Episode 31

There was a moment of silence... then there was the sound of locks being opened. The door opened slowly with a creak and a stout woman wearing a yellow woolen jacket appeared. She removed two pins from

her mouth and stuck them into a pincushion she wore strapped to her left wrist.

-What I can help? asked Maggie Caruso.

"Actually, Mrs. Caruso, it's about her children...

She gasped and her shoulders slumped.

-What happened? They are fine?

"Of course, they're all right," Gallo promised, putting a hand on her shoulder. It's just that they got into a little trouble at work, and well...we were hoping you could come downtown and answer a few questions.

Maggie instinctively hesitated. At that moment, the phone in the kitchen began to ring, but she did not answer.

"I promise you; this is nothing serious, Mrs. Caruso. We just thought maybe you could help us clear this whole thing up. You know... for the boys.

"Of course..." he stammered. I'll go get the bag.

As she watched her walk into the apartment, Gallo walked in and closed the door. As she had always been taught, if you want rats to run away, you have to start by getting into their mousetrap.

-Are you sure? Charlie asks.

"That's what it says here," I say. I double check the address, then look at the numbers taped to the dirty glass of the door: 405 Amsterdam. Apartment 2B. Duckworth's last known address.

-Not. Impossible," Charlie insists. -Why? What happens?

"Open your eyes, Ollie. This guy had three hundred million dollars in a private bank. This should be a luxury apartment building on the Upper West Side with a doorman looking down on you. And instead he's living in a pathetic bachelor pad above a dubious Indian restaurant and a Chinese laundromat with vending machines? He forgets the three hundred million... this isn't even three hundred thousand.

"Sometimes appearances are deceiving," he replied.

"Yeah, like when three million becomes three hundred?"

I ignore the comment and point to the button for apartment 2B, which has no name.

"Shall I call or not?"

"Of course... what can we lose?"

It's not a question I can answer right now. The gray sky begins to darken. In a couple of hours mom will start to panic. Unless, of course, the Service has already contacted her.

She pressed the bell.

-Yes? A man's voice answers.

Charlie discovers an empty brown box in front of the laundromat with automatic machines.

"I have a delivery for 2B," he says.

For a few seconds no one answers. Then there is an electrical hum and Charlie opens the door; he holds it open while I pick up the brown box. Duckworth, here we come.

As we climb the dimly lit stairwell, we notice a strong smell of Indian curry and washing machine bleach pervading everything. The paint on the walls is cracked and covered in mold. The old tiled floor is missing pieces everywhere.

Charlie looks at me. Bank customers don't live in places like this. He hopes that this realization will slow him down, but it only speeds him up.

"There it is…" Charlie says.

I stop at the door of Apartment 2B and lift the cardboard box up to the peephole.

"Delivery," he announced, banging on the door.

The latches click and the door swings open. I'm prepared to find a man in his fifties on the verge of tears, dying to tell us the real story. Instead, what we have before us is a guy wearing a perfectly placed Syracuse cap with the bill turned back and cross shorts several sizes too big.

"Got a delivery, man?" he asks with a white boy accent.

I look at Charlie. Even in his days as a rapper from Brooklyn, my brother didn't look like this kid.

"Actually it's for Marty Duckworth," I say. Does he live here?

"You mean that crazy guy?" The one that looks like the Mole-Man? He—he laughs.

Confused, he didn't answer.

"The same," Charlie chimes in to keep the boy talking. Do you have any idea where he could have gone?

"To Florida, kid." Retreat on the ocean.

Withdrawal, seat. Charlie has the same thought. That means he has money. The only thing he doesn't make sense to is this dunghill.

"Do you have an address where he can be reached?" Charlie asks. Has he left you any so that you...?

What country do you think you live in? the boy jokes. Everyone has his e-mail…" She crosses the small study and picks up her PDA from the top of the TV. I have it in the "H" of Mole-man, he croons, very amused.

Charlie nods gratefully. "Great, man.

