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Los millonarios (The Millionaires)

Overview

Los hermanos Charlie y Oliver trabajan en un banco tan exclusivo que se necesitan dos millones de dólares para abrir una cuenta. Allí descubren una cuenta abandonada cuya existencia es desconocida por todos y que no pertenece a nadie. Poco después de apropiarse de ella, un amigo suyo aparece muerto y los dos hermanos se ven atrapados en una maraña de hilos invisibles que llega a poner en peligro sus vidas.
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Overview

Los hermanos Charlie y Oliver trabajan en un banco tan exclusivo que se necesitan dos millones de dólares para abrir una cuenta. Allí descubren una cuenta abandonada cuya existencia es desconocida por todos y que no pertenece a nadie. Poco después de apropiarse de ella, un amigo suyo aparece muerto y los dos hermanos se ven atrapados en una maraña de hilos invisibles que llega a poner en peligro sus vidas.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9788408046325
  • Publisher: Planeta Publishing Corporation
  • Publication date: 2/3/2003
  • Language: Spanish
  • Edition description: Spanish-language Edition
  • Product dimensions: 9.10 (w) x 6.20 (h) x 1.40 (d)

Meet the Author

Brad Meltzer
Brad Meltzer
BRAD MELTZER

Brad Meltzer is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Book of Fate, as well as the bestsellers The Tenth Justice, Dead Even, The First Counsel, The Millionaires, The Zero Game, and The Book of Lies.

He is also one of the co-creators of the TV Show, "Jack & Bobby" – and is the Eisner Award-winning author of the critically acclaimed comic book, Justice League of America.

His first non-fiction book, Heroes for My Son, is a collection of heroes – from Jim Henson to Rosa Parks – that he'd been working on since the day his son was born. This December, he'll be launching "Brad Meltzer's Decoded" on the History Channel. And his newest thriller, The Inner Circle, will be released on January 11, 2011.

Raised in Brooklyn and Miami, Brad is a graduate of the University of Michigan and Columbia Law School. The Tenth Justice was his first published work and became an instant New York Times bestseller. Dead Even followed a year later and also hit the New York Times bestseller list, as have all six of his novels. The First Counsel came next, which is about a White House lawyer dating the President's daughter; then The Millionaires, which is about two brothers who steal money and go on the run. The Zero Game is about two Congressional staffers who are – literally – gambling on Congress. The Book of Fate is about a young Presidential aide, a crazed assassin, and the 200-year-old code created by Thomas Jefferson that times them together. For authenticity, The Book of Fate was researched with the help of two former Presidents, Clinton and Bush. His last book, The Book of Lies, is about the missing murder weapon that Cain used to kill Abel, as well as the unsolved murder of Superman creator Jerry Siegel's father. Brad is one of the only people to interview Jerry Siegel's family about the murder and, with his charitable site, OrdinaryPeopleChangeTheWorld.com, has been the driving force behind the movement to repair the house where Superman was created.

His books have spent over ten months on the bestseller lists, and have been translated into over 25 languages, from Hebrew to Bulgarian. In The Tenth Justice, the opening lines are: "Ben Addison was sweating. Like a pig." In the Hebrew translation, it became: "Ben Addison was sweating. Like a horse." We're not sure if it's a Kosher thing or what!

Brad has played himself as an extra in Woody Allen's "Celebrity," co-wrote the swearing-in oath for AmeriCorps, the national service program, and earned credit from Columbia Law School for writing his first book, which became The Tenth Justice. Before all of that, he got 24 rejection letters for his true first novel, which still sits on his shelf, published by Kinko's.

Brad currently lives in Florida with his wife, who's also an attorney.

Biography

Brad Meltzer didn't hope all his life to become a novelist. He came to it by chance, after a job at Games magazine didn't pan out. "I had no idea what to do," he says. "So I did what all of us would do in that situation. I said, 'I'm gonna write a novel.'" After one false start, a book called Fraternity that 24 publishers rejected, Meltzer hit his stride. In 1997, The Tenth Justice (which earned him extra credit as a student at Columbia Law School) was picked up by Morrow and hit The New York Times bestseller list. A year later, he repeated the performance with Dead Even. He's been writing bestselling legal thrillers ever since.

Critics like Meltzer's fast pace and nifty plots (Kirkus called The Tenth Justice "a mean, paranoid fantasy that'll have you turning pages in a frenzy," and USA Today said it "reads fast, rings true, and refreshingly breaks the mold of legal thrillers"), but it's the details that distinguish his novels from most legal fiction. The key, he says, is "Research, research, research," a task that can consume two to six months of his year-long writing schedule.

In addition to his thrillers, Meltzer is a bestselling author of critically acclaimed comic book series like Identity Crisis, Green Arrow, and Justice League. He has also written short stories, television scripts and nonfiction articles, including reviews of The Sopranos, the multiple Emmy Award-winning TV show.

Good To Know

Meltzer played himself as an extra in Woody Allen's Celebrity.

