“Why’re you…”

“Shhhh,” I say as I dial the new number.

Charlie shakes his head, clearly amused. He’s used to being the little brother.

“Midland National,” a female voice answers. “How can I help you?”

“Hi,” I say, back in my customer service voice. “My name is Marty Duckworth, and I just wanted to confirm the details for an upcoming wire transfer.”

“I’ll do my best – what’s your account number, sir?”

I once again read it straight from the letter, and even throw in Duckworth’s Social Security number as a bonus. “First name Martin,” I add.

We hear a quiet clicking as she types it in. “Now what can I help you with today, Mr. Duckworth?”

Charlie leans forward on my desk. “Ask her name,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” I add. It’s the same trick Tanner Drew used on me – ask their names and they’re suddenly accountable.

“Sandy,” she answers quickly.

“Okay, Sandy, I just wanted to confirm…”

“… the wire instructions for the incoming transfer,” she offers a bit too enthusiastically. “I have it right here, sir. The transfer will be coming from the Greene & Greene Bank in New York City, and then, upon receipt, we have your instructions to send it to TPM Limited at the Bank of London, into account number B2178692792.”

The faster writer, Charlie scribbles down the number as quickly as he can. Next to TPM Ltd., I take his pen and write, Fake company. Smart. “Wonderful. Thanks, Sandy…”

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Duckworth?”

I look Charlie’s way, and he moves closer to the speakerphone. Dropping his voice down to his best impersonation of me, he adds, “Actually, as long as I have you on the line… I haven’t gotten my last few statements – can you please check and see if you have my right address?”

Oh, the boy’s good.

“Let me take a look,” Sandy says.

When I was nine years old and sick with a hundred and three fever, Charlie made me a peanut butter and mayo sandwich that he said would make me feel better. It made me barf everywhere. Today, Charlie’s voice is as sweet as ever. There’s a thin smirk across his face. All these years, I thought he was trying to be helpful. Now I wonder if he’s just plain ruthless.

“Okay, I think I see the problem,” Sandy interrupts. “Which address do you want us to send it to?”

Confused, Charlie hesitates.

“You have more than one?” I jump in.

“Well, there’s the one in New York: 405…”

“… Amsterdam Avenue, Apartment 2B,” I agree, reading from the address on the letter.

“And then I have another in Miami…”

Charlie flings me a Post-It, and I dive for a pen. We’re only going to get this once.

“1004 Tenth Street, Miami Beach, Florida, 33139,” she announces.

Instinctively, Charlie writes down city, state, and zip. I write down the street address. It’s the way we used to remember phone numbers: I get the first half; he gets the last. “Story of my life,” he used to say.

“If you want, I can change it to the New York one,” Sandy explains.

“No, no, leave it as is. As long as I know where to look for-”

There’s a loud knock on my office door. I jerk myself around just in time to see it open. “Anyone home?” a deep voice asks.

Charlie grabs the letter. I grab the receiver, killing the speakerphone. “Okay, thanks again for the help.” With a crash, I’m off.

“H-Hey, Shep,” Charlie sings, putting on his happy face for the head of Security.

“Everything okay?” Shep asks, stepping toward us.

“Yeah,” Charlie says.

“Absolutely,” I add.

“What could possibly be wrong?”

The last one’s Charlie’s and he kicks himself as soon as it leaves his lips.

“So what can I help you with today, Shep?” I ask.

“Actually, I was hoping to help you,” Shep blurts. There go the kid gloves.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“I just wanted to talk to you about that transfer you made to Tanner Drew…”

Charlie’s shoulders sag with instant dread. He’s no good with confrontation.

“That was a perfectly legal transfer,” I challenge.

“Listen,” Shep interrupts. “Spare me the tone.” Sensing that he has our attention, he adds, “I already spoke to Lapidus – he’s thrilled you had the balls to take charge. Tanner Drew’s happy; all is well. But from my side of the desk… well, I don’t like seeing forty million dollars go zip… especially when you’re using someone else’s password.”

How’d he know we-

“You think they hired me for my looks?” Shep asks, laughing. “With thirteen billion at risk, we’ve got the best security money can buy.”

“Well, if you need any backup, I’ve got a pretty good bike lock,” Charlie adds, trying to keep things light.

Shep turns directly toward him. “Oh, man, would you love it, Charlie – I got this one option – you ever heard of Investigator software?”

Charlie shakes his head. He’s out of jokes.

“It lets you do keystroke monitoring,” Shep adds, all his attention now on me. “Which means when you’re sitting at your computer, I can see every word you’re typing. E-mail, letters, passwords… as soon as you hit the key, it pops up on my screen.”

“You sure that’s legal?” I ask.

“You kiddin’? It’s like standard issue these days – Exxon, Delta Airlines, even bitchy spouses who want to see what their husbands are doing in chat rooms – they all use it. I mean, why do you think the bank puts all our computers on one network – so you can send in-house e-mail? Big Brother ain’t comin’ – he’s been here for years.”

I glance over at Charlie, who’s staring way too intently at the computer screen. Oh, jeez. The fake letter…

“It’s really amazin’,” Shep continues. “You can program it like an alarm – so if someone’s using Mary’s password, and the security system says she’s no longer in the building… it’ll pop up on your screen and tell you what’s going on.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I hadda do that…”

“So there’s the Brooklyn accent,” Shep grins. “What, it only comes out when you’re nervous? Is that when you forget to hide it?”

“No, it’s just… under the circumstances, I didn’t know what to…”

“Donworryaboudit,” Shep says, rubbing in the old neighborhood. “Like I said, Lapidus didn’t give a squat. When it comes to the tech stuff, he doesn’t care that I can see when someone types in Mary’s name, or his name…” Shep glances over my shoulder and his voice slows down. “… or even that I can see when someone’s using a company computer to write a fraudulent letter.”

Charlie shoots up in his seat, and suddenly I’m not the only one wearing the constipated mask.

“I’ll tell ya, they never had that when I was in the Service,” Shep continues, taking a few steps toward us and rolling up his shirtsleeves. He scratches his forearms – first right, then left – and I see for the first time how massive they are. “These days… with the computers… you can have ’em notify you of anything…” he adds, the old neighborhood now long gone. “… forty-million-dollar transfers to Tanner Drew… or three-million-dollar transfers to Marty Duckworth…”

Son of a bitch.

I’m paralyzed. I can’t move.

“It’s over, son. We know what you’re up to.”

Charlie jumps out of his seat and pumps a little laughter into his voice. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Shep – easy on the nightstick – you don’t think we-”

Shep plows past him, a finger pointed straight at my face. “Do I look blind to you, Oliver!?” Looking down, I don’t answer. “I asked you a question, son: Do you really think I’m that much of a moron? I knew from the second you sent that first fax, it was just a matter of time until you blew it.”

“The first fax?” Charlie blurts. “The Kinko’s one? You think that was us?” He puts a hand on Shep’s shoulder, hoping to buy a second or two. “I swear to you, buddy – we never sent that – in fact… in fact, when we got in this morning… we were… we were trying to catch the thief ourselves… isn’t that right, Oliver? We were doing the same thing as you!”