“Don’t be such a momma’s boy,” Joey scolded through the phone. She sat back in her car and stared across the street at Maggie’s building. “Just tell me what’s in the files.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Randall Adenauer said in his native Virginian accent. “Ask again though.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Joey moaned, rolling her eyes. Still, if she wanted a law-enforcement-level search of Charlie’s and Oliver’s records, there was only one way to play the game: “Are these the type of people I want to hire?” Joey asked.

There was a pause on the other line. As the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit, Adenauer had access to the FBI’s best files and databases. And as an old friend of Joey’s father, he also had a few chits that were long overdue for payback. “Absolutely,” he said. “I’d hire both of them today.”

“Really?” Joey asked, surprised, but hardly shocked. “So everything’s clean?”

“Squeaky,” he answered. “The younger one had a few snags for loitering, but there’s nothing after that. According to our records, these two are angels. Why, what were you expecting?”

This time, Joey was the one who paused. “No… nothing,” she replied. Before she could say another word, there was a beep on the other line. Caller ID showed Noreen. “Listen, I should run,” Joey added. “I’ll speak to you later. Thanks, Poochie.”

With a click, she was on with her assistant. “Gallo and mom back yet?” Noreen asked.

Joey glanced down at her passenger seat, where a digital screen showed a blinking blue triangle moving across an electronic map toward the Brooklyn Bridge. “They’re on their way back now,” she relayed. “What about you? Anything interesting?”

“Just some old college records from the bank’s personnel office. Academically, Oliver’s grades were good, but not great…”

“Little fish, big pond… new level of competition…”

“… but according to his résumé, he was working two different jobs at the time, one of them his own business. He sold T-shirts one semester, set up limo rides another, even had his own moving business at the end of each year. You know the type.”

“Forever the young entrepreneur. What about Charlie?”

“Two years at art school, then he dropped out and finished up at City College. In both, though, the worst kind of C student: Straight As in the subjects he cared about; Cs and Ds in the rest.”

“And why’d he leave? Fear of success, or fear of failure?”

“No idea – but he’s clearly the wild card.”

“Actually, Oliver’s the wild card,” Joey pointed out.

“You think?”

“Take another glance at the details. Charlie may be better on a date, but when it comes to taking risks, Oliver’s the one who stepped further into a world that wasn’t his.” Joey waited, but Noreen didn’t argue. “Now what else did you find besides the transcripts?”

“That was it,” Noreen said. “Zip, zada, zilch. Except for mom’s apartment, all Charlie and Oliver have are some overdue credit cards and a now empty bank account.”

“And you checked everywhere?”

“Do I listen when you speak? Driver’s license, Social Security, insurance records, corporate records, property records, and every other piece of our private lives that the government’s been selling to the credit agencies for years, but only now – as they blame it on the Internet – is finally getting some press play. Otherwise, nothing fishy. How’d the FBI go?”

“Same dance – no convictions, no warrants, no recent arrests.”

“So that’s it?” Noreen asked.

“Are you kidding? This is just the first mile. Now when did Fudge say we’d have credit card and phone details?”

“Any minute,” Noreen answered, her voice quickening. “Oh, and there is one thing you might find interesting. Remember that pharmacy you wanted me to check out? Well, I called up, said I was from Oliver’s insurance company, and asked if they had any outstanding prescriptions for a Mr. Caruso.”

“And?”

“Nothing for Oliver…”

“Damn…”

“Though they did have one for a Caruso named Charles.”

Joey stopped. “Please tell me you…”

“Oh, I’m sorry – did I say Oliver? I meant Charles. That’s right – Charlie Caruso.”

“Beautiful, beautiful,” Joey sang. “So what’d you find?”

“Well, he’s got a prescription for something called mexiletine.”

“Mexiletine?”

“That’s exactly what I said – then I called the office of the prescribing physician, who was only too happy to help out with an ongoing insurance investigation…”

“You’re really getting good at this, aren’t you?” Joey asked. “And the final result?”

“Charlie has a ventricular tachycardia.”

“A what?”

“A heart arrhythmia. He’s had it since he was fourteen,” Noreen explained. “That’s where all the hospital bills came from. All this time, we thought they were mom’s. They’re not. They’re all Charlie’s. The only reason they’re in mom’s name is because he was a minor at the time. Too bad for them, when the first attack hit, it took a hundred-and-ten-thousand-dollar operation to fix him up. Apparently, he’s got some bad electrical wiring in his heart that doesn’t let the blood pump correctly.”

“So it’s serious?”

“Only if he misses his medication.”

“Aw, crap,” Joey said, shaking her head. “You think he has it with him?”

“They took off straight from Grand Central – I don’t think he has a second pair of socks, much less his daily dose of mexiletine.”

“And how long can he go without taking it?”

“Hard to say – the doctor guessed three or four days under perfect conditions – less if he’s running around or under any stress.”

“You mean like taking off and scrambling for your life?”

“Exactly,” Noreen said. “From here on in, Charlie’s clock is ticking. And if we don’t find him soon – forget the money and the murder – those’ll be the least of this kid’s problems.”

“He’s your father?” Charlie blurts.

“So he’s alive?” I add.

The woman looks at both of us, but stays with me. “He’s been dead for six months,” she says almost a bit too calmly. “Now what’d you want with him?” Her voice is high-pitched, but strong – not a bit intimidated. I step forward; she doesn’t step back.

“Why’d you lie about who you were?” I ask.

To our surprise, she lets out an amused grin and runs her foot against the top of the grass. It’s the first time I realize she’s barefoot. “Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“You could’ve said you were his daughter,” Charlie accuses.

“And you could’ve said why you were looking for him in the first place.”

Biting my bottom lip, I know a stalemate when I see one. If we want information, we need to give it. “Walter Harvey,” I say, extending a handshake and my fake name.

“Gillian Duckworth,” she says, shaking back.

Across the street and up the block, the mailman’s making his morning rounds. Charlie hides his machete behind his back and motions my way. “Uh… maybe we should take this inside…”

“Yeah… that’s not a bad idea,” I say, stuffing the gun back in my pants. “Why don’t you come in for some coffee?”

“With you two? After you pull a gun and a pirate’s knife? Do I look like I want my photo on a milk carton?” She turns to leave and Charlie glares at me. She’s all we’ve got.

“Please just wait,” I say, reaching out for her arm.

She pulls away, but never raises her voice. “Nice meeting you, Walter. Have a good life.”

“Gillian…”

“We can explain,” Charlie calls out.

She doesn’t even slow down. The mailman disappears into the apartment next door. Last chance. Knowing we need the info, Charlie goes nuclear.

“We think your father may’ve been murdered.”

Gillian stops dead in her tracks and turns around, head cocked. She brushes three black ringlets from her face.