Episode 30

As she turned the corner onto Oliver Street, wrapped in an ankle-length olive-green coat, Joey looked like just another pedestrian in Red Hook: head down, no time to talk, other places to be. Yet while her eyes remained fixed on the dilapidated building where Oliver lived, her fingers were much busier, slowly fingering the empty black garbage bags in her left pocket and the red nylon dog leash in her right. .

Certain that she was close enough to his target, she lifted her head and removed the leash, letting it dangle to her knees. She was not just a researcher now, pacing the street and examining windows for curious neighbors. With the leash hanging next to her, she was just another member of the community searching for her missing dog. Yes, it was a very poor excuse, but in all the years she had used it, she had never let him down. The empty leashes would take you anywhere: driveways...backyards...even into the narrow alleyway that runs past the faded brownstone building and where the three plastic bins filled with Oliver and his neighbors' trash lie. .

Joey slipped into the alley; He counted eleven windows facing the garbage collection area: four in Oliver's building, four in the next building, and three in the one across the street. Surely it was better to do it at night, but by then the Service would have gone through the trash. That's what always happens with Dump Dives. First come first served.

Without wasting a second, he took off his coat and tossed it aside. He had a small microphone attached to the top button of his shirt, and two thin cables led to a cell phone attached to his belt. He put an earphone in his right ear, hit Send, and as it played, he snapped open the three lids of the trash cans.

"This is Noreen," a young woman answered.

"It's me," Joey said, pulling on a pair of latex surgical gloves. It was a lesson he'd learned in his first Plunge into the Dump, where the suspect had a newborn...and Joey found a handful of dirty diapers.

"How's the neighborhood?" Noreen asked.

"It's seen better days," Joey said as he looked at the worn brick walls and broken glass in the basement windows. I assumed it was a neighborhood of ambitious young bankers. But it is a neighborhood of working people who cannot afford the luxury of a first apartment in the city.

"Maybe that's why he stole the money, because he's sick of being second class."

"Yeah…maybe," Joey said, happy to see that Noreen was participating. A recent graduate of Georgetown Law School's evening program, Noreen spent the first month after her graduation being turned down by top law firms in Washington, D.C. The next two months saw rejection from small and medium-sized firms as well. In the fourth month, her old Test teacher made a call to her good friend at Sheafe International. She's an excellent student in the night program... small at first glance, but ambitious... just like Joey the day her father left her. Those were the magic words. A faxed résumé later, Noreen had a job and Joey had her brand new assistant.

"Ready to dance?" Joey asked.

-Shoot...

Joey reached into the first container, opened the first Hefty bag, and the smell of ground coffee hit him full in the face. He tilted the bag to get a better look, reaching for something with a... There he was. A phone bill. Stained and wet from coffee grounds, but on top. He brushed away the coffee grounds and checked the name on the first page. Frank Tusa. The same direction.

Apartment 1.

Next.

The bag underneath was a dark sack that, once opened, reeked of rotten oranges. There was a postage envelope addressed to Vivian Leone.

Apartment 2.

Next.

The middle container was empty. That left only the container on the right, which held a cheap, almost transparent white bag tied with a thin red string. It wasn't Hefty...it wasn't GLAD either...it was someone trying to save a few bucks.

"Have you found anything?" Noreen asked.

Joey didn't answer. She opened the white bag, peeked inside, and held her breath at the reek of two-day-old bananas.

-Phew! Gross.

-What?

—Uncle is a recycler.

"What do you mean uncle?" Noreen asked. How do you know it's Oliver's garbage?

"There are only three apartments and he has the cheapest one in the basement. Trust me, it's his crap.

Joey checked the windows again before pulling one of the black trash bags from his pocket, lining the inside of the empty bin, and pouring the brown banana skins from Oliver's bag into it. As a lawyer, she knew that what she was doing was entirely legal—once you leave your trash on the curb, anyone can play with it—but that didn't mean you had to announce your every move.

Joey searched for the filth, picking up and transferring handfuls of old spaghetti, leftover ravioli, and cheese.

"Lots of dough... little cash," she whispered to Noreen, whose job it was to catalog. There are onions and garlic... a container of pre-cut mushrooms, her childish step into high society; for the rest, nothing expensive in terms of vegetables, no asparagus or exotic lettuce.

-Agree...

"There's an old pair of underpants, boxers, in fact, that look impressive, though actually...

I'll make a note...

"Some cheese wrappers...a plastic bag from Shop-Rite Delicatessen..." He held the label close to read it: "A pound of turkey, the cheapest item in the store...empty chip and cracker bags salty... It seems like he buys lunch and takes it home every day.

