“Yeah,” Nguyen said with a laugh. “I hear they sent you and DeSanctis chasing buses all afternoon…”

Gallo ignored the joke. “You helping or not?”

Nguyen shook his head. “Don’t give me crap, Gallo. What you’re asking for is no small affair.”

“Neither is stealing three hundred million dollars and killing a former agent,” Gallo shot back.

“Yeah… I’m sorry to hear about that,” Nguyen said, no longer willing to argue. He put away his legal pad, knowing better than to take notes. The last thing he needed was a judge making him hand them over to opposing counsel. “So getting back to your request,” he added, “have you already exhausted the rest?”

“C’mon, Nguyen…”

“You know I have to ask it, Jimmy. When it comes to wiretaps and video, I can’t pull out the big guns until you tell me you’ve gone through all your other investigative means – including all the credit card and phone records I subpoenaed for you this morning.”

Gallo paused and forced his best grin. “I wouldn’t lie to you, buddy – we’re keeping this one on the complete up-and-up.”

Nguyen nodded. That was all he needed. “You’re really going after these two, aren’t you?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Gallo said. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Omnibank Fraud Department – this is Elena Ratner. How can I assist you?”

“Hi, Ms. Ratner,” Gallo said into his cell phone as his navy Ford hugged the right lane of the Brooklyn Bridge. “This is Agent Gallo with the United States Secret Ser-”

“Of course, Agent Gallo – sorry to take so long getting back to you. We just got your paperwork…”

“So it’s all taken care of?” he interrupted.

“Absolutely, sir. We’ve flagged and notated both accounts – an Omnibank MasterCard for a Mr. Oliver J. Caruso, and an Omnibank Visa for a Mr. Charles Caruso,” she said, reading off both account numbers. “Now are you sure you don’t want them shut down?”

“Ms. Ratner,” Gallo scolded through gritted teeth, “if the cards get shut down, how’m I supposed to see what they’re buying and where they’re going?”

There was a pause on the other line. This was why she hated dealing with law enforcement. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said dryly. “From here on in, we’ll notify you as soon as either of them makes a purchase.”

“And how long will that notification take?”

“By the time they get their approval code, our computer will have already dialed your number,” she added. “It’s instantaneous.”

“Hi, this is Fudge,” the answering machine whirred. “I’m not here right now, unless of course you’re a telemarketer, in which case, I am here and I’m screening you because, quite honestly, your friendship means nothing to me. I have no time for hangers-on. Leave a message at the sound of the beep.”

“Fudge, I know you’re there,” Joey shouted into the answering machine. “Pick up, pick up, pic -!”

“Ah, Lady Guinevere, thou doth sing the song of the enchantress,” Fudge crooned, careful not to use Joey’s name.

Joey rolled her eyes, refusing to get into it. When it came to cutouts, it was better not to get involved. And when it came to Fudge, well… it’d always been her policy not to get too close to men who still go by the name of their favorite Judy Blume character.

“So what can I do for you this evening? Business or pleasure?”

“Do you still know that guy at Omnibank?” Joey asked.

Fudge paused. “Maybe.”

Joey nodded at the code. That was yes. It was always yes. Indeed, that’s what the cutout business was all about: knowing people. And not just any people. Angry people. Bitter people. Passed-over-for-promotion people. In every office, there’s someone who’s miserable with their job. Those were the ones anxious to sell what they knew. And that’s who Fudge could find.

“If I could, what would you be looking for?” Fudge asked. “Client records?”

“Yeah… but I also need monitors on two accounts.”

“Uh-oh, big money talking here…”

“If you can’t handle it,” Joey warned.

“I can handle it just fine. I know a secretary in Fraud who’s still pissed about a snotty comment at an office party with th-”

“Fudge!” Joey interrupted, turning a blind eye at the source. Sure, it made the lawyer in her cringe, but that’s what the cutout was there for. Someone else does the dirty work; she gets the final work product. As long as she doesn’t know where it comes from, she cuts out the liability. Besides, even if it is a legal fiction, it’s worked for the CIA for years.

“A hundred for the records. A grand for the ears,” Fudge said. “Anything else?”

“Phone company. Unlisted numbers and maybe a few taps on the line.”

“What state?”

Joey shook her head. “Where do you find these people?”

“Honey, go to any chat room in the world and type the words: ‘Who hates their job?’ When you see a return e-mail address with AT &T.com on it, that’s who you write back,” Fudge said. “Think about that next time you’re a jackass to the copy boy.”

“What’s this?” DeSanctis asked, flipping through a two-page document as he leaned on the trunk of his winter-worn Chevy.

“It’s a mail cover,” Gallo said, cupping his hands and breathing into them. “Bring it to their local post offices and they’ll…”

“… pull Oliver’s and Charlie’s mail and photocopy every return address,” DeSanctis interrupted. “I know how it works.”

“Good – then you also know who in the post office to hand it to. When you’re done, take the search warrant to Oliver’s. I’ve got one more stop to make.”

“What’s this?” the Hispanic woman in the dark blue post office sweater asked.

“It’s a thank-you gift,” Joey said as she held out a hundred-dollar bill.

Standing between two rickety metal bookshelves stacked with rubber-banded piles of mail, the woman leaned out of her makeshift cubicle and scanned the wide-open back room. Like the distribution area in most post offices, it was a human antfarm of activity: In every direction, bags of mail were dumped, separated, and sorted. Convinced that no one was looking, she studied the hundred dollars in Joey’s hand. “You a cop?”

“Private,” Joey said, turning on just enough lawyer calm to put the woman at ease. She hated doing this herself, but like Fudge said, when it came to mail, the scale was too large. If you wanted to build a real profile – and you needed every return address – you had to go in and find the local carrier yourself. “Private and willing to pay,” she clarified.

“Drop it on the floor,” the woman said.

Joey hesitated, searching the corners of the room for cameras.

“Just drop it,” she repeated. “No harm done.”

Lowering her arm, Joey let go, and the bill sailed to the floor. When it hit, the woman took a tiny step forward and covered it with her foot. “Now what can I help you with?”

Joey pulled a sheet of paper from her purse. “Just a little photocopy work on some friends in Brooklyn.”

“Whattya mean it’s gone?” Gallo growled into his cell phone as he pounded the elevator button for the fourth floor. There was a sharp lurch and the beat-up elevator slowly kicked into gear.

“Gone – as in, no longer here,” DeSanctis shot back. “The garbage’s been picked through, and the recycling bins are on the curb, completely cleaned out.”

“Maybe they already got picked up. What day’s recycling?”

“Tomorrow,” he said dryly. “I’m telling you, she’s been here. And if she figures out how we-”

“Don’t be a moron. Just because she stole Oliver’s garbage doesn’t mean she knows what’s going on.” The elevator doors opened and Gallo followed the alphabet around to Apartment 4D. “Besides, in the grand scheme of things, we’re about to get something a whole lot better than junk mail and some old newspapers…”