“Okay…”
“He’s got a torn pair of old underwear – boxers, actually – which somehow seems impressive, though it’s actually gross…”
“I’ll make a note…”
“Some American cheese wrappers… a plastic Shop-Rite deli bag…” She pulled the deli label close to read it. “… a pound of turkey, the store-brand cheap stuff… empty bags of potato chips and pretzels… He’s bringing lunch every day.”
“How’s take-out look?”
“No Styrofoam… no Chinese delivery containers… not even a pizza crust,” Joey said, continuing to dig through the wet mess. “He doesn’t spend a dollar ordering out. Except for the mushrooms, he’s saving every dime.”
“Packaging materials?”
“Nothing. No electronics… no batteries… just a plastic wrapper from a videotape. All within his means. The biggest splurges are high-tech Gillette razors and some double-ply toilet tissue. Ooop – he’s also got a wrapper for some super-absorbent Tampax – looks like our boy’s got a girlfriend.”
“How many wrappers?”
“Just one,” Joey answered. “She’s not here every night – maybe she’s new… or she likes him staying at her place.” At the bottom of the bag, Joey shook out four filters of old coffee and used her fingers to rake through the sand dune of grinds. “That’s it. A week in the life,” Joey announced. “Of course, without the recycling, it’s only half the picture.”
“If you say so…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know… it’s just… do you really think rummaging through garbage is going to help us find them?” Noreen asked sheepishly.
Joey shook her head to herself. Oh, to be that young. “Noreen, the only way to tell where someone’s going is if you know where they’ve been.”
There was a long pause on the other end. “Think we can get the recycling?” Noreen asked.
“You tell me. What day do they-?”
“Pickup’s not till tomorrow,” Noreen interrupted. “I got the web page up in front of me.”
Joey nodded. Even the mouse had to sometimes roar.
“I bet it’s still in his apartment,” Noreen added.
“Only one way to find out…” Shoving the garbage cans back in place, Joey took her red leash on a walk toward the front of the house and down Oliver’s shaky brick stairs. Next to the painted red door was a small four-pane window that held a single blue-and-white sticker: “Warning! Protected by Ameritech Alarms.”
“My butt,” Joey muttered. This kid won’t order Domino’s; he’s certainly not springing for an alarm.
“What’re you doing?” Noreen asked.
“Nothing,” Joey said as she pressed her nose between the bars that covered the window. Squinting tight, she peered through the tiny apartment. That’s when she saw it – on the floor in the corner of the kitchen – the royal blue plastic recycling bin filled with cans… and the bright green bin stuffed with paper.
“Please tell me you’re not breaking in,” Noreen asked, already panicking.
“I’m not breaking in,” Joey said dryly. She reached into her purse and pulled out a zippered black leather case. From there, she removed a thin, wire-tipped instrument and shoved it straight into Oliver’s top lock.
“You know what Mr. Sheafe said about that! If you get caught again…!”
With a quick flick of the wrist, the lock popped and the door swung open. Pulling her last garbage bag from her pocket, Joey took a quick scan and grinned. “Come to momma…”
“Why’re you making such a big deal?” Joey asked, kneeling in front of and flipping through the two-drawer file cabinet that served as Oliver’s nightstand. To keep it out of sight, and keep his papers safe, Oliver draped a piece of burgundy fabric over the entire cabinet. Joey went right for it.
“I’m not making a big deal,” Noreen said. “I just think it’s odd. I mean, Oliver’s supposed to be the mastermind behind a three-hundred-million-dollar pie swipe – but according to what you just read me, he’s writing monthly checks to cover mom’s hospital bills and paying almost half her mortgage.”
“Noreen, just because someone smiles at you, doesn’t mean they won’t shove a knife in your back. I’ve seen it fifty times before – welcome to your motive. Our boy Oliver spends four years at the bank thinking he’s going to be a bigshot, then wakes up one day and realizes all he has to show for it is a stack of bills and a tan from the fluorescent lights. Then, to make things worse, his brother comes in and finds out he’s in the same trap. The two of them have a particularly bad day… there’s a moment of opportunity… and voilà… the dish runs away with the spoon.”
“Yeah… no… I guess,” Noreen added, anxious to get back on track. “What about the girlfriend? See anything with a phone number on it?”
“Forget digits – ready for the full address?” Flipping through the recycling bin, Joey quickly pulled out all the magazines. Business Week… Forbes… SmartMoney… “Here we go,” she said, grabbing a People magazine and going straight for the subscription label. “Beth Manning. 201 East 87th Street, Apartment 23H. When the girlfriends come over, they always bring something to read.”
“That’s great – you’re a genius,” Noreen said sarcastically. “Now can you please get out of there before the Service comes in and whips your ass?”
“Actually, speaking of which…” Tossing the magazine back into the bin, Joey ran toward the bathroom and jerked open the medicine cabinet. Toothpaste… razor… shaving cream… deodorant… nothing special. In the trash was a crumpled-up white plastic bag with the words “Barney’s Pharmacy” written in black letters. “Noreen, the place is called Barney’s Pharmacy – we want a list of outstanding prescriptions for Oliver and his girlfriend.”
“Fine. Can we go now?”
Moving back to the main room, Joey noticed a black laminate picture frame on top of the kitchen table. In the photo, two little boys – dressed exactly the same in tight-fitting red turtlenecks – were sitting on an oversized sofa, their feet dangling over the cushions. Oliver looked about six; Charlie looked two. Both were reading books… but as Joey looked closer… she realized Charlie’s book was upside down.
“Joey, this isn’t funny anymore,” Noreen barked through the earpiece. “If they catch you breaking and entering…”
Joey couldn’t help but nod at the challenge. Making a beeline for the TV, she reached around to the back of it, snared the electrical cord, and traced it down toward the wall socket. If the house was as old as she thought…
“What’re you doing?” Noreen begged.
“Just a little electrical work,” Joey teased. At the end of the cord, she saw the orange adapter that, once attached to the three-pronged TV plug, let it fit into the two-pronged wall socket. You gotta love old houses, she thought as she crouched down next to the outlet. Dragging her purse next to her, she again went for the small zipper case. Inside was an almost identical orange two-pronged adapter.
Unlike the battery-operated transmitter she’d left in Lapidus’s office, this one was specially made for long-term use. Looks like a plug and acts like a plug, but transmits a solid four miles in residential neighborhoods. No one looks at it, no one questions it – and the best part is – as long as it’s plugged in, it has an endless supply of juice.
“Are you done yet?” Noreen pleaded.