Charlie lets out a loud, fake cough. “So what do you think they were looking for?” he asks.
“Who? The Service?” I ask.
“Of course, the Service.”
“I never found out,” Gillian explains, her voice still soft and lost. “When I called their Miami office, they had no record of an investigation. I told them I met the agents, but without their names, there was nothing they could do.”
“So that’s it? You just gave up?” Charlie asks. “Didn’t you think that was a weensy bit odd?”
“Charlie…!”
“No, he’s right,” Gillian says. “But you have to understand, when it came to my dad’s business, secrets were just part of the game. That’s just… that’s just how he was.”
Charlie watches her closely, but I give her a reassuring nod. When it comes to our own jackass dad, I’ve been able to forgive. Charlie never forgets. “It’s okay,” I say. “I know what it’s like.” As I reach out to touch her arm, Gillian’s bra strap falls from under her tank top and sinks to her shoulder. She lifts it back into place with perfect grace.
“Okay, hold on,” Charlie interrupts. “I’m still having trouble with the timeline: Your dad died six months ago, right? So was that right after he moved from New York?”
“New York?” Gillian asks, confused. “He never lived in New York.”
He glances at me and studies Gillian. “You sure about that? He’s never had an apartment in Manhattan?”
“Not that I know of,” she says, never one to insist. “He took a few business trips there every once in a while. I know he was scraping cash together for one of them this past summer – but otherwise, he’s lived in Florida his entire life.”
His entire life. The words ricochet through my brain like pinballs off a bumper. It doesn’t make sense. All this time, we thought we were looking for a New Yorker who made some cash and moved to Florida. Now we find out he’s a Floridian who could barely afford the few trips he’d taken to New York. Marty Duckworth, what the hell were you up to?
“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” Gillian asks as her eyes shift nervously between us.
I nod to Charlie; he nods to me. Time to give her another piece of the puzzle. It takes Charlie ten minutes to tell her everything we know about her father’s run-down New York apartment.
“I don’t understand,” she says, once again sitting on her hands. “He owns a place in New York?”
“Actually, if I had to guess, I’d bet he was renting,” I clarify.
“How long did you say he was away last summer?” Charlie jumps in.
“I-I don’t know,” Gillian sputters. “Two and a half… maybe three weeks. I never really paid much… I barely even saw him when he was here…” Her voice fades, and it looks like she’s been stabbed in the stomach. Her fair skin goes albino white. “How much did you say was in that account you found?” she asks.
“Gillian, you don’t have to get involved wi-”
“Just tell me how much!”
Charlie takes a deep breath. “Three million dollars.”
Her mouth almost hits the floor. “What? In my dad’s? There’s no way. How could he possibly-?” She cuts herself off and the cogs quickly start spinning… whirling through the possibilities. All the while, even though Charlie told her the news, she’s locked on to me. “You think that’s why they killed him, don’t you?” she eventually asks. “Because of something that happened with the money…”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I explain, hoping to keep her moving.
“Did your dad know anyone in the Secret Service?” Charlie adds.
“I-I don’t know,” she replies, still clearly overwhelmed. “We weren’t that close, but… but I still thought I knew him better than that.”
“Do you still have any of his stuff in the house?” he asks.
“Some of it… yeah.”
“And have you ever gone through it?”
“Just a little,” she says, her voice slowly starting to highstep. “But wouldn’t the Service have-”
“Maybe they overlooked it,” he tells her. “Maybe there’s something they missed.”
“Why don’t we take a look together?” I add. It’s the perfect offer. Safety in numbers.
Nice, Charlie grins.
I turn away from the compliment, already feeling guilty. Regardless of how much it helps us, it’s still her dead father’s house. I saw it in her eyes before. The pain doesn’t go away.
With Gillian’s hesitant nod, Charlie hops out of his seat, and I follow him to the door. Behind us, Gillian lingers on the countertop.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Just tell me one thing,” she interrupts. “Do you really think they killed my dad?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what to think,” I say. “But twenty-four hours ago, I watched these guys murder one of our friends. I saw them pull the trigger, and I saw them turn their guns on us – all because we found an account with your dad’s name on it.”
“That doesn’t mean…”
“You’re right – it doesn’t mean they killed him,” Charlie agrees. “But if they didn’t, then why aren’t they here, trying to find him?”
Sometimes I forget how aggressively sharp Charlie is. She doesn’t have an answer for that one.
She takes a final look around the apartment and studies every detail. The lack of furniture, the papered windows, even the machete. If we were the bad guys, she’d already be dead.
Gillian tentatively slides off the counter, smacks the linoleum with her bare feet, and pauses a moment just as she’s about to open the door. She’s trying not to look distressed, but as her hand holds the doorknob, she still needs to take it all in. Without turning around, she says six words: “This better not be a trick.”
Charlie and I scramble forward. She steps outside. The sun’s not shining, but it’s close.
“Gillian, you’re not gonna regret this,” Charlie says.
36
Clutching the sides of the computer screen in his callused hands, Gallo glared down at the laptop that he balanced between his gut and the base of the steering wheel. For two hours, he watched Maggie Caruso make her lunch, clean her dishes, readjust the hems on two pairs of pants, and hang three silk shirts on the clothesline outside her window. In that time, she got two phone calls: one from a client, and one wrong number. Can you have it ready by Thursday? and I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name. That’s it. Nothing more.
Gallo cranked the volume up and opened the feeds from all four digital cameras. Thanks to their most recent interrogation, as well as her recent contact with her sons, they were able to expand the warrant and add one to her bedroom, one to Charlie’s room, and another in the kitchen. Onscreen, Gallo had views of every major room in the apartment. But the only person there was Maggie – hunched over the sewing machine on the dining room table. In the corner, an old TV blared midday talk shows. Up close, the sewing machine pounded like a jackhammer. For a full two hours. That’s it.
“Ready for some relief?” DeSanctis asked as the passenger door popped open.
“What the hell took so long?” Gallo asked, never taking his eyes off the laptop.
“Patience – haven’t you ever heard of patience?”
“Just tell me what you got. Anything useful?”
“Of course it’s useful…” Still standing outside, DeSanctis swung two silver aluminum attaché cases into the front seat, stacking them one on top of the other. Sliding in next to them, he pulled the top one onto his lap.
“They give you a hard time?” Gallo asked.
DeSanctis answered with a sarcastic smirk and a flip of the attaché locks. “You know how it is with a Delta Dash – tell ’em what you need, tell ’em it’s an emergency, and bing-bang-bing, the James Bond gadgets are on the next shuttle. All you have to do is pick ’em up at baggage claim.”