The Millionaires Read online

  Also by Brad Meltzer

  Dead Even

  The Tenth Justice

  The First Counsel

  For Cori,

  who every single day

  amazes me

  For Dotty Rubin and Evelyn Meltzer,

  Nanny and Grandma,

  for teaching me my past,

  and in the process,

  showing me my future

  And in memory of

  Ben Rubin and Sol Meltzer,

  Poppy and Grandpa,

  whose legacies still touch our entire family

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank the following people, whose constant support is the only reason this book exists: First of all, Cori. There are so many words in this world, but none is good enough to express what she means to me. I’m not just in love with Cori—I’m astounded by her. By who she is, by what she does, and by who she helps me to be. She’s my tether to reality, and without a doubt, the best reason for me to leave my Land of Make-Believe is to see her at the end of every day. C—thank you for editing, for brainstorming, for putting up with me, and most of all, for believing in every one of our dreams; Jill Kneerim, friend, agent, and every writer’s dream, who embraced and nurtured this book from the absolute start. She has always understood me as a writer, and her Zen way of approaching my manuscripts is more than just a pleasure—it’s pure magic; Elaine Rogers, for always taking such good care of us; Ike Williams, Hope Denekamp, Andrea Dudley, and all the other incredible people who watch out for us at the Hill & Barlow Agency.

  I also want to thank my parents for the life they gave me in Brooklyn and all the love they’ve given me since. They’re the ones who first taught me the importance of always being myself, and they’re the reason I’m here today; my sister, Bari, the Charlie to my Oliver and the Oliver to my Charlie. The love these characters have for each other is only possible because of the wonderfully insane childhood I shared with my sister; Bobby, Dale, and Adam Flam and Ami and Matt Kuttler help with everything that needs helping and always make me feel like family; Judd Winick, partner in crime, fellow schemer of the scheme, and the friend who brought me the eureka moment that led to this entire book. Judd, I’m giving you the full salute (like Hawkeye in the last M*A*S*H). Thanks, Max; Noah Kuttler, one of the first people I turn to, for his astonishing patience, brilliant intuition, and his neverending ability to challenge me as a writer. I’m humbled by what he brings to the novels and, more important, to our friendship; Ethan and Sally Kline, who have proven that even an ocean between us won’t stop them from helping me with everything from editing to plot twisting; Paul Brennan, Matt Oshinsky, Paulo Pacheco, Joel Rose, and Chris Weiss kept this book honest. Their input is critical to everything I write and I hope they know how important they are to me. Brothers, indeed. Chuck and Lenore Cohen, our family in D.C., who gave new meaning to the term “opened their home” as they turned their house over to the creative process. I couldn’t have finished this book without them.