From my back pocket I take the letter where we have noted Duckworth's other address.

"Here we go," the boy announces, reading the agenda screen. 1004 Tenth Street. Sunny Miami Beach. 33139.

Charlie reads over my shoulder, checking to see if the two directions match.

"Same Bat-hour. The same Bat-channel," he whispers in my ear.

We said goodbye to the boy and left the apartment. Neither of us open their mouths until we reach the stairs.

-What do you think? -I ask. "About the state of health of

Duckworth? I have no idea, although the traveling Abercrombie catalog we left on the second floor didn't act like he was dead," Charlie says.

"Is it that boy you trust?"

"All I'm saying is that there are already two people who confirm the Miami address."

"And not just any address… a retirement address.

As we continue to inhale the bleached curry, Charlie knows exactly what I mean. People don't live in apartments like this because they're saving for retirement; They live here because they have no other alternative.

"So if Duckworth has retired to Florida..."

"...it's because he suddenly got a big chunk of dough," Charlie finishes.

—The only problem is that, according to the bank's data, he already had a lot of money for years. Why, then, does the prince dress like a beggar?

Reaching the ground floor, Charlie opens the door to the street.

"Maybe he's trying to keep money from him..."

"Or maybe someone else is trying to keep money from him," he pointed out, speaking quickly. In any case, it's not just this staircase that's starting to stink. I rush out onto the street, a man on a mission. We won't know for sure until we've spoken to Duckworth.

I toss the cardboard box back into its original place and head straight for the booth on the corner, pull out my calling card, and quickly dial the Florida information number.

"In Miami…I'm looking for Marty or Martin Duckworth at 1004 Tenth Street," I tell the computerized voice answering the call.

There is a brief pause; Charlie and I wait in silence. It's only five in the afternoon, but the sky is almost completely dark and a cold night wind is blowing down Amsterdam Avenue. When my teeth start to chatter I clear a space in the booth and pull Charlie closer to the phone to keep him warm. And hidden. I look over my shoulder to make sure we're safe.

Charlie thanks me with a nod and...

"Did you say Duckworth?" — interrupts an operator at the other end of the line.

"Duckworth," I repeat. Given name Marty or Martin. On tenth street. The line goes silent again.

"I'm sorry," the woman finally says. It is a number that is not registered.

"Are you sure?"

—M. Duckworth on Tenth Street. It's not registered. Can I help you with anything else?

"No… that's it," I say, and my voice trails off. Thanks for his help.

-And good? Charlie asks when I hang up.

-It's not registered.

"But not offline either," she says defiantly as she steps out of the booth. Wherever Duckworth is, they still have a number in service.

I look up, doubtful... and I realize at that moment that we are in the middle of the street. With a jerk of my chin I point to the gap that protects the entrance to the boy's building. We quickly scan the street in both directions and return to the building. Once there, I add:

'Enough of playing Sherlock Holmes, Charlie. As far as we know, the phone company hasn't updated its database since Duckworth's death.

"Maybe," Charlie admits, moving to the lee of the doorway. Although it is also possible that he has hidden in Florida, and is waiting for us to visit him. Before he can counter his argument, he points to the sheet of Duckworth's address in my hand. As you said yourself: until we've talked to him, we won't be safe.

"I don't know…why don't we find out if there's a death certificate first?"

"Ollie, the bank said yesterday that this guy only had three million dollars. Do you really still believe the official information?

I lean against the wall to weigh the situation carefully.

"You don't have to analyze everything all the time, little brother. Let yourself be guided by your instincts.

The idea is not so bad. Even coming from Charlie.

"Do you really think we should go to Miami?"

"Hard to say," he replies.

How long do you think we can keep hiding in the church?

I fall silent as I watch a group of people get off the bus at a nearby stop.

"Come on, Ollie, even parents know when their kids are right. Unless we can prove what actually happened, Gallo and DeSanctis are the masters of reality. And of us. We stole the money... we killed Shep... and we'll be the ones to pay for it.

