Found money

by James Grippando

  “This is Dr. Duffy.”

  “Hi,” she said, somewhat startled. “Thanks — thanks for coming. I mean, for answering. The phone, that is.” Jeez, she thought, cringing. Taylor could have put together a better sentence.

  “Who is this?”

  “You don’t know me. But I think your father must have. Or maybe it was your mother.”

  “What? Is this some kind of crank?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not making much sense. Let me just start at the top, and you can decide what’s going on for yourself. You see, I got a package a couple of weeks ago. It didn’t have a return address, but I’m certain it came from either your father or your mother. I know your father passed away recently, and I didn’t want to trouble your mother.”

  Ryan’s voice suddenly lost its edge. “How do you know it came from my parents?”

  “That’s just something I figured out.”

  “What was in the package?”

  “A gift.”

  “What kind of gift?”

  “A totally unexpected one. I don’t really want to get into it on the telephone. Could we maybe meet somewhere and talk about this?”

  “I’d really like to know more about this gift.”

  “And I’d be more than happy to tell you,” said Amy. “But please, not on the phone.”

  “Where do you want to meet?”

  “Just someplace public, like a restaurant or something. Not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t know you.”

  “Okay. You want to meet here in Piedmont Springs? I can do it tonight, if you like.”

  Amy hesitated. It was a five-hour drive from Boulder each way, and she had just made the trip yesterday. Long trips in her clunky old truck were a complete roll of the dice, especially at night. And another day off from work was pushing it. “That’s kind of far for me.”

  “Where are you coming from?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Well, tomorrow I’ll be in Denver on a personal matter. Is that any better for you?”

  Amy was sure she could think of some computer-related excuse to go to the firm’s Denver office. “Yes, as a matter of fact it is. Do you know the Green Parrot? It’s a coffee shop, dessert place at Larimer Square.”

  “I’m sure I can find it.”

  “Great,” said Amy. “What time is good for you?”

  “I have an appointment at two. Not sure how long it will last. Let’s say four o’clock, just to be safe.”

  “Four it is,” she said.

  “Hey,” he said, catching her before the hang-up. “How will we know each other?”

  “Just give the hostess your name. I’ll ask for Dr. Duffy when I get there.”

  “See you then.”

  “Yes,” she said eagerly, “definitely.”

  11

  Ryan ate an early lunch on Friday and drove alone to Denver. The radio was playing, but he hardly noticed. This afternoon’s property settlement conference with Liz and her lawyer was enough to keep his mind whirling. Now he could also look forward to the mystery woman and her four o’clock surprise.

  Ryan had phoned Liz the morning after their Tuesday evening talk on the front porch. Having slept on it, he’d decided to feel her out before telling her about the money. He offered to ride together to Friday’s meeting, hoping she’d suggest they simply postpone the whole divorce thing, maybe start talking reconciliation. But she declined the ride. Seemed she had to be in Denver three hours ahead of time to prepare with her lawyer.

  Three hours? Who the hell did they think he was, Donald Trump?

  His heart thumped with a sudden realization. Technically, he was a millionaire. But how would Liz know that? Ryan hadn’t even told his own lawyer about the two million in the attic, which raised another set of problems. Eventually, the divorce would force him to disclose his net worth under oath, either in sworn deposition testimony or in his sworn statement of assets and liabilities. For the moment, however, he didn’t consider the tainted cash an asset. At least not until he decided to keep it. Today, he would just have to finesse things. Later, if he did decide to keep it, he could figure out a way to tell Liz.

  Unless she already knew. Somehow.

  Seventeenth Street was the lifeline of Denver’s financial district. Amid the shadows of more than a dozen sleek chrome and glass skyscrapers, Ryan drove slowly in search of parking rates that didn’t cause cardiac arrest. It was futile. He parked in the garage of a forty-story tower owned by the Anaconda Corporation, an international mining conglomerate whose real gold mine must have been parking revenue. A catwalk took him to the building’s atrium, where he caught an express elevator to the thirty-fourth floor.

