These two are dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Nguyen said with a laugh. “I hear they sent you and DeSanctis chasing buses all afternoon…”

Gallo ignored the joke. “You helping or not?”

Nguyen shook his head. “Don’t give me crap, Gallo. What you’re asking for is no small affair.”

“Neither is stealing three hundred million dollars and killing a former agent,” Gallo shot back.

“Yeah… I’m sorry to hear about that,” Nguyen said, no longer willing to argue. He put away his legal pad, knowing better than to take notes. The last thing he needed was a judge making him hand them over to opposing counsel. “So getting back to your request,” he added, “have you already exhausted the rest?”

“C’mon, Nguyen…”

“You know I have to ask it, Jimmy. When it comes to wiretaps and video, I can’t pull out the big guns until you tell me you’ve gone through all your other investigative means – including all the credit card and phone records I subpoenaed for you this morning.”

Gallo paused and forced his best grin. “I wouldn’t lie to you, buddy – we’re keeping this one on the complete up-and-up.”

Nguyen nodded. That was all he needed. “You’re really going after these two, aren’t you?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Gallo said. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Omnibank Fraud Department – this is Elena Ratner. How can I assist you?”

“Hi, Ms. Ratner,” Gallo said into his cell phone as his navy Ford hugged the right lane of the Brooklyn Bridge. “This is Agent Gallo with the United States Secret Ser-”

“Of course, Agent Gallo – sorry to take so long getting back to you. We just got your paperwork…”

“So it’s all taken care of?” he interrupted.

“Absolutely, sir. We’ve flagged and notated both accounts – an Omnibank MasterCard for a Mr. Oliver J. Caruso, and an Omnibank Visa for a Mr. Charles Caruso,” she said, reading off both account numbers. “Now are you sure you don’t want them shut down?”

“Ms. Ratner,” Gallo scolded through gritted teeth, “if the cards get shut down, how’m I supposed to see what they’re buying and where they’re going?”

There was a pause on the other line. This was why she hated dealing with law enforcement. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said dryly. “From here on in, we’ll notify you as soon as either of them makes a purchase.”

“And how long will that notification take?”

“By the time they get their approval code, our computer will have already dialed your number,” she added. “It’s instantaneous.”

“Hi, this is Fudge,” the answering machine whirred. “I’m not here right now, unless of course you’re a telemarketer, in which case, I am here and I’m screening you because, quite honestly, your friendship means nothing to me. I have no time for hangers-on. Leave a message at the sound of the beep.”

“Fudge, I know you’re there,” Joey shouted into the answering machine. “Pick up, pick up, pic -!”

“Ah, Lady Guinevere, thou doth sing the song of the enchantress,” Fudge crooned, careful not to use Joey’s name.

Joey rolled her eyes, refusing to get into it. When it came to cutouts, it was better not to get involved. And when it came to Fudge, well… it’d always been her policy not to get too close to men who still go by the name of their favorite Judy Blume character.

“So what can I do for you this evening? Business or pleasure?”

“Do you still know that guy at Omnibank?” Joey asked.

Fudge paused. “Maybe.”

Joey nodded at the code. That was yes. It was always yes. Indeed, that’s what the cutout business was all about: knowing people. And not just any people. Angry people. Bitter people. Passed-over-for-promotion people. In every office, there’s someone who’s miserable with their job. Those were the ones anxious to sell what they knew. And that’s who Fudge could find.

“If I could, what would you be looking for?” Fudge asked. “Client records?”

“Yeah… but I also need monitors on two accounts.”

“Uh-oh, big money talking here…”

“If you can’t handle it,” Joey warned.

“I can handle it just fine. I know a secretary in Fraud who’s still pissed about a snotty comment at an office party with th-”

“Fudge!” Joey interrupted, turning a blind eye at the source. Sure, it made the lawyer in her cringe, but that’s what the cutout was there for. Someone else does the dirty work; she gets the final work product. As long as she doesn’t know where it comes from, she cuts out the liability. Besides, even if it is a legal fiction, it’s worked for the CIA for years.

“A hundred for the records. A grand for the ears,” Fudge said. “Anything else?”

