The Millionaires

44

“You’re not going to like it,” DeSanctis warned as he entered Gallo’s office in the downtown Field Office of the Secret Service. It was almost two in the morning and the halls were dead-empty, but DeSanctis still shut the door.

“Just tell me what it says,” Gallo demanded.

“Her name’s Saundra Finkelstein, fifty-seven years old…” DeSanctis began, reading from the top sheet of the stack. “Tax returns say she’s been renting there for almost twenty-four years – plenty of time to become best friends.”

“And the phone records?”

“We went back six months. On average, she spends at least fifteen minutes a day on the horn with Maggie. Since last night, though, not a single call.”

“What about long distance?”

“See, that’s where it starts getting ugly. At one A.M. last night, she accepted her first-ever collect call – from a number we identified as – ready for this? – a payphone in Miami International Airport.”

Biting at the knuckle of his thumb, Gallo stopped. “What?”

“Don’t look at me…”

“Who the hell else am I supposed to look at!?” he asked, slamming the desk with his fist. “If they’re at Duckworth’s-”

“Believe me, I’m well aware of the consequences.”

“Have you looked into flights?”

“Two tickets. They’re booking them as we speak.”

Ramming his chair backwards as he stood up, Gallo let it crash into his credenza. The impact shook the half a dozen Secret Service plaques and photographs that decorated his wall. “There’s nothing to find there,” he insisted.

“No one said there was.”

“We should still call-”

“Already did,” DeSanctis said.

Nodding to himself, Gallo stormed toward the door. “When did you say we leave?”

“Next flight out – six A.M. into Miami,” DeSanctis added, chasing behind him. “We’ll be standing on their necks by breakfast.”

“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! Pick up, pick up, pick up…” She waited, but no one answered. “Are you there, God, it’s me, Joey.” Still nothing. “Okay, that’s it – now you can deal with my niece’s alphabet song – A is for Acrobat, B is for Bubbles, C is for Charley Horse, D is for-”

“D is for Death, my dear,” Fudge answered, his voice hoarse with sleep. “It’s also for Destruction, Dismemberment, Disemboweling…”

“So you know the song?” Joey asked, working hard to keep it light.

“Mommie dearest, it’s currently two-fourteen in the bloody morning. You are, indeed, the devil herself.”

“Listen, I’ll make it up to you tomorrow – no playing around – I need you to speed up that phone trace on Margaret Caruso.”

“It’s now two-fifteen in the bloody morning…”

“I’m serious, Fudge! I’ve got a crisis!”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Can’t you get your people at the phone company?”

“Now?” he asked, still groggy. “My people don’t work these hours – these hours are for deviants, and rock stars, and… and deviants.”

“Please, Fudge…”

“Call me tomorrow, sweetie-pie – I’ll have my baby-fresh scent after nine.” With a click, he disappeared.

Pulling the earpiece from her ear, Joey glanced down at the digital map on her global positioning system. Fifteen minutes ago, a blue blinking triangle slowly made its way toward downtown. Whatever Gallo and DeSanctis had seen, they were taking it back to headquarters. As they entered the Service’s garage, though, the blue blinking triangle disappeared and a high-pitched beep screamed through Joey’s car. System Error, the screen flashed. Transfer interrupted. Joey didn’t bat an eye. When it came to locking down external transmitters, there was no messing with the Secret Service.