  When I started this novel, it was the first time I had to step into a world that I knew absolutely nothing about. For that reason, I owe enormous thank-yous to the following people for showing me around: Without a doubt, Jo Ayn “Joey” Glanzer was the most brilliant investigative teacher anyone could ask for. She took me through the details, dragged me down the back alleys, and brought one of my favorite characters to life. More important, she’s a true friend; Len Zawistowski and Rob Ward are amazing investigators and incredibly nice guys whom I turned to without hesitation. Thanks for all the plotting and planning; Eljay Bowron, John Tomlinson, Greg Regan, Marc Connolly, and Jim Mackin were my guides to the incredible organization known as the Secret Service, and I can’t thank them enough for their trust. They’re the actual good guys, and I respect them (and the Service) more than they know; Bill Spellings, my director of high-tech gadgetry, who puts James Bond to shame; Robin Manix and Bob West, for taking the time to make sure I had every banking detail I needed; Ashima Dayal, Tom DePont, Mike Higgins, Alex Khutorsky, David Leit, Mary Riley, Denis Russ, Jim Sloan, Don Stebbins, and Ken van Wyk answered question after question, no matter how silly or inane; Bill Warren and Deborah Warner at Disney, for all their fantastic help in taking me backstage at the Magic Kingdom. The place is just amazing, and their support is much appreciated; Chuck Vance and Larry Sheafe (who are just the best), Bill Carroll, Andy Podolak, and all the incredible minds over at Vance International, for teaching me how to track people down; Richard Bert, Sheri James, and the other wonderfully kind people at FinCEN, who taught me so much about financial crime and law enforcement; Glen Dershowitz, Joe Epstein, Rob Friedsam, Steven Heineman, Roman Krawciw, Amanda Parness, P. J. Solit, Greg Stuppler, and Jon Weiner, for taking me through the financial world; John Byrne, Tom Lasich, Laura Mouck, Charles Nelson, and Bob Powis, for their insight into the intricacies of money laundering; Chris Campos, Louis Digeronimo, Nancie Freitas, Mary Alice Hurst, Terry Lenzner, Ted O’Donnell, Rob Russell, Robert Smith, and Joseph T. Wells, who shared their privacy and investigative techniques; Steve Bernd, David Boyd, Greg Hammond, Peter Migala, and Sean Rogers, who were the rest of my high-tech surveillance team; Cindy Bonnette, Jeannine Butcavage, Vincent Conlon, Mike Martinson, and Bill Spiro, for their expertise on the banking industry; Noel Hillman and Dan Gitner, for the legal advice; Cary Lubetsky, Eric Meier, and Roger White, who reintroduced me to my hometown; Sue Cocking, Greg Cohen, Jon Constine, Tom Deardorff, Edna Farley, Michele and Tom Heidenberger, Karen Kutger, Ray McAllister, Ken Robson, Sharon Silva-Lamberson, Joao Morgado, Debra Roberts, Sheryl Sandberg, Tom Shaw, and my dad, for walking me through the rest of the details; Rob Weisbach, for being the first to say yes; every one of my male friends (you know who you are—if you just grinned, I’m talking about you), for being the brothers who live in this book; and, as always, to my family and friends, whose names inhabit these pages.

  Finally, I’d like to thank my family at Warner Books: Larry Kirshbaum, Maureen Egen, Tina Andreadis, Emi Battaglia, Karen Torres, Martha Otis, Chris Barba, the hardest-working sales force in show business, and the rest of the amazingly nice people who always make me feel at home there. Sincere thanks and a huge hug also go to Jamie Raab, for her dead-on editing, her tremendous enthusiasm, and for always cheering in our corner. Jamie, I can’t thank you enough for bringing us into the family. Finally, I want to say a massive thank-you to my editor, Rob McMahon, who does all the heavy lifting. Simply put, Rob is a prince among men. His editorial input is as honest as his demeanor, and his suggestions always push me to reach for what’s better. Thank you, Rob, for your friendship, and most important, your faith.

  Twenty-three percent of people

  say they would steal if they couldn’t get caught.

  . . . but to live outside the law, you must be honest.

  —Bob Dylan

  1

  I know where I’m going. And I know who I want to be. That’s why I took this job in the first place . . . and why, four years later, I still put up with the clients. And their demands. And their wads of money. Most of the time, they just want to keep a low profile, which is actually the bank’s specialty. Other times, they want a little . . . personal touch. My phone rings and I tee up the charm. “This is Oliver,” I answer. “How can I help you?”

  “Where the hell’s your boss!?” a Southern chainsaw of a voice explodes in my ear.

  “E-Excuse me?”

  “Don’t piss on this, Caruso! I want my money!”

  It’s not until he says the word “money,” that I recognize the accent. Tanner Drew, the largest developer of luxury skyscrapers in New York City and chief patriarch of the Drew Family Office. In the world of high-net-worth individuals, a family office is as high as you get. Rockefeller. Roths
child. Gates and Soros. Once hired, the family office supervises all the advisors, lawyers, and bankers who manage the family’s money. Paid professionals to maximize every last penny. You don’t speak to the family anymore—you speak to the office. So if the head of the clan is calling me directly . . . I’m about to get some teeth pulled.

  “Has the transfer not posted yet, Mr. Drew?”

  “You’re damn right it hasn’t posted yet, smartass! Now what the hell you gonna do to make that right? Your boss promised me it’d be here by two o’clock! Two o’clock!” he screams.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Lapidus is—”

  “I don’t give a raccoon’s ass where he is—the guy at Forbes gave me a deadline of today; I gave your boss that deadline, and now I’m giving you that deadline! What the hell else we need to discuss!?”