  The doors opened to a spacious lobby. Silk wall coverings and cherry wainscoting lent the desired air of prestige and power. The floors were polished marble with elaborate inlaid borders worthy of the Vatican. A wall of windows faced west, with a breathtaking view of jagged mountaintops in the distance. Ryan would have guessed he was in the right place

  from the impressive decor alone, but the shiny brass letters on the wall confirmed his arrival at Wedderburn and Jackson, P.A.

  A far cry from the clinic, thought Ryan.

  Ryan felt sorely underdressed in his khaki pants and blazer, no tie. He had read somewhere that even stodgy law firms had caught on to the “casual Friday” dress code that was all the rage in the corporate world. If that was the case, the normal dress at this place must have been black tie and tails.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Ryan turned. The young woman at the reception desk had caught him wandering like a lost tourist. “I’m Ryan Duffy. My lawyer and I are supposed to meet with Phil Jackson at two o’clock. Mr. Jackson represents my wife. We’re, uh, getting divorced.”

  She smiled. It was her job to smile. Ryan could have said he was a serial killer seeking advice on the disposal of body parts and she would have smiled.

  “I’ll tell Mr. Jackson you’re here,” she said cheerfully. “Please, have a seat.”

  Ryan walked toward the windows, taking in the view. He was twenty minutes early. Hopefully, his lawyer would arrive soon. He had a feeling they could use a bit more preparation than the usual two-minute drill at the water cooler.

  In thirty minutes, Ryan went through every magazine in the waiting area. By 2:15, his lawyer was still missing in action. At 2:20, a sharply dressed man approached, looking straight at Ryan. “Dr. Duffy, I’m Phil Jackson.”

  Ryan rose from the leather couch and shook the hand of the enemy. He’d never met Liz’s lawyer, but he certainly knew the name. “Nice to meet you,” he lied.

  Jackson said, “I called your lawyer’s office to see if she was coming, but she has apparently been called into court on an emergency hearing.”

  “And she didn’t tell me?” he asked incredulously.

  “I’m sure she tried to reach you.”

  Ryan checked the pager on his belt. No message. Emergency hearing, my ass. She probably left early on another long weekend. That settled it: he needed a new lawyer. “What about our meeting, Mr. Jackson?”

  “We can reschedule for another day.”

  “I’ve already canceled my appointments for today. I can’t lose another day.”

  “Then we’ll just have to wait for your lawyer to get here, which may be a couple more hours. However, I feel obliged to tell you my rate is three hundred an hour, including waiting time. I may represent Liz, but let’s face it. Eventually, you pay.”

  Ryan glared. Jackson had taken obvious pleasure in that last remark. “You really have a way with people, you know that?”

  “It’s a gift,” he said smugly.

  “Let’s just start without her,” said Ryan.

  “Sorry, can’t do that. The rules of ethics prevent me from negotiating directly with you if you’re represented by an attorney.”

  “I just fired my attorney. So now there’s no ethical problem.”

  Jackson raised an eyebrow. “My, you su
rprise me, Doctor. I had you pegged for someone who definitely felt constrained to hide behind his lady lawyer’s apron strings.”

  I’m feeling constrained to punch your lights out, thought Ryan. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  “Right this way.” He led him down a long hall to a glass-encased conference room. The door was open. Liz was seated on the far side of the table, her back to the window. A stenographer was already set up at the head of the table.

  “Hello, Liz,” he said. She replied with a weak smile.

  Ryan glanced at the stenographer, then at Jackson. “What’s the court reporter here for? I thought this was an informal meeting, not a deposition.”

  “No one is testifying under oath,” said Jackson. “She’s just here to take down everything we say, so there’s a record. It’s basically no different than turning on a tape recorder or having my secretary take really good notes.”

  Right, thought Ryan. Only fifty times more intimidating, you son of a bitch. “I’d rather she not be here for this.”