He lives in Florida with his wife, a high-school sweetheart to whom he devotes a lengthy essay on his web site.

With his friend Steve Cohen, Meltzer conceived Jack and Bobby, a critically acclaimed television program about two young brothers (not the Kennedys), one of whom grows up to be President of the United States. Cohen and Meltzer wrote all 22 episodes of the show, which was cancelled after one season. Widely considered a premier example of intelligent, high-quality TV, the series has since become a cult favorite.

Meltzer spoke with former presidents Bill Clinton and George H.W. Bush in order to accrue authentic details for his 2006 novel The Book of Fate, a thriller set in the world of White House politics.

A major plot element in The Book of Lies (2008) is the unsolved murder in 1932 of Mitchell Siegel, whose son Jerry created the iconic comic book hero Superman. Meltzer, himself a rabid comics fan, interviewed the Siegel family to research the murder.

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    1. Hometown:
      Florida
    1. Date of Birth:
      1970
    2. Place of Birth:
      New York, New York
    1. Education:
      B.A., University of Michigan; J.D., Columbia University
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

Los Millonarios
By Brad Meltzer Planeta

Copyright © 2004 Brad Meltzer
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9788408053286


Chapter One 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. Rothschild. 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! Nowwhat 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 ofa 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 oftime. 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.

As I scooch forward in the chair, I wait for the computer to kick in. Behind me, Charlie's sidesaddle on the armrest, leaning on my back and the edge of my shoulder for balance. When I angle my head just right, I see our warped images in the curve of the computer screen. If I squint real quick, we look like kids. But just like that, Tanner Drew's corporate account lights up the screen-and everything else is gone.

Charlie's eyes go straight to the balance: $126,023,164.27. "A la peanut butter sandwiches! My balance is so low I don't order sodas with my meals anymore, and this guy thinks he's got a right to complain?"

It's hard to argue-even to a bank like us, that's a lot of change. Of course, saying Greene & Greene is just a bank is like saying Einstein's "good at math."

Greene & Greene is what's known as a "private bank." That's our main service: privacy-which is why we don't take just anyone's money. In fact, when it comes to clients, they don't choose us; we choose them. And like most banks, we require a minimum deposit. The difference is, our minimum is two million dollars. And that's just to open your account. If you have five million, we say, "That's good-a nice start." At fifteen million, "We'd like to talk." And at seventy-five million and above, we gas up the private jet and come see you right away, Mr. Drew, sir, yes, sir.

"I knew it," I say, pointing at the screen. "Lapidus didn't even cue it in the system. He must've completely forgotten the whole thing." Using another one of Lapidus's passwords, I quickly type in the first part of the request.

"Are you sure it's okay to use his password like that?" "Don't worry-it'll be fine." "Maybe we should call Security and Shep can-" "I don't want to call Shep!" I insist, knowing the outcome. Shaking his head, Charlie looks back at the screen. Under Current Activity, he spots three check disbursements-all of them to "Kelli Turnley."

"I bet that's his mistress," he says. "Why?" I ask. "Because she has a name like Kelli?" "You better believe it, Watson. Jenni, Candi, Brandi-it's like a family pass to the Playboy Mansion-show the 'i' and you get right in."

"First of all, you're wrong. Second of all, without exaggeration, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. And third ..." "What was dad's first girlfriend's name? Lemme think ... was it ... Randi?" With a quick shove, I push my chair back, knock Charlie off the sidesaddle, and storm out of his cubicle. "Don't you want to hear her turn-ons and turn-offs?" he calls out behind me.

Heading up the hallway, I'm lost in my cell phone, still listening to recorded greetings of the University Club. Enraged, I hang up and start again. This time, I actually get a voice. "University Club-how may I assist you?" "I'm trying to reach Henry Lapidus-he's in a meeting in one of your conference rooms."

"Please hold, sir, and I'll ..." "Don't transfer me! I need to find him now." "I'm just the operator, sir-the best I can do is transfer you down there."

There's a click and another noise. "You've reached the University Club's Conference Center. All operators are busy-please continue to hold."

Clutching the phone even tighter, I race up the hallway and stop at an unmarked metal door. The Cage, as it's known throughout the bank, is one of the few private offices on the floor and also home to our entire money transfer system. Cash, checks, wires-it all starts here.

Naturally, there's a punch-code lock above the doorknob. Lapidus's code gets me in. Managing Director goes everywhere. Ten steps behind me, Charlie enters the six-person office. The rectangular room runs along the back wall of the fourth floor, but inside, it's the same as the cubes: fluorescent lights, modular desks, gray carpet. The only differences are the industrial-sized adding machines that decorate everyone's desks. Accounting's version of Play-Doh.

"Why do you always have to blow up like that?" Charlie asks as he catches up. "Can we please not talk about it here?" "Just tell me why you-"

"Because I work here!" I shout, spinning around.



Continues...


Excerpted from Los Millonarios by Brad Meltzer Copyright © 2004 by Brad Meltzer. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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