The Millionaires

34

Maggie Caruso was never a good sleeper. Even when things were going well – during her honeymoon in the Poconos – Maggie had trouble mustering five hours of continuous sleep. As she got older – when the credit card companies started calling at the end of the month – she’d be lucky to get three hours straight. And last night, with her sons gone, she sat up in bed, clawed at the sheets, and barely made two – which was exactly what Gallo was counting on when he brought her in this morning.

“Thought you’d like some coffee,” Gallo said as he entered the bright white interrogation room. Unlike yesterday, DeSanctis wasn’t by his side. Today it was just Gallo, wearing his standard ill-fitting gray suit and a surprisingly warm grin. He handed Maggie the coffee with both hands. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said, actually sounding concerned.

“Thanks,” Maggie replied, watching him carefully and studying his new attitude.

“So how’re you feeling?” Gallo asked as he pulled up a chair. Like before, he sat right next to her.

“I’m fine,” Maggie said, hoping to keep it short. “Now is there something I can help you with?”

“Actually, there is…” He let the words dangle in the air. It was a tactic he learned right when he started in the Service. When it came to getting people to talk, there was no better weapon than silence.

“Agent Gallo, if you’re looking for Charlie and Oliver, you should know that neither of them came home last night.”

“Really?” Gallo asked. “So you still don’t know where they are?”

Maggie nodded.

“And you still don’t know if they’re okay?”

“Not a clue,” she said quickly.

Crossing his arms, Gallo once again embraced the silence.

“What?” Maggie asked. “You don’t believe me?”

“Maggie, did Oliver and Charlie contact you last night?”

For the slightest of seconds, Maggie paused. “I don’t know what you’re-”

“Don’t lie to me,” Gallo warned. His eyes narrowed and the nice guy disappeared. “If you lie to me, we’ll only take it out on them.”

Clenching her jaw, she ignored the threat. “I swear to you, I don’t know anything.”

For the third time, Gallo let silence do its work. Thirty seconds of nothing. “Maggie, do you have any idea what you’re up against?” he finally asked.

“I already told you-”

“Let me catch you up on a case we worked on last year,” he interrupted, cutting her off. “We had a target who was using a typewriter to stay in contact with another suspect. It’s pretty ingenious – destroy the ribbon, fax it from an untraceable location – nothing for us to pick up on, right? Too bad for the target, all electric typewriters emit their own electromagnetic emanations. It may not be as easy to read as a computer, but our tech boys had no problem picking it up. And once we told them the make and model number of the typewriter, it took less than three hours to re-create the message from the sound that each key makes. He hit A, we saw A. We had ’em both locked up within the week.”

Maggie squared her shoulders, struggling to hold it together.

“They can’t outrun us,” Gallo added. “It’s only a matter of time.” Refusing to let up, he added, “If you help us find them, we can work out a deal, Maggie – but if I have to do this myself… the only way you’ll ever see your boys is through two-inch-thick glass. That is, assuming they make it that far.” In one smooth motion, Gallo slowly scratched at the back of his neck, and the front of his jacket spread open. Right there, Maggie caught a glimpse of Gallo’s gun in its leather holster. Staring straight down at her, Gallo didn’t have to say a word.

Her chin was trembling. She tried to get up, but her legs were dead.

“It’s over, Maggie – just tell us where they are.”

She turned away and pressed her lips together. The tears streamed down her cheeks.

“It’s the only way to help them,” Gallo pushed. “Otherwise, their blood’s on your hands.”

Wiping her eyes with her palm, Maggie searched desperately for something – anything – to focus on. But the stark whiteness of the walls kept leading back to Gallo.

“It’s okay,” he added, leaning in close. “Just say the words, and we’ll make sure they’re safe.” He put a hand on her shoulder and slowly lifted her chin. “Be the good mother, Maggie. It’s the only way to help them. Now where are Charlie and Oliver?”

