Episode 26.2
Joey got out of the car and headed straight for the door, pounding as hard as he could.
"It's me, is there anyone home?" She— she yelled to make sure she was alone.
A quick glance over her shoulder and a couple of raps on the lock did the rest of her. As the door opened, Joey ducked under the police tape. Inside, the kitchen was in order, but the living room was trashed. The shattered lamp, the low table overturned, the books on the shelf on the floor. The fight had been brief, confined to a single space. At the bottom of the bookcase was a stack of old issues of Wired magazine. Joey went directly to them, picked up the one at the top of the stack, and examined the label with the subscription details. Martin Duckworth? She, she read to herself, utterly bewildered. On a nearby shelf she discovered the torn frame with the photograph of Gillian and her father. Finally a physical test. Joey took the picture out of the frame and put it in her bag.
On the floor, small pieces of the glass blender jar littered the faded carpet, which had a dark stain by the door. Joey bent down to examine her closely, but her blood was already dry. The trail of blood continued along the corridor, small drops marking a trail of small planets receding from a dark sun. The further he went down the hall, the smaller the drops became, until finally reaching the bedroom. And to the sliding glass doors.
Through the glass she saw a Cuban boy of about four years old, in red boxer shorts and a blue Superman T-shirt, looking at her from the other side, his hands tucked under the elastic of his boxers. Joey smiled and slid the door open slowly so as not to scare him.
"Have you seen my brother?" she asked.
"Bang-bang!" the boy yelled, pointing his finger like a gun at the wall to the left. Turning, Joey could clearly see the jagged area where the first shot had landed. The lounger was propped up against the base of the wall. Up and across, Joey thought.
He took his cell phone out of his bag and hit the speed dial button.
-How was the flight? Did they offer you free peanuts? Noreen asked.
"Have you ever heard the name of Martin Duckworth?" Joey asked, glancing at the rolled-up copy of Wired.
"Not the individual whose name appears on the bank account?"
-The same. According to Lapidus and the data they have on Greene, Duckworth is living in New York, but I bet if we put him through the meat grinder, we'll find out something else.
-Give me five minutes. Anything else?
"I also need you to find his relatives," Joey explained as he moved closer to the wall. Charlie and Oliver... anyone they might meet in Florida.
"Come on, boss, do you think I didn't do that job the moment you got on the plane to Miami?"
"Can you send me that list?"
"It's a one-name list," Noreen said. But she thought you said that the brothers were too smart to hide with relatives.
-Not anymore. Judging by the look of the house, they had a surprise visit from Gallo and DeSanctis.
"Do you think they've been caught?"
Still holding the image of that dried stain on the carpet, Joey climbed onto the chaise and ran his fingertips over the missing patch of cement at the top of the wall; there was no blood anywhere.
"I can't speak for both of them, but something tells me that at least one of them managed to escape... and if he's running...
"…he will be desperate," Noreen continued. Give me ten minutes and you'll have everything you need.
When I was twelve I lost Charlie in the Kings Plaza shopping mall. Mom was in one of the old discount stores, deciding what clothes to buy; Charlie was rummaging through the items at Spencer Gifts, making an effort to sniff out the erotic "Adults Only" candles; and I... I wasn't supposed to leave his side. But when I turned to show him the collection of nudity card games, he was gone.
I knew instantly: he wasn't hiding and he wasn't wandering into one of the corners of the store either. He had disappeared.
For twenty-five minutes I ran frantically from one store to another, calling out his name. Until the moment we found him—licking the glass in Jo Ann's Nut House—a searing pain never stopped piercing my chest. It was nothing compared to what I'm feeling right now.
"Can I help you?" the security guard at the reception desk asks. He is an older man in a "Kalo Security" uniform and white orthopedic shoes. Welcome to the Wilshire Residential Community in North Miami Beach, Florida. The right place to go when it comes to an emergency.
"I've come to see my grandmother," he answered in my best good boy voice.
"Write down her name, please," the guard says, pointing to the log book. I scribble something illegible and examine all the signatures above mine. None of them are Charlie's. However, we have been through this situation a dozen times. If we ever get lost, we must go to a safe place. Under the word "Resident," I add the words "Grandma Miller."
"Is he Dotty's grandson?" the guard asks, suddenly friendly.
"Yes, from Dotty," I say, walking into the hall.
Of course it's a lie, but I'm not a complete stranger either. For almost fifteen years, my grandmother, Pauline Balducci, lived in this residence. She died here three years ago, and it's precisely for that reason that she used her neighbor's name so Gillian and I could get in.
"Dotty's grandson!" the security guard boasts to residents passing through the lobby. He has the same nose, right?
Dragging Gillian by the arm, I cross the lobby, past the elevators, and follow the exit signs along the winding corridor with its peeling wallpaper and reeking of chlorine. Pool area, straight ahead. Mom used to send us here to enjoy some quality time with the "dignified" part of the family.