“Phone company. Unlisted numbers and maybe a few taps on the line.”

“What state?”

Joey shook her head. “Where do you find these people?”

“Honey, go to any chat room in the world and type the words: ‘Who hates their job?’ When you see a return e-mail address with AT &T.com on it, that’s who you write back,” Fudge said. “Think about that next time you’re a jackass to the copy boy.”

“What’s this?” DeSanctis asked, flipping through a two-page document as he leaned on the trunk of his winter-worn Chevy.

“It’s a mail cover,” Gallo said, cupping his hands and breathing into them. “Bring it to their local post offices and they’ll…”

“… pull Oliver’s and Charlie’s mail and photocopy every return address,” DeSanctis interrupted. “I know how it works.”

“Good – then you also know who in the post office to hand it to. When you’re done, take the search warrant to Oliver’s. I’ve got one more stop to make.”

“What’s this?” the Hispanic woman in the dark blue post office sweater asked.

“It’s a thank-you gift,” Joey said as she held out a hundred-dollar bill.

Standing between two rickety metal bookshelves stacked with rubber-banded piles of mail, the woman leaned out of her makeshift cubicle and scanned the wide-open back room. Like the distribution area in most post offices, it was a human antfarm of activity: In every direction, bags of mail were dumped, separated, and sorted. Convinced that no one was looking, she studied the hundred dollars in Joey’s hand. “You a cop?”

“Private,” Joey said, turning on just enough lawyer calm to put the woman at ease. She hated doing this herself, but like Fudge said, when it came to mail, the scale was too large. If you wanted to build a real profile – and you needed every return address – you had to go in and find the local carrier yourself. “Private and willing to pay,” she clarified.

“Drop it on the floor,” the woman said.

Joey hesitated, searching the corners of the room for cameras.

“Just drop it,” she repeated. “No harm done.”

Lowering her arm, Joey let go, and the bill sailed to the floor. When it hit, the woman took a tiny step forward and covered it with her foot. “Now what can I help you with?”

Joey pulled a sheet of paper from her purse. “Just a little photocopy work on some friends in Brooklyn.”

“Whattya mean it’s gone?” Gallo growled into his cell phone as he pounded the elevator button for the fourth floor. There was a sharp lurch and the beat-up elevator slowly kicked into gear.

“Gone – as in, no longer here,” DeSanctis shot back. “The garbage’s been picked through, and the recycling bins are on the curb, completely cleaned out.”

“Maybe they already got picked up. What day’s recycling?”

“Tomorrow,” he said dryly. “I’m telling you, she’s been here. And if she figures out how we-”

“Don’t be a moron. Just because she stole Oliver’s garbage doesn’t mean she knows what’s going on.” The elevator doors opened and Gallo followed the alphabet around to Apartment 4D. “Besides, in the grand scheme of things, we’re about to get something a whole lot better than junk mail and some old newspapers…”

“What’re you talking about?”

Ringing the doorbell, Gallo didn’t answer.

“Who is it?” a soft female voice asked.

“United States Secret Service,” Gallo said, lifting his badge so it could be seen through the door’s eyehole.

There was a silent pause… then a fast thunking as a totem pole of locks unclicked. Slowly, the door creaked open, revealing a heavyset woman in a yellow cardigan. She pulled two pins from her mouth and stuck them into the red pin-cushion she wore around her left wrist. “Can I help you?” Maggie Caruso asked.

“Actually, Mrs. Caruso, I’m here about your sons…”

Her mouth opened and her shoulders dropped. “What’s wrong? Are they okay?”

“Of course they’re okay,” Gallo promised, reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder. “They just got into a little trouble at work, and, well… we were hoping you could come downtown and answer a few questions.”

Instinctively, she hesitated. The phone started ringing in the kitchen, but she didn’t answer it.

“I promise, it’s nothing bad, Mrs. Caruso. We just thought you might be able to help us clear it up. You know… for the boys.”

“S-Sure…” she stammered. “Let me get my purse.”

Watching her scurry back into her apartment, Gallo stepped inside and slammed the door. Like he was always taught, if you want the rats to come running, you have to start messing with their rathole.