"What do the containers look like?"

"No Stvrofoam... no Chinese food delivery containers... not even a piece of pizza," Joey said, as he continued his digging through the wet wreckage. He doesn't spend a dollar ordering food. Except for the mushrooms, save every penny.

—Packages or boxes of any product?

-Nothing. No electronics... no batteries or batteries... just a plastic wrapper from a videotape. All within your resources. The biggest luxuries are high-tech Gillette razors and double-ply toilet paper. Wow... there's also a super absorbent tampon wrapper. Looks like our boy has a girlfriend.

"How many wrappers?"

"Only one," Joey replied. She doesn't come every night, maybe it's a recent relationship... or she likes him to sleep at her house. At the bottom of the bag, Joey dumped the contents of four coffee filters and used his fingers to rake up the small dune of dark debris. She is already. A week in the life," Joey announced. Naturally, without the material to recycle, it's only half the picture.

-If you say it...

-What is that supposed to mean? "I don't know…it's just…do you really think going through the trash will help us find them?" Noreen asked sheepishly.

Joey shook her head. Too young.

"Noreen, the only way to find out where someone is going is to know where he's been.

At the other end of the line there was a long pause.

—Do you think we can get that material to recycle? Noreen asked.

-You tell me. What a day...?

"Pickup isn't until tomorrow," Noreen interrupted. I have the web page in front of me.

Joey nodded. Even the mouse has to roar sometimes.

"I bet he still has it in his apartment," Noreen added.

"The only way to find out..." He replaced the garbage bags, pulled out the red walking leash again, and headed down the shaky brick steps that led to Oliver's basement apartment. Next to the red-painted door was a small four-pane window with a blue and white sticker: Attention! Protected by Ameritech Alarms!

"Shit," Joey muttered. If this kid doesn't even ask for a pizza to be brought home, he's much less going to install an alarm." "What are you doing? Noreen asked.

"Nothing," Joey said as he pressed his nose between the bars that protected the window. Looking this way and that, he looked around the small apartment. Then he saw them on the floor in a corner of the kitchen—the blue recycling bin filled with cans…and the bright green bin filled with papers.

"Please tell me you're not forcing the door," Noreen said, already in a panic.

"I'm not forcing the door," Joey replied dryly. He reached into his bag and pulled out a black zippered case. He opened it, took out a very fine instrument with a wire at the end, and inserted it into the top lock of Oliver's door.

"You know what Mr. Sheafe said about that!" If they catch you again...!

With a flick of the wrist, the lock released and the door swung open smoothly. He took the last empty garbage bag from his pocket, quickly surveyed the tiny apartment, and smiled.

"Come with mom...

"Why do you worry so much?" Joey asked, as he knelt in front of the two-drawer filing cabinet that served as Oliver's nightstand and went through its contents.

To keep it out of sight and keep his papers safe, Oliver had covered the cabinet with a piece of burgundy cloth. Joey went straight for him.

"I don't worry," Noreen replied. I just think it's weird. I mean, Oliver is supposed to be the mastermind behind a three hundred million dollar heist, but according to what you just read to me, he writes checks every month to pay for his hospital bills.

mother and almost half of his mortgage. "Noreen, just because someone smiles at you doesn't mean they won't stick a knife in your back. I've seen him fifty times...he had a motive.

Our boy Oliver spends four years in the bank thinking he's going to be a big shot, then one day he wakes up to realize that all he has to show for it is a stack of bills and a suntan. And, to make matters even worse, his brother arrives and discovers that he is in the same trap. The two of them have a particularly bad day... an opportunity presents itself... and voilà... the occasion strikes.

to the thief.

"Yeah... no... I guess," Noreen said, eager to get this over with as soon as possible. What about the bride? See anything with a phone number on it?

"Forget the numbers, are you ready for the full address?" Joey rummaged through the recycling bin and quickly pulled out all the magazines. Business Week... Forbes... Smart Money... -. Here we go," she said, picking up a copy of People and looking for the subscription label. Beth Manning. 201 East 87th Street, apartment 23H. When brides come to visit they always bring reading material.

"That's fantastic…you're a genius," Noreen said with a hint of sarcasm. Now can you do me a favor and get the hell out of there before the Service guys come and beat your ass up?

"Actually, now that you mention it..." She tossed the magazine back into the container, went into the bathroom, and opened the medicine cabinet. Toothpaste... razor blade... shaving foam... deodorant... nothing special. In the trash was a crumpled plastic bag with the words "Barney's Pharmacy" in black letters.