Again my answer is silence.

"Are you sure we're not hunting ghosts?" I finally ask.

-So, what's wrong about it? "Charlie..."

"Okay, even if it was, it's got to be better than still hiding here."

I nod at that comment. When I went to work at the bank, Lapidus told me that he should never argue with the facts. Saying nothing else, I push away from the wall and turn to my little brother.

—You know they'll be watching the airports...

"Don't start eating the coconut," Charlie says. I have already thought of something to solve that detail.

"Ready to go two by two?" Joey whispered into the collar of her shirt as she strolled down Avenue U. Now, surrounded by a bunch of people coming home from work, she no longer needed the red leash for the invisible dog. Because she was now one of the crowd.

"You'll never learn, will you?" Noreen asked.

"Not until they catch us," Joey said, as she rounded the corner onto Berdford Avenue and picked up her pace. Also, if they invite you in, it's not trespassing. Just ahead stood the six-story building that Charlie and his mother called home.

"Any porters in sight?" Noreen asked.

"Not in this neighborhood," Joey replied.

She was looking for some excuse that would be convincing. It wouldn't be difficult. As long as her mother still didn't know what had happened, any old story would work. Hi, I'm a real estate agent... Hi, I'm a friend of Charlie's from work... Hi, I'm here to sneak into his apartment and hopefully plug one of those creative transmitters into a socket. Joey laughed at her own joke as she continued to scan the street. Two kids skated on one of the sidewalks. There was a navy blue sedan parked in a no-go area. And at the entrance to the building, a broad-chested man was holding the door open for a heavyset woman to come out. Joey recognized Gallo instantly.

-I can not believe it...

-What? Noreen asked. "Guess who's here?"

Joey complained, lowering his head but not turning around. He backed slowly toward the second-hand bookstore on the corner, ducked into the doorway, leaning his head out slightly to keep an eye on the couple coming out of the building.

-Who is it? Noreen pleaded on the other end of the line. What's going on?

Up the street, Gallo opened the passenger-side door and waited for Mrs. Caruso to sit down. She clutched the bag to her chest, completely shocked. Paying no attention to her, Gallo slammed the door shut in her face.

"What a gentleman," Joey muttered.

But when Gallo walked past the car to get into the driver's seat, he glanced up the street, as if he was looking for someone. Someone who wasn't there. But what would be soon...

"Shit," Joey added, noting the arrogant look on the Secret Service agent's face.

"Can you please tell me what's going on?" Noreen demanded.

Gallo started the car and sped off toward the corner. Joey stepped out of the secondhand bookstore doorway and ran toward the old building.

"They've got a whole team on the way," Joey alerted Noreen.

-Right now?

"That's what I'm trying to find out…in the next few minutes…"

"Has she been put under surveillance yet?" How did they get the orders so soon?

"I have no idea," Joey said as he opened the front door of the building. When an older woman came walking from the hall, Joey reached for the inner door, stepped inside, and ran to the elevator.

On the other end of the line there was a brief pause.

"Please tell me you're not running towards the building...

"I'm not running into the building," Joey said; he was pressing the elevator call button as if he were sending a message in Morse code.

"Dammit, Joey, this is stupid.

"No, what's stupid is trying to do this after the Service guys have this place under control."

"Then you should quit."

"Noreen, do you remember what I told you about the strength of family ties? I don't care how tough those guys can be, even though they're running from justice, they finally feel it. And in this case... when one of them pays her mother's bills and the other continues to live with her... When the bonds are this strong, it's like they carry a magnet on her chest. They may only call for two seconds, but when that happens, I intend to hear what they say. And trace the call.

Noreen was silent again. For half a second.

"Just tell me what you need me to..."

