Naturally, there’s a punch-code lock above the doorknob. Lapidus’s code gets me in. Managing Director goes everywhere.
Ten steps behind me, Charlie enters the six-person office. The rectangular room runs along the back wall of the fourth floor, but inside, it’s the same as the cubes: fluorescent lights, modular desks, gray carpet. The only differences are the industrial-sized adding machines that decorate everyone’s desks. Accounting’s version of Play-Doh.
“Why do you always have to blow up like that?” Charlie asks as he catches up.
“Can we please not talk about it here?”
“Just tell me why you-”
“Because I work here!” I shout, spinning around. “And you work here – and our personal lives should stay at home! Is that okay?” In his hands, he’s holding a pen and his small notepad. The student of life. “And don’t start writing this down,” I warn. “I don’t need this in one of your songs.”
Charlie stares at the floor, wondering if it’s worth an argument. “Whatever you want,” he says, lowering the pad. He never fights about his art.
“Thank you,” I offer, heading deeper into the office. But just as I approach Mary’s desk, I hear scribbling behind me. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” he laughs, jotting a few final words in his notepad. “Okay, I’m done.”
“What’d you write?” I demand.
“Nothing, just a-”
“What’d you write!?”
He holds up the notepad. “I don’t need this in one of your songs,” he relays. “How good of an album title is that?”
Without responding, I once again look back at Mary’s desk. “Can you please just show me where she keeps her password?”
Strolling over to the neatest, most organized desk in the room, he mockingly brushes off Mary’s seat, slides into her chair, and reaches for the three plastic picture frames that stand next to her computer. There’s a twelve-year-old boy holding a football, a nine-year-old boy in a baseball uniform, and a six-year-old girl posing with a soccer ball. Charlie goes straight for the one with the football and turns it upside down. Under the base of the frame is her username and password: marydamski – 3BUG5E. Charlie shakes his head, smiling. “Firstborn kid – always loved the most.”
“How did you…?”
“She may be the queen of numbers, but she hates computers. One day I came in, she asked me for a good hiding spot, and I told her to try the photos.”
Typical Charlie. Everyone’s pal.
I turn on Mary’s computer and glance at the clock on the walclass="underline" 3:37 P.M. Barely twenty-five minutes to go. Using her password, I go straight to Funds Disbursement. There’s Tanner’s transfer queued up on Mary’s screen – waiting for final approval. I type in the code for Tanner’s bank, as well as the account number he gave me.
“Requested Amount?” It almost hurts to enter: $40,000,000.00.
“That’s a lot of sweet potatoes,” Charlie says.
I look up at the clock on the walclass="underline" 3:45 P.M. Fifteen minutes to spare.
Behind me, Charlie’s once again jotting something in his notepad. That’s his mantra: Grab the world; eat a dandelion. I move the cursor to Send. Almost done.
“Can I ask you a question?” Charlie calls out. Before I can answer, he adds, “How cool would it be if this whole thing was a scam?”
“What?”
“The whole thing… the phone call, the yelling…” He laughs as he plays it out in his head. “With all the chaos blowing, how do you know that was the real Tanner Drew?”
My body stiffens. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, the guy has a family office – how do you even know what his voice sounds like?”
I let go of the mouse and try to ignore the chill that licks the hairs on the back of my neck. I turn around to face my brother. He’s stopped writing.
2
“What’re you saying? You think it’s fake?”
“I have no idea – but just think how easy that was: Some guy calls up, threatens that he wants his forty million bucks, then gives you an account number and says ‘Make it happen.’”
I stare back at the eleven-digit account number that’s glowing on the screen in front of me. “No,” I insist. “It can’t be.”
“Can’t be? It’s just like that novel they release every year – the villain sets up the overachiever hero right at the beginning…”
“This isn’t a stupid book!” I shout. “It’s my life!”
“It’s both our lives,” he adds. “And all I’m saying is the moment you hit that button, the money could be headed straight to some bank in the Bahamas.”
My eyes stay locked on the glow of the account number. The more I look at it, the brighter it burns.
“And you know who gets hit if that money disappears…”
He’s careful the way he says that. As we both know, Greene & Greene isn’t like a normal bank. Citibank, Bank of America – they’re big faceless corporations. Not here. Here, we’re still a closely held partnership. For our clients, it keeps us exempt from some of the government’s reporting requirements, which helps us maintain our low profile, which keeps our names out of the papers, which allows us to pick only the clients we want. Like I said: You don’t open an account at Greene. We open one with you.
In return, the partners get to manage a significant amount of wealth under an incredibly small roof. More important – as I stare at Tanner’s forty-million-dollar transfer – each partner is personally liable for all of the bank’s holdings. At last count, we had thirteen billion dollars under management. That’s billion. With a B. Divided by twelve partners.
Forget Tanner – all I can think of now is Lapidus. My boss. And the one person who’ll shove the walking papers down my throat if I lose one of the bank’s biggest clients. “I’m telling you, there’s no way it’s all a setup,” I insist. “I overheard Lapidus talking about the transfer last week. I mean, it’s not like Tanner’s calling up out of nowhere.”
“Unless, of course, Lapidus is in on it…”
“Will you stop already? You’re starting to sound like… like…”
“Like someone who knows what he’s talking about?”
“No, like a paranoid lunatic divorced from reality.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m offended by the word lunatic. And the word from.”
“Maybe we should just call him to be safe.”
“Not a bad idea,” Charlie agrees.
The clock on the wall says I have four minutes. What’s the worst a phone call can do?
I quickly scan the Client Directory for Tanner’s home number. All it has is his family office. Sometimes, privacy sucks. With no other choice, I dial the number and look at the clock. Three and a half minutes.
“Drew Family Office,” a woman answers.
“This is Oliver Caruso at Greene & Greene – I need to talk to Mr. Drew. It’s an emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?” she snips. I can practically hear the sneer.
“A forty-million-dollar one.”
There’s a pause. “Please hold.”
“Are they getting him?” Charlie asks.
Ignoring the question, I click back to the wire transfer menu and put the cursor on Send. Charlie’s back on sidesaddle, grabbing the shoulder of my shirt in an anxious fist.
“Momma needs a new pair of stilettos…” he whispers.
Thirty seconds later, I hear the secretary back on the line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Caruso – he’s not answering his work line.”