Noreen, the place is called Barney's Pharmacy; We want a list of important recipes in the name of Oliver and his girlfriend.

-Agree. Can we go now?

Returning to the front room, Joey saw a photograph in a black laminated frame on the kitchen table. In the photo, two young children—dressed exactly alike in snug red turtlenecks—sat on a large sofa with their feet dangling over the cushions. Oliver looked to be about six years old; Charlie, two. They both read books...but when Joey moved closer to look at the photograph more closely, she noticed that Charlie's book was upside down.

"Joey, this isn't fun anymore," Noreen yelled into her earpiece. If you get caught in a break-in...

Joey couldn't help but nod at the challenge. She went directly to the television, stood behind the set, and followed the cord to the wall outlet. If the house was as old as she thought...

-What are you doing? Noreen implored.

"Just a little electrician job," Joey teased.

At the end of the cable he saw the small orange adapter that, once attached to the triple jack of the TV, was connected to the wall socket. I love old houses, she thought as she crouched by the electrical outlet. She brought the bag closer and took out the small black case again. Inside was an almost identical orange adapter.

Unlike the battery-powered transmitter she'd left in Lapidus's office, this one was specially designed for long-term use. It looks like a plug and works like a plug, but is capable of transmitting over a distance of almost four miles in residential neighborhoods. Nobody pays attention to it, nobody asks questions and, best of all, while it remains plugged in it has an inexhaustible source of energy.

-Have you finished yet? Noreen begged.

-Finished? Joey asked, pulling the plug out of the wall. I just started.

"Can you do it or not?" Gallo asked, standing by Andrew Nguyen's desk.

"Calm down," Nguyen replied.

Andrew Nguyen, a lean but muscular Asian, prematurely gray at the temples, was in his fifth year with the Attorney General's Office. In that time he had learned that while it was important to be tough on criminals, sometimes it was just as vital to be tough on law enforcement. Do you want to lose another in an appeal...?

"Spare me the Constitution." Those two guys are dangerous.

"Yes," Nguyen said with a smile. I heard they had you and DeSanctis chasing buses all afternoon...

Gallo ignored the joke.

"Will you help us or not?"

Nguyen shook his head.

"Don't come to me with all that

shit, rooster What you ask me is not turkey mucus.

"Neither is stealing three hundred million dollars and killing an ex-agent," Gallo replied.

"Yes... I'm sorry about what happened," Nguyen said; he didn't want to continue arguing. He pushed the notepad away from him, knowing it wasn't wise to write down anything they talked about. The last thing he needed was a judge forcing him to hand over the notes to the opposing attorney. Getting back to your request," he added, "have you exhausted all other possibilities yet?

"Come on Nguyen...

"You know I have to ask, Jimmy. When it comes to tapping phones and filming suspects, I can't bring out the artillery until you assure me you've exhausted all other investigative methods, including all the phone and credit card details I got for you this morning.

Gallo made an effort to show his best smile.

"I wouldn't lie to you, partner, we'll keep this case strictly legal."

Nguyen nodded. It was all she needed.

"You're really going for those two, aren't you?"

"You can't imagine," Gallo said. You do not even imagine it.

"Omnibank, Fraud Department, this is Elena Ratner. What I can help?

"Hello, Ms. Ratner," Gallo said from her cell phone as her navy Ford pulled into the right lane of the Brooklyn Bridge. I'm Agent Gallo of the United States Secret Service...

"Of course, Agent Gallo, I'm sorry I kept you waiting so long. We just received documentation from him...

"So everything is under control?" Her," she interrupted.

"Completely, sir." We've located and recorded both accounts: an Omnibank MasterCard for Oliver J. Caruso and a Visa card for Charles Caruso," she said, reading the numbers for both accounts. Are you sure he doesn't want us to cancel them?

"Miss Ratner," Gallo lectured through gritted teeth, "if the cards are cancelled, how am I supposed to find out what they buy and where they're going?

At the other end of the line there was a pause. This was the reason why she hated having to deal with law enforcement officers.

"I'm sorry, sir her," she replied dryly. From now on we will notify you as soon as one of the two account holders makes a purchase.

"And how long will that notification take?"

"By the time the cards receive the approval code, our computer will already have dialed her phone number," he added. It's instant.

"Hi, I'm Fudge," the answering machine replied. I'm not home right now, unless of course you're a salesman, in which case I'm here looking into you because, honestly, I don't give a damn about your friendship. I don't have time for freeloaders. Please leave your message when the tone sounds.