Joey got into the elevator and the line went dead. That's what happens with mobile phones and old buildings. She checked the hallway one more time, but there was nothing to see. When the doors closed, Joey was alone.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I ask, still keeping an eye on the surroundings as Charlie dials the number in the phone booth at the Excelsior Hotel. It may not be the best hotel in the city, but it is the closest and the one with the best selection of phone books.

"Oliver, how else are you going to get on a plane?" Him," he answers me as he puts the receiver to his ear. If we use our real documents, we are idiots;

if we use our credit cards, they'll keep track of us.

"Then perhaps it would be better to look at other means of transportation."

-For example? Rent a car and drive to Miami? You also need a credit card and a document...

"What about the train?"

"Come on please, do you really want to spend two days riding an Amtrak?" Every second we waste is an opportunity for the Secret Service guys to tighten the screws on us. Trust me, if we want to get out of the city, this is our best option.

Not too convinced, I lean forward and force him to share the earpiece. In my ear, the phone rings for the third time.

"Come on…" Charlie protests, looking at the New Jersey Yellow Pages, "where the hell are…

"Law firm," Bendini says without the slightest hesitation. What do you need?

The first fifteen minutes were meant for him to calm down. No one to yell at... no one to talk to; she was alone in a room with nothing to lay her eyes on except a wooden table and four different office chairs. The four walls that surrounded her were completely white—no pictures, nothing to distract her—except for the huge mirror on the right wall. Obviously, the mirror was the first thing that caught Maggie Caruso's attention. It was supposed to be like that. As the Secret Service knew full well, with today's video technology, there was no practical reason to continue using two-sided mirrors. But that didn't mean that even when there was no one behind them, they didn't have their own psychological effect. In fact, just seeing the mirror made Maggie fidget in her chair. And so the next fifteen minutes passed.

Trying to remove him from her field of vision, Maggie used her right hand to cover her eyes. She mentally reminded herself that everything was fine. Her children were fine. That was what Gallo told him. He told her looking into her eyes. But if that was indeed the case, what was she doing in the center of the city, in the headquarters of the secret service in New York? The answer came with the sound of footsteps and the movement of the doorknob. She turned to the left and the door was flung open.

"¿Maggie Caruso?" DeSanctis asked when he entered the room. A folder was balanced on the side of his body, he was dressed in a blue suit but no jacket. The

sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Serious but not threatening. Behind him was Gallo, who gave her a curt nod. Maggie, out of professional bias, saw that her suit looked awful on her, an obvious sign of bad taste, enormous impatience, or an exaggerated ego (men always thought they were bigger than they really were). Despite the forty minute drive from Brooklyn, she still didn't know why she was here. But she did know what she wanted. Her voice cracked as she spoke the words.

"Please... when can I see my children?"

"In fact, we were hoping that you could help us with just that," DeSanctis said. He sat in the chair on the left; Gallo took the one to Maggie's right. Neither of them sat across from her, he noted. He had one on each side.

"I don't understand..." she began to say.

Gallo glanced at DeSanctis, who slowly slid the folder across the table.

"Mrs. Caruso, sometime last night someone stole…well…a significant amount of money from Greene Private Bank. This morning, when the robbers were surprised, there was an exchange of shots and...

-Shots? she interrupted him. Did someone...

"Oliver and Charlie are fine," he assured her, covering Maggie's hands with his. But during the shootout a man named Shep Graves was killed by shots fired by the two suspects, who managed to flee.

Maggie turned to Gallo, who was chewing on a cut on his lower lip.

"What does all this have to do with my children?" she asked with a shaky voice.

DeSanctis leaned into her, still holding her hands.

"Mrs. Caruso, have you heard from Charlie or Oliver in the last few hours?"

"How do you say?"

"If your children were hiding somewhere, would you know where it might be?"

Maggie tossed her hands away and jumped to her feet.

-What are you talking about?

Gallo was on his feet just as quickly.

"Ma'am, would you please sit down?"

"Not until you tell me what's going on!" Are you accusing them of something?

"Ma'am, sit down!"

-Oh my God! You are serious, right?

-Ms...!