The Millionaires

41

At midnight, Maggie Caruso sat at her dining room table with the newspaper spread out in front of her and a hot cup of tea by her side. For fifteen minutes, she didn’t touch either. Give it time, she told herself as she glanced up at Charlie’s painting of the Brooklyn Bridge. Better to wait the full two hours. That’s how they passed it at nine o’clock, and that’s how they did it at eleven. Anxious to get up, but unwilling to reveal her expression, she subtly angled her wrist and watched the seconds tick away on the plastic Wizard of Oz Wicked Witch watch Charlie gave her for Mother’s Day. All it took was a little patience.

“I hate it when she does this,” DeSanctis said, glaring at the laptop. “It’s the same as last night – she stares down at the crossword, but never puts in an answer.”

“It’s not the puzzle,” Gallo began. “I’ve seen it before – when people know they’re in the fire, they freeze. They’re so scared of making the wrong move, they’re completely paralyzed.”

“So go to bed,” DeSanctis yelled at Maggie on the screen. “Make it easy on yourself!”

“We all have our habits,” Gallo said. “This one’s clearly hers.”

Fifty minutes later, Maggie’s eyes continued to tick-tock between her watch and the newspaper. On any other night, the waiting alone would’ve put her to sleep. Tonight, her feet tapped against the floor to keep her awake. Two more minutes, she counted to herself.

Annoyed and impossibly antsy, DeSanctis flicked on the thermal imager and aimed it up the block. Through the viewfinder, the world had a dark green tint. Street lamps and house lights glowed bright white. So did the hood of Joey’s car, which was now impossible to miss even though it was tucked into an alley. If she wanted the heat to work, the engine had to be at least partially on.

“Guess who’s still watching us?” DeSanctis asked.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Gallo rumbled. Pointing to the laptop, he added, “Meanwhile, look who’s finally ready for bed…”

Battling exhaustion, Maggie shuffled toward the kitchen and pretended to take a final gulp of tea. But as she tilted her head back, she reached into the pouch of her apron and felt around for her newest note. That was it. Time to get moving. With a twist of her wrist, she poured out the full mug of tea. But instead of marching off to her bedroom, she turned back toward the kitchen window.

“What’s she doing now?” Gallo asked.

“Same thing she’s been doing all day – being cheap about dry cleaning.”

Leaning out toward the clothesline, Maggie tugged hand over fist to rein in the night’s final load. Halfway through, she stopped to stretch her fingers, which were suddenly burning with pain. Forget the arthritis and the hours hunched over the sewing machine – the stress alone was finally taking its toll.

“She’s ready to break,” Gallo said, studying the small screen and reading her body language from behind. “She can’t take another night like this.”

“Check it out – you can see her arms,” DeSanctis gloated, still looking through the thermal imager. He flipped open the LCD screen on the side of the camera so Gallo could get a look. Sure enough, sticking out of the green-tinted building were two pasty white arms that glowed like incandescent snakes slithering through the night.

“What’s that stuff over here?” Gallo asked as he pointed to tiny white splotches on the rope of the clothesline.

“That’s the residue from her touch,” DeSanctis explained. “The rope’s so cold, every time she grabs it, it holds the warmth and gives us a thermal afterglow.”

Gallo’s eyes narrowed as he studied the white spots on the glowing conveyor belt. As they scrolled away from Maggie, each spot faded and disappeared.

One by one, Maggie inspected each piece of clothing on the line. Dry came in; wet stayed out. By the time she was done, the only thing left was the still damp white sheet. Keeping her head down, Maggie eyed the dark window across the alley. In the shadows, as before, Saundra Finkelstein nodded.

On the LCD screen, Gallo and DeSanctis watched Maggie unclip the clothespins, reach under the sheet, and rotate it a half-turn. Thanks to the low temperature of the wet fabric, her arms glowed faintly underneath. Clipping the pins back in place, she gave the rope a final tug and sent the sheet on its way. Once again, the thermal white splotches on the rope faded in a horizontal blur – but this time, something else remained: Just below the rope – where the clothespin hit the sheet – a white golfball-sized comet streaked across the alleyway. And disappeared.

“What the hell was that?” Gallo asked.

“What’re you talking about?”

“On the sheet! Play that back!”

“Hold on a second…”

“Now!” Gallo roared.

Frantically pressing buttons on the camera, DeSanctis froze the picture and punched Rewind. Onscreen, it scrolled in reverse, and Maggie’s sheet zoomed back toward her window.

“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.