"Fudge, I know you're there," Joey yelled into the answering machine. Get it, get it, get it...!

"Why, Lady Guinevere, you do sing the sorceress song," Fudge crooned, careful not to say Joey's name.

Joey rolled her eyes, refusing to play the game. When it came to these things it was better not to get involved. And when it came to Fudge, well...it's always been his policy not to get too close to men who continue to go by the name of their favorite Judy Blume character.

"And what can I do for you tonight?" Business or pleasure?

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

Fudge waited a moment before answering. -Maybe.

Joey nodded at his coded response. That meant yes. It was always yes. In fact, that's what the business was about: meeting people. And not just any kind of people. Angry people. Bitter people. People who have been denied a promotion. In every office there is always someone who is bitter with his work. And these were the people eager to sell what they knew. And they were the people Fudge could find.

"If I could help you, what would you be looking for?" Fudge asked. Customer data?

"Yes... but I also need controls over two accounts."

"Uh oh, we're talking about a lot of dough here..."

"If you can't handle it," Joey warned.

"I can handle it perfectly." I know a secretary in the Fraud Department who continues to resent an offensive comment she heard during an office party with...

"Fudge! Joey interrupted; he didn't want to know anything about the source. Granted, he cheapened the lawyer in her, but she had no choice. Someone else does the dirty work; she gets the final product. As long as she doesn't know where the information came from, she can remove any liability. On the other hand, even though it is a legal trap, it has worked for the CIA for years.

"A hundred for the data." One big for the ears," Fudge said. Anything else?

—Telephone company. Unlisted numbers and maybe tapping a few lines.

-In what state?

Joey shook her head.

"Where do you find these people?" "Honey, go into any chat in the world and type the words: Who hates their job? When you see an email coming to you with the sender AT&T.com, you know who to write to," Fudge said. Think about it the next time you're being a jerk to a messenger.

-What is this? DeSanctis asked. He was examining a two-page document hunched over the hood of his Chevy.

"It's a postage envelope," Gallo said, cupping his hands and blowing into them to warm them. You take it to the post offices and they...

"…they'll take Oliver and Charlie's mail and photocopy all return addresses," DeSanctis interrupted. I know how it works.

"Good...then you'll also know who to deliver it to at the post office." When you're done, find the search warrant for Oliver's apartment. I still have another stop to make.

-What is this? asked the Hispanic woman wearing the dark blue postal worker sweater.

"It's a thank you gift," Joey said as he held out a hundred-dollar bill.

Ensconced between two wobbly metal racks filled with rubber-banded stacks of letters, the woman leaned out of her makeshift cubicle and surveyed the vast back room. Like any distribution area of most post offices, it was a human anthill of activity: bags of mail items were dropped in all directions, separated and classified. Satisfied that no one was looking, the woman examined the hundred-dollar bill in Joey's hand.

"Are you a policeman?"

"Private detective," Joey said, applying just the right amount of lawyer's calm so the woman wouldn't freak out. She hated having to do these things, but as Fudge had said, when it came to mail, the scale was too big. If you wanted to draw a true profile, and you needed all the senders, you had to go in person and find the local postman. She private and willing to pay - she clarified.

"Drop it to the ground," the woman said.

Joey hesitated, looking around her for cameras in the corners of the room.

"Just drop it," the woman repeated. It won't hurt anyone.

Joey reached down and dropped the bill, which landed softly on the floor. Then the woman stepped forward and covered him with her foot.

"How can I help you?"

Joey pulled a sheet of paper from her bag.

"Just a little Xerox job from some friends in Brooklyn.

"What do you mean she's gone?" Gallo growled into his cell as he pushed the button for the fourth floor in the elevator. There was a strong jolt and the old elevator slowly started to move.

"Gone...as in she's no longer here," DeSanctis replied. Someone has been going through the trash and the recycling bins are on the curb, squeaky clean.

"Maybe they've already picked it up." What day do you collect the material for recycling?

"Tomorrow," DeSanctis said dryly. I tell you that she has been here. And if she deduces how we think...

-Do not be a moron. Just because she stole Oliver's trash doesn't mean she knows what's going on. The elevator doors opened and Gallo followed the alphabet to apartment 4D. Besides, in the grand scheme of things, we're about to get something much better than old newspapers and junk mail...

-What are you talking about?

Gallo rang the bell and did not answer. -Who is it? asked a soft feminine voice.

"United States Secret Service," Gallo said, holding up her badge so they could see her through the peephole.