“Maybe they were on the take, selling their services…”
“Maybe they’ve been working with the bank all along.”
“You mean like money laundering?” Charlie asks.
I shrug, still thinking it through. “Whatever it was, these guys had their hands in something bad, something big… and something that, if all went right, would’ve netted them three hundred and thirteen million George Washingtons.”
“Not a bad day’s work,” Charlie agrees. “So who do you think they were scheming with?”
“Hard to say. All I know is, you can’t spell Secret Service without Secret.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t spell Asshole without Lapidus or Quincy,” Charlie says, pointing a finger.
“I don’t know,” I say doubtfully. “You saw their reactions – they were even more scared than we were.”
“Yeah… because you, me, and everyone else were watching. Actors don’t exist without an audience. Besides, if it wasn’t Lapidus or Quincy, who could it possibly be?”
“Mary,” I challenge.
Charlie stops, stroking an imagined goatee on his chin. “Not a bad call.”
“I’m telling you, it could’ve been anyone. Though it still leaves us with the original question: Where’d Duckworth get three hundred and thirteen million?” The candles continue their dance. I stay quiet.
“Why don’t you ask the man himself?” Charlie says.
“Duckworth? He’s dead.”
“You sure about that?” Charlie asks, cocking an eyebrow. “If everything else is a hall of mirrors, what makes you think this is the only wall?”
It’s a good point. Actually, it’s a great point. “Do you still have his…”
Charlie reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded-up sheet of paper. “That’s the beauty of rewearing yesterday’s slacks,” he says. “I’ve got it right… here.” Unfolding the paper, he reveals the Duckworth address that was on the Midland National Bank account: 405 Amsterdam Avenue. With his fuse lit, he takes off for the door.
“Charlie…” I whisper. “Maybe it’s better to go to the police.”
“Why – so they can turn us over to the Service, who’ll put bullets in both our heads? No offense, Ollie, but the fact that we have the money… and the way they set us up with Shep – no one’s gonna believe a word.”
I close my eyes, trying to paint a different picture. But all I see is Shep’s blood… all over our hands. It doesn’t matter what we say. Even I wouldn’t believe us. Stepping backwards, I take a seat on the bench. “We’re dead, aren’t we?”
“Don’t say that,” Charlie scolds. I’m not sure if it’s denial or little-brother stubbornness, but I’ll take it either way. “If we find Duckworth… that’s our first step to finding answers,” he insists. “This is our chance to shake the Magic Eight-Ball. I’m not giving that up.” Yanking the door open, he disappears into the sanctuary.
Turning toward the votive stand, I watch the melted wax trickle down the necks of the candles. It doesn’t take long for each one to burn down. Just a little time. That’s all we have.
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.”