The Millionaires by Brad Meltzer Page A

“For what city?”
    “Manhattan,” I say.
    “What listing?”
    I read from the fax. “Midland National Bank.” Where the thief wanted to transfer the money.
    “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,