  “Why?” Jackson asked with sarcasm. “Are you one of those people who will say something only if he can reserve the right to deny he ever said it?”

  Ryan glanced at the stenographer. Her fingers were moving on the keys. She’d already recorded the first pointed volley. “Fine. She can stay.”

  Jackson maneuvered around the stenographer and took the seat beside Liz. Ryan took the chair on the opposite side of the table. He was facing the window. The blinds had been adjusted perfectly in advance of his arrival, so that the sun hit him directly in the eyes.

  “Excuse me,” he said, squinting, “but I left my welding visor in the car. You think we could fix the blinds here?”

  Jackson smirked. “Gee, I’m sorry. Let me take care of it.” He leaned back to adjust the blinds — but only a smidgen. In a few minutes, the sun would be right back in Ryan’s eyes. It was part of Jackson’s strategy, Ryan surmised. Every three or four minutes, Ryan would be staring into the sun. Anything to distract and annoy the opposition. This guy’s unbelievable.

  Jackson said, “Let’s start by making it clear for the record that Dr. Duffy has fired his attorney, so he is representing himself today. Is that true, Doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well,” said Jackson. “Let’s start our discussion with a review of the documents.”

  “What documents?”

  He handed one to Ryan. “This is something our accountants prepared for us. It’s a more accurate assessment of your net worth and earning potential.”

  Ryan’s eyes moved immediately to the bottom line. He nearly choked. “Seven hundred thousand dollars! That’s ten times my annual income.”

  “Ten times your reported annual income. Although your tax return shows a modest five-figure income, we know differently.”

  Ryan glanced at Liz. Did she know about the attic? “What are you talking about?”

  Jackson laid a file on the table. It contained a stack of documents nearly eight inches high. “Invoices,” he said flatly.

  “Invoices for what?” asked Ryan.

  “During the last eight months of your marriage, Liz took over the billing practices of your clinic. She mailed these to your patients with delinquent accounts. You don’t deny she did that, do you?”

  “No, I don’t deny it. It was Liz’s idea. I told her we’d never collect, that these people couldn’t pay. She sent them anyway. But you can’t count uncollected invoices as income. That’s absurd.”

  Jackson leaned forward, more than a little confrontational. “We don’t think they went uncollected.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You knew Liz was unhappy. You knew this divorce was coming long ago. We intend to prove that you accepted cash payments from patients under the table so that you could hide the money from Liz and keep it for yourself.”

  “Have you lost your marbles?” He glanced at his wife. “Liz, tell him.”

  She looked away.

  “Dr. Duffy, the bottom line is that you owe your wife seven hundred thousand dollars in a lump sum payment, plus monthly alimony commensurate with a thriving private practice.”

  “This is laughable.”

  “No one’s laughing, Doctor.”

  “Liz, I can’t believe you would set me up like this.”

  Jackson said, “I’d appreciate it if you would direct your comments to me, Doctor. Not to your wife.”

  “Naturally. I’m sure you’re the one who concocted this scheme in the first place.”

  “No one has concocted anything.”

  “How long have you represented her? Eight months, I’ll bet, ever since she started sending the invoices. Only with the encouragement of a shark like you would she re-bill patients who couldn’t pay and then accuse me of accepting cash payments under the table.”

  “I won’t sit here and trade insults with you, Doctor. This meeting will proceed on a professional level, or it won’t proceed at all.”

  He rose and pushed away from the table. “Fine with me. This meeting’s over.” He glared at Liz. “It’s definitely over.” He turned and left the room.

  Liz jumped up to follow. Her lawyer grabbed her wrist, but she shook free. “Ryan, wait!”

  He heard her voice, but he didn’t break stride. It shocked him the way Liz had changed since their pleasant talk on the porch three nights ago. The three-hour prep session with Mr. Congeniality had obviously tapped her negative energy. Or maybe Tuesday was just a ruse.

  “Ryan!”