Staring up, Maggie felt the world melt in front of her. All that was left were her sons. They were all she had. And all she’d ever needed. Sitting up straight, Maggie Caruso jerked her shoulder out of Gallo’s reach and finally opened her mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice measured and smooth. “I haven’t heard from them at all.”

“Don’t be such a momma’s boy,” Joey scolded through the phone. She sat back in her car and stared across the street at Maggie’s building. “Just tell me what’s in the files.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Randall Adenauer said in his native Virginian accent. “Ask again though.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Joey moaned, rolling her eyes. Still, if she wanted a law-enforcement-level search of Charlie’s and Oliver’s records, there was only one way to play the game: “Are these the type of people I want to hire?” Joey asked.

There was a pause on the other line. As the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit, Adenauer had access to the FBI’s best files and databases. And as an old friend of Joey’s father, he also had a few chits that were long overdue for payback. “Absolutely,” he said. “I’d hire both of them today.”

“Really?” Joey asked, surprised, but hardly shocked. “So everything’s clean?”

“Squeaky,” he answered. “The younger one had a few snags for loitering, but there’s nothing after that. According to our records, these two are angels. Why, what were you expecting?”

This time, Joey was the one who paused. “No… nothing,” she replied. Before she could say another word, there was a beep on the other line. Caller ID showed Noreen. “Listen, I should run,” Joey added. “I’ll speak to you later. Thanks, Poochie.”

With a click, she was on with her assistant. “Gallo and mom back yet?” Noreen asked.

Joey glanced down at her passenger seat, where a digital screen showed a blinking blue triangle moving across an electronic map toward the Brooklyn Bridge. “They’re on their way back now,” she relayed. “What about you? Anything interesting?”

“Just some old college records from the bank’s personnel office. Academically, Oliver’s grades were good, but not great…”

“Little fish, big pond… new level of competition…”

“… but according to his résumé, he was working two different jobs at the time, one of them his own business. He sold T-shirts one semester, set up limo rides another, even had his own moving business at the end of each year. You know the type.”

“Forever the young entrepreneur. What about Charlie?”

“Two years at art school, then he dropped out and finished up at City College. In both, though, the worst kind of C student: Straight As in the subjects he cared about; Cs and Ds in the rest.”

“And why’d he leave? Fear of success, or fear of failure?”

“No idea – but he’s clearly the wild card.”

“Actually, Oliver’s the wild card,” Joey pointed out.

“You think?”

“Take another glance at the details. Charlie may be better on a date, but when it comes to taking risks, Oliver’s the one who stepped further into a world that wasn’t his.” Joey waited, but Noreen didn’t argue. “Now what else did you find besides the transcripts?”

“That was it,” Noreen said. “Zip, zada, zilch. Except for mom’s apartment, all Charlie and Oliver have are some overdue credit cards and a now empty bank account.”

“And you checked everywhere?”

“Do I listen when you speak? Driver’s license, Social Security, insurance records, corporate records, property records, and every other piece of our private lives that the government’s been selling to the credit agencies for years, but only now – as they blame it on the Internet – is finally getting some press play. Otherwise, nothing fishy. How’d the FBI go?”

“Same dance – no convictions, no warrants, no recent arrests.”

“So that’s it?” Noreen asked.

“Are you kidding? This is just the first mile. Now when did Fudge say we’d have credit card and phone details?”

“Any minute,” Noreen answered, her voice quickening. “Oh, and there is one thing you might find interesting. Remember that pharmacy you wanted me to check out? Well, I called up, said I was from Oliver’s insurance company, and asked if they had any outstanding prescriptions for a Mr. Caruso.”

“And?”

“Nothing for Oliver…”

“Damn…”

“Though they did have one for a Caruso named Charles.”

Joey stopped. “Please tell me you…”

“Oh, I’m sorry – did I say Oliver? I meant Charles. That’s right – Charlie Caruso.”

“Beautiful, beautiful,” Joey sang. “So what’d you find?”

“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.”