Found money

by James Grippando

  “Come with me,” he said.

  The guard escorted him onto the compound, where a U.S. Marine met him at the entrance to the main building. Outside the embassy were privately hired guards; inside, the Marines took over. Ryan felt relief at the sight of the American flag in the lobby. Even the picture of the president he hadn’t voted for made him feel at home.

  “Thank you so much,” he said.

  The young Marine was as stiff as his starched and pressed uniform. He wore a tan shirt and dark blue pants with a red stripe down the side. A pistol and metal handcuffs were on his belt. He drew neither, but he did little else to put Ryan at ease. They passed the elevators and the entrance to the ground-floor offices. The directory on the wall listed everything from the ambassador and the legal attache to the Coast Guard and Drug Enforcement Agency. Ryan wasn’t sure where they were headed. He just followed. They stopped at a set of double wood doors at the end of the hall. The Marine opened the door on the right.

  “Please, step inside, sir.”

  Ryan went in. The Marine posted himself outside and closed the door behind him. The room was sparsely furnished, just a rectangular table and chairs. A fluorescent light hummed overhead. Two men rose from the chairs on the opposite side of the table. One looked young and Hispanic. The other was more WASP-ish and mature. They were dressed alike in white shirts and dark blue blazers. Both were stone-faced as they looked at Ryan.

  “Dr. Duffy?” the older one said. His voice almost echoed off the cold bare walls.

  “Yes.”

  The man reached inside his pocket and flashed his credentials. “Agent Forsyth. FBI. Agent Enriquez and I would like to ask you some questions. Just take a few minutes. Could you have a seat, please.”

  Ryan remained standing, shifting nervously. “I’m just down here on business, you know. Somebody stole my bag.”

  “What’s that on your shoulder?”

  “Oh, this? I bought it here in the city. At the hotel, actually. As a replacement.”

  He seemed skeptical. “Did you report the theft to the Panamanian police?”

  “No, I didn’t. I, uh, just didn’t get around to it.”

  “Why were you running from the police?”

  “What do you mean?”

  His gaze tightened. “You heard me.”

  “Look, this whole thing is getting way out of hand. My passport was stolen. I just wanted to get back to my own country as quickly as possible. Why would a guy who has anything to hide run straight to the U.S. embassy? If you think I was running from the police, that’s your perception. But I have no idea why the police would be following me.”

  “We asked them to pick you up,” said Forsyth.

  “That’s why they were following you.”

  Ryan looked confused. “The FBI asked them?”

  He nodded. “It’s not unusual for the FBI to ask the local police to pick up a subject.”

  “A suspect? Suspect of what?”

  “I said subject, not suspect. You’re not a suspect. Please, sit. We’d like to talk to you.”

  Ryan had watched enough cop shows on television to know there was something magic about the term “suspect.” At the very least, a suspect had to be advised of his legal rights — which was probably why they weren’t calling him one. At least not yet.

  “What do you want to know?” asked Ryan.

  “For starters, let’s talk about the three-million-dollar account at the Banco del Istmo.” Forsyth leaned forward, watching Ryan carefully. “You must have really pissed off that bank officer you were dealing with. These days it’s a little easier to pierce bank secrecy than it used to be under the dictatorship. But even so, this is the first time we’ve ever gotten the cooperation of the Banco del Istmo. They sent all the records straight to the financial intelligence unit here in Panama, which sent them to us.” He picked up a file from the table before him, apparently reading from something.

  “Three hundred transfers in the amount of nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars. A rather unimaginative way to circumvent the ten-thousand-dollar currency transaction reporting requirements, if I do say so myself.”

  Ryan blinked, saying nothing.

  Forsyth continued to read from his file. “According to the bank officer, you told him — quote — ‘My father was not the kind of man to have three million dollars in a numbered account in the Banco del Istmo. My father wasn’t the kind of man to have three million dollars in any bank.’ End quote.” He looked up from the file. With a quick glance, he directed Ryan to the empty chair at the table. “Have a seat, Dr. Duffy. I’d really like to give you an opportunity to explain that statement.”

  Ryan started to sweat. Part of him felt the need to say something. Part of him felt the urge to get the hell out of there. He didn’t know his rights, but he knew someone who did.

  “I’ll be happy to talk to you,” he said. “After I talk to my lawyer.”

  33

  They were out of lettuce. For nine straight days, Sarah’s late-morning snack had consisted of the same unique sandwich delicacy. Peanut butter, sliced bananas, mayonnaise, and iceberg lettuce on rye bread, grilled on both sides until the mayo was bubbling and the lettuce went soft. Dee-licious. But it just wasn’t the same without the lettuce.

  She slumped with despair as she stood staring into the open refrigerator. She made one more attempt to bend her pregnant body and check the bottom vegetable bin. Definitely no lettuce. Her hormones took over. She was suddenly on the verge of tears.

