“Go to Stoughton’s Internet group,” I interrupt, my voice surging as I let go of Charlie’s shirt. “If I’m Duckworth, I’m keeping it on the home team.”

“Guess who’s back in boy-wonder mode?” Charlie asks. He loves the tease, but I can tell he’s excited. Nodding, he scrolls down through the various groups until he gets to Disney Online. Set up in the exact same pyramid as before, it doesn’t take us long to find Stoughton’s salt-and-pepper portrait. Below him, we once again spot the pale accounting guy, followed by the redhead. But once again, that’s where the Online group ends. Just like before. No black man; no cleft chin. Right back where we started.

“Didn’t your dad ever do anything easy?” Charlie asks.

“It’s in here somewhere,” I insist, eyes locked on the screen.

Gillian’s silent, but the way she fidgets with her skirt, it’s like she sees something familiar. Something she knows. Her voice is slow in its deliberation. “Go to Imagineering,” she eventually suggests.

Charlie looks at me; I nod a quick approval. Duckworth’s old stomping ground.

He scrolls back up as quickly as he can. Imagineers. At the top, the VP of Imagineering is a handsome middle-aged man with a restrained, taunting grin. Underneath, his first lieutenant is about the same age, with a collection of double-chins that makes him look almost jolly. And below the two of them… is Marcus Dayal, a dark-skinned black man with an unmistakable cleft chin.

Charlie presses the photo strip against the screen to match up the pictures. The static electricity on the monitor holds it in place. Perfect match.

“I’m telling you, we’d whup the Hardy Boys’ asses anyday,” he says.

“Press the button,” I insist, barely able to contain myself.

Moving the cursor over Marcus’s digital photo, Charlie clicks it once and starts the countdown.

Once again, nothing happens. And then – once again – something does.

“They’re heeeere…” Charlie whispers as the screen fades to black.

This time, though, it’s different than before – a cascade of images appear, and just as quickly vanish. Web page after web page opens at whirlwind speed, their words and logos fading immediately after they appear: Team Disney Online… Company Directory… Employee Locator – the cursor’s moving and clicking in every direction, like it’s surfing through the site on fast-forward. The rush of images fly at us, faster and faster, deeper into the website and further down the wormhole. The pages are skimming past us at such high speeds that they merge in a dark purple blur. I’m almost dizzy from staring at it, but only a fool would look away.

And then the brakes kick in. A single, final image slaps the screen. I actually jump back as it stops. So does Charlie. To her credit, Gillian doesn’t flinch.

“Here we go…” Charlie says.

He’s right about that one. Wherever we are, this is it. Duckworth’s three-hundred-and-thirteen-million-dollar idea.

Practically blocking my view, Charlie’s leaning so close to the screen, his chest presses against the keyboard. As I pull him back, it takes me all of two seconds to recognize what he’s gaping at. The midnight blue Greene & Greene logo on the top left. The est. 1870 sign on the top right.

“A bank statement?” Charlie asks.

I nod, checking it myself. At first glance, that’s all it is – just a regular, end-of-the-month bank statement. Except for the Greene logo, it doesn’t look any different from the monthly statement at any bank: deposits, withdrawals, account number – all the pieces are there. The only difference is the name of the account holder…

“Martin Duckworth,” Charlie reads from the screen.

“This is dad’s account?” Gillian asks.

“… 72741342388,” I read out loud as my finger brailles the numbers on the screen. “This is definitely his – the same as the one we-” I cut myself off as soon as Gillian glances my way. “The same as the original one we looked at,” I tell her.

Smooth, Charlie says with a look.

I turn back to Gillian, but her eyes are now glued to the screen… and to the box that’s labeled Account Balance: $4,769,277.44.

“Four million?” Gillian asks, confused. “I thought you said the account was empty?”

“It was… it’s supposed to be,” I insist defensively. She thinks I’m lying. “I’m telling you, when I called from the bus, they said the balance was zer-”

There’s an audible click and all three of us turn to the monitor.

“What was…?”

“There,” I say, once again stabbing a finger at the screen. I point to the Account Balance: $4,832,949.55.

“Please tell me that just went up,” Charlie says.

“Does anyone remember what it said before it-”

Click.

Account Balance: $4,925,204.29.

None of us says a word.

Click.

Account Balance: $5,012,746.41.

“If my mouth opens any wider, my chin’s gonna hit the carpet,” Charlie blurts. “I don’t believe it.”

“Lemme see,” I say as I shove Charlie out of his seat. For once, he doesn’t fight. Right now, he’s better off riding shotgun.

Moving the cursor up toward the Deposits section, I study the three newest entries to the account:

$63,672.11 – wire transfer from Account 225751116.

$92,254.74 – wire transfer from Account 11000571210.

$87,542.12 – internal transfer from Account 9008410321.

My eyes narrow and I press my lips together.

“It’s the same way he studies mom’s bills,” Charlie says to Gillian.

Reaching forward, I palm the top corner of the monitor. I’m not letting this one go. “Oh, don’t tell me he-” I cut myself off and recheck the numbers.

“What?” Gillian asks.

I don’t answer. I shake my head, lost in the screen. Searching for more, I click on the box marked Deposits. A smaller window opens, and I’m staring at Duckworth’s full account history. Every deposit on record from start to-

“How the hell did he… I-It’s not possible…” I stumble, scrolling down the digital pages of the account. The more I scroll, the longer it goes. Deposit after deposit. Sixty thousand, eighty thousand, ninety-seven thousand. They don’t seem to stop. I’ve got that gnawing pit in my stomach. It doesn’t make sense…

“Just say it!” Charlie begs.

Startled, I turn around.

“What? You forgot we were here?” Gillian asks, surprisingly curt.

Letting go of the monitor, I move back from the screen so they can squeeze in. “See this right here?” I ask, pointing to the box for Deposits.

Charlie rolls his eyes. “Even I know how a deposit works, Ollie.”

“It’s not the deposit,” I say. “It’s where it came from.”

“I don’t understand…”

Behind us, the elevator dings and Charlie angles his neck back toward its opening doors. Two elderly women holding each other’s hands come out. Nothing to worry about. At least, not yet.

“Check out each of the deposits,” I say as Charlie turns back to the screen. “Sixty-three thousand… ninety-two thousand… eighty-seven thousand.” I motion to the other deposits before them. “See the trend?”

He squints toward the monitor. “You mean, besides being buckets of cash?”

“Look at the amounts, Charlie. Duckworth’s account has over two million dollars moving in every day – but there’s not a single deposit that’s over a hundred thousand dollars.”

“So?”

“So, one hundred thousand is also the threshold amount where the bank’s automatic auditing system kicks into place – which means…”

“… anything under a hundred grand doesn’t get audited,” Gillian says.

“That’s the game,” I reply. “It’s called smurfing – you pick the amount that’s just small enough to squeeze under the monitoring threshold. People do it all the time – especially when clients don’t want us questioning their cash transactions.”