  My mouth goes dry. Every year, the Forbes 400 lists the wealthiest 400 individuals in the United States. Last year, Tanner Drew was number 403. He wasn’t pleased. So this year, he’s determined to bump himself up a notch. Or three. Too bad for me, the only thing standing in his way is a forty-million-dollar transfer to his personal account that we apparently still haven’t released.

  “Hold on one second, sir, I . . .”

  “Don’t you dare put me on h—”

  I push the hold button and pray for rain. A quick extension later, I’m waiting to hear the voice of Judy Sklar, Lapidus’s secretary. All I get is voicemail. With the boss at a partners retreat for the rest of the day, she’s got no reason to stick around. I hang up and start again. This time, I go straight to DEFCON One. Henry Lapidus’s cell phone. On the first ring, no one answers. Same on the second. By the third, all I can do is stare at the blinking red light on my phone. Tanner Drew is still waiting.

  I click back to him and grab my own cell phone.

  “I’m just waiting for a callback from Mr. Lapidus,” I explain.

  “Son, if you ever put me on hold again . . .”

  Whatever he’s saying, I’m not listening. Instead, my fingers snake across my cell, rapidly dialing Lapidus’s pager. The moment I hear the beep, I enter my extension and add the number “1822.” The ultimate emergency: 911 doubled.

  “. . . nother one of your sorry-ass excuses—all I want to hear is that the transfer’s complete!”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “No, son. You don’t.”

  C’mon, I beg, staring at my cell. Ring!

  “What time does your last transfer go out?” he barks.

  “Actually, we officially close at three . . .” The clock on my wall says a quarter past three.

  “. . . but sometimes we can extend it until four.” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “Now what’s the account number and bank it’s supposed to go to?”

  He quickly relays the details, which I scribble on a nearby Post-It. Eventually, he adds, “Oliver Caruso, right? That’s your name?” His voice is soft and smooth.

  “Y-Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, Mr. Caruso. That’s all I need to know.” With that, he hangs up. I look at my silent cell phone. Still nothing.

  Within three minutes, I’ve paged and dialed every other partner I have access to. No one answers. This is a hundred-and-twenty-five-million-dollar account. I pull off my coat and claw at my tie. With a quick scan of our network’s Rolodex, I find the number for the University Club—home of the partners retreat. By the time I start dialing, I swear I can hear my own heartbeat.

  “You’ve reached the University Club,” a female voice answers.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Henry Lapi—”

  “If you’d like to speak to the club operator or to a guest room, please press zero,” the recorded voice continues.

  I pound zero and another mechanized voice says, “All operators are busy—please continue to hold.” Grabbing my cell, I dial frantically, looking for anyone with authority. Baraff . . . Bernstein . . . Mary in Accounting—Gone, Gone, and Gone.

  I hate Fridays close to Christmas. Where the hell is everyone?

  In my ear, the mechanized female voice repeats, “All operators are busy—please continue to hold.”

  I’m tempted to hit the panic button and call Shep, who’s in charge of the bank’s security, but . . . no . . . too much of a stickler . . . without the right signatures, he’ll never let me get away with it. So if I can’t find someone with transfer authority, I need to at least find someone in the back office who can—

  I got it.

  My brother.

  With my receiver in one ear and my cell in the other, I shut my eyes and listen as his phone rings. Once . . . twice . . .

  “I’m Charlie,” he answers.

  “You’re still here!?”

  “Nope—I left an hour ago,” he deadpans. “Figment of your imagination.”

  I ignore the joke. “Do you still know where Mary in Accounting keeps her username and password?”

  “I think so . . . why?”

  “Don’t go anywhere! I’ll be right down.”

  My fingers dance like lightning across my phone’s keypad, forwarding my line to my cell phone—just in case the University Club picks up.

  Dashing out of my office, I make a sharp right and head straight for the private elevator at the end of the dark mahogany-paneled hallway. I don’t care if it’s just for clients. I enter Lapidus’s six-digit code at the keypad above the call buttons, and the doors slide open. Shep in Security wouldn’t like that one either.