  He continued through the lobby, never looking back. The elevator doors opened, and he hurried inside. Liz lunged forward as the doors were closing. She barely made it. The elevator began its descent with just the two of them aboard. Liz was red-faced and breathless from the chase. “Ryan, listen to me.”

  He watched the lights above the elevator doors, avoiding eye contact.

  “This wasn’t my idea,” she said, pleading.

  Finally, he looked at her. “What were you trying to do to me in there?”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  “My own good? This I gotta hear.”

  “It was my lawyer’s idea to accuse you of hiding your income, just to put you on the defensive. I wouldn’t let him use that ploy at a real deposition or in the courtroom, anyplace where it could embarrass you. But today was just a settlement conference. It’s just posturing.”

  “ Posturing? It’s an outright lie. How could you let him pull a stunt like that?”

  “Because it’s time you woke up,” she said sharply. “For eight years I begged you to get your career in order and earn the kind of money we deserved. You could have been a top-flight surgeon at any hospital you wanted, right here in Denver. You just gave it all up.”

  “I didn’t give it all up. I’m still a doctor.”

  “You’re a waste of talent, that’s what you are. It’s time you stopped playing Mother Teresa for all the poor sick folks in Piedmont Springs and started making some real money — for both of us.”

  “You and your lawyer are going to make sure of that. Is that the plan?”

  “If forcing you to write a hefty alimony check every month is the only way to blast you out of Piedmont Springs, then by God, I’m going to do it. You brought this on yourself. I didn’t work two jobs putting you through med school so that I could wake up every morning to the smell of cow manure blowing in from the fields. Piedmont Springs was not the future we talked about before we got married. I’ve waited long enough to get out of that hellhole.”

  The elevator doors opened. Liz started out to the main lobby. Ryan stopped her.

  “Is that what’s driving you, Liz? You just can’t wait to get out of Piedmont Springs?”

  Her eyes turned cold. “No, Ryan. What’s driving me is that I’m sick and tired of waiting for you.”

  He swallowed hard, tasting the bitterness as she quickly walked away.

  12

  Friday afternoon traffic was heavy as Amy r
eached Denver. She parked near the Civic Center about a mile from the coffee shop, then walked a block to the 16th Street Mall and caught the free shuttle. The bus ride was part of her plan to conceal her identity, to the extent possible. It was conceivable that Ryan’s father had sent the money to her without telling anyone, taking the name and address of Amy Parkens with him to the grave. She didn’t want Ryan to find out who she was simply by checking her license plate.

  She was getting nervous about meeting Ryan face to face. She wished she had a friend in law enforcement who could run a criminal background check on the Duffys, make sure the money was clean. She didn’t. Snooping around was no way to get answers anyway. She had learned that from her marriage. Weeks of discreet, behind-the-scenes inquiries had brought only aggravation. The answer had come only after she’d invoked the direct approach and asked him point-blank, “Have you been screwing another woman?” No soft-pedaling it with the usual euphemisms — “seeing someone,” “having an affair,” or “cheating on me.” It had hurt to hear the truth. But at least she knew.

  The direct approach. In a pinch, there was no substitute.

  The shuttle bus dropped her at Larimer Square, a historic street that boasted authentic Western Victorian architecture. But for the determination of preservationists, it would have been bulldozed for yet another glass and steel skyscraper, like so many others that had sprouted in the days when Denver meant oil and the TV hit Dynasty. It had become Denver’s most charming shopping district, home to specialty shops, cafes, and summer concerts in brick courtyards.

  On the corner was the Green Parrot, a coffee house with a bird sanctuary motif, having been converted from a century-old drugstore. A big brass chandelier hung from a thirty-foot coffered ceiling. The soda fountain was now a busy espresso bar. The floor was old Chicago brick. Flowering orchids adorned each of the decorative wrought-iron tables. Bubbling fountains and an abundance of green plants made coffee klatches feel like a day at the park. Huge wire cages towered above the tables, some fifteen feet high, each displaying colorful exotic birds.