  The instant I step inside, I spin around and pound the Door Close button. Last week, I read in some business book that Door Close buttons in elevators are almost always disconnected—they’re just there to make hurried people feel like they’re in control. Wiping a forehead full of sweat back through my dark brown hair, I push the button anyway. Then I push it again. Three floors to go.

  * * * *

  “Well, well, well,” Charlie announces, looking up from a stack of papers with his forever-boyish grin. Lowering his chin, he peers over his vintage horn-rimmed glasses. He’s been wearing the glasses for years—way before they were fashionable. The same holds true for his white shirt and rumpled slacks. Both are hand-me-downs from my closet, but somehow, the way they hang on his lean frame, they look perfect. Downtown stylish; never preppy. “Look who’s slumming!” he cheers. “Hey, where’s your ‘I’m no longer a member of the proletariat’ button?”

  I ignore the jab. It’s something I’ve had to get used to over the past few months. Six months, to be exact—which is how long it’s been since I got him the job at the bank. He needed the money, and mom and I needed help with the bills. If it were just gas, electric, and rent, we’d be fine. But our tab at the hospital—for Charlie, that’s always been personal. It’s the only reason he took the job in the first place. And while I know he just sees it as a way to pitch in while he writes his music, it can’t be easy for him to see me up in a private office with a walnut desk and a leather chair, while he’s down here with the cubicles and beige Formica.

  “Whatsa matter?” he asks as I rub my eyes. “The fluorescent light making you sick? If you want, I’ll go upstairs and get your lamp—or maybe I should bring down your mini-Persian rug—I know how the industrial carpet hurts your—”

  “Can you please shut up for a second!”

  “What happened?” he asks, suddenly concerned. “Is it mom?”

  That’s always his first question when he sees me upset—especially after the debt collectors gave her a scare last month. “No, it’s not mom . . .”

  “Then don’t do that! You almost gave me a vomit attack!”

  “I’m sorry . . . I just . . . I’m running out of time. One of our clients . . . Lapidus was supposed to put through a transfer, and I just got my ass handed to me because it still hasn’t arrived.”

  Kicking his clunky black shoes up on his desk, Charlie tips his chair back on its hind legs and grabs a yellow can of Play-Doh from the corner of his desk. Lifting it to his nose, he cracks open the top, steals a sniff
of childhood, and lets out a laugh. It’s a typical high-pitched, little-brother laugh.

  “How can you think this is funny?” I demand.

  “That’s what you’re worried about? Some guy didn’t get his walking-around money? Tell him to wait until Monday.”

  “Why don’t you tell him—his name’s Tanner Drew.”

  Charlie’s chair drops to the floor. “Are you serious?” he asks. “How much?”

  I don’t answer.

  “C’mon, Ollie, I won’t make a big deal.”

  I still don’t say a word.

  “Listen, if you didn’t want to tell me, why’d you come down?”

  There’s no debating that one. My answer’s a whisper. “Forty million dollars.”

  “Forty mil!?” he screams. “Are you on the pipe!?”

  “You said you wouldn’t make a big deal!”

  “Ollie, this isn’t like shorting some goober a roll of quarters. When you’re talking eight figures . . . even to Tanner that’s not spare change—and the guy already owns half of downt—”

  “Charlie!” I shout.

  He stops right there—he already knows I’m wound too tight.

  “I could really use your help,” I add, watching his reaction.

  For anyone else, it’d be a moment to treasure—an admission of weakness that could forever retip the scales between walnut desks and beige Formica. To be honest, I probably have it coming.

  My brother looks me straight in the eye. “Tell me what you need me to do,” he says.

  * * * *

  Sitting in Charlie’s chair, I enter Lapidus’s username and password. I may not be squatting at the top of the totem pole, but I’m still an associate. The youngest associate—and the only one assigned directly to Lapidus. In a place with only twelve partners, that alone gets me further than most. Like me, Lapidus didn’t grow up with a money clip in his pocket. But the right job, with the right boss, led him to the right business school, which launched him up through the private elevators. Now he’s ready to return the favor. As he taught me on my first day, the simple plans work best. I help him; he helps me. Like Charlie, we all have our ways of getting out of debt.