  The phone rang. She paused, unsure whether it was worth the effort to answer. The wall phone was all the way on the other side of the kitchen. Her swollen ankles were worse today than yesterday, and the cold air from the open refrigerator was feeling mighty good.

  It kept ringing. Seven, eight times. Somebody really wanted to talk to her. She stepped away from the fridge and slowly crossed the room, grimacing with each step. She answered in a clipped tone. “Yeah.”

  “Sarah, it’s Liz. Where is Brent?”

  “Not here.”

  “I didn’t think so. Where is he?”

  Sarah checked the clock on the oven. “Probably halfway back from Denver by now.”

  Liz hesitated. “I appreciate your candor.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t expect you to actually admit he came here.”

  “Liz, what are you talking about? He went to Denver to see you.”

  “Me?”

  “He left early this morning. Real early. Like two A.M. Said he wanted to catch you before you went to work. He couldn’t sleep. Was up thinking about that deposition your lawyer wanted him to give. He needed to talk to you about it.”

  “I never saw him.”

  “That’s funny. Then I don’t know where he is.”

  “Neither do I. But I have a pretty good idea of where he’s been. Somebody beat the daylights out of my lawyer this morning. Jumped him right in his garage on his way to the office.”

  “Oh, my word. Is he hurt bad?”

  “Bad enough to land in the hospital.”

  “Gosh, Liz. That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?”

  She stiffened at the accusatory tone. “Wait a second. You don’t think Brent — what are you thinking?”

  “Just look at what happened. Yesterday, Brent was served with a subpoena. It made him so mad he couldn’t sleep. He jumped in his car in the middle of the night and drove to Denver, supposedly to talk to me. Next thing we know my lawyer’s in the emergency room getting his face stitched up.”

  Sarah’s hand shook nervously. “Just slow down. I know this looks bad. But let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  “This is hardly a jump. Brent’s in trouble this time, Sarah. Big time. All I can say for you is that I hope you had nothing to do with it.”

  She was about to respond, but the line clicked. Her hands shook harder. She gripped the phone, paralyzed with confusion. The dial tone hummed in her ear. Liz was gone. Bre
nt was unaccounted for.

  And Sarah felt completely alone.

  Ryan insisted on a thoroughly private line for his call to his lawyer. Agent Forsyth offered the use of an embassy phone, but somehow that sounded about as private as dialing into a talk radio station. The only viable option was a pay phone on the street. Forsyth wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t seem prepared to arrest him to prevent him from walking out of the building. The Panamanian police were no longer a threat, since their only apparent objective had been to assist the FBI in bringing him to the embassy. Ryan found a public phone right on Avenida Balboa. Cars and buses rumbled by on the busy street. He closed one ear with his finger as he dialed Norm’s private line.

  “Where are you?” his lawyer asked.

  “About a block from the embassy. I’m at a pay phone, but they’re expecting me back inside when I finish talking to you. I’ve been sort of detained for questioning by the FBI.”

  “What?” He sounded as if he was coming through the phone.

  “You heard me.” Ryan gave him the two-minute summary, filling in the gaps since their talk last night.

  “First off,” said Norm, “I suppose it tells us something that you ran into the FBI instead of the DEA. The FBI does do drug work, but if the government thought the three million dollars at Banco del Istmo was drug money, I would think DEA would have detained you rather than the FBI.”

  “Does that mean they know the money is from extortion payments?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but I will say this. It’s puzzling that the FBI went to all the trouble of coordinating with the local police to question you in Panama. It would have been much easier just to wait for you to return to the United States.”

  “Except that last night I booked a flight to the Cayman Islands so I could check on that offshore corporation that transferred the money to my father’s account. Maybe the FBI wasn’t so sure I was coming back to the states.”

  “That’s possible. But the FBI doesn’t have unlimited resources to chase people around the globe. If these agents were based in Panama, that’s one thing. But if they flew down from the States just to talk to you, this thing may be bigger than your father even knew.”

  Pedestrians hurried past on the sidewalk. In a moment of paranoia, Ryan wondered if any were FBI. “Let’s take this one step at a time. What do I do right now?”

  “Step one is to get your new passport. It should be ready and waiting for you right there at the embassy, and they can’t withhold it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Legally, you have no obligation to talk to anyone. The FBI has no right to detain you. But we have to be concerned about appearances. After you leave, the FBI agent will fill out a Three-oh-two report that makes a record of your conversation. We don’t want that Three-oh-two to state simply that on the advice of your attorney, you refused to talk to the FBI. That sounds like you’re hiding something. We want you to sound as cooperative as possible, short of talking to them. So here’s what you do. You go back to the embassy and tell the agent that you fully intend to cooperate. But now isn’t a good time to talk. Your bag was stolen along with your passport. You’re upset and you’re tired. Ask them for their business cards. That’s important. I need to know which field office these agents are from. Tell them your lawyer will contact them about an interview in Denver after you’ve returned to the States.”

  “So you want me to come straight back to Denver? No stop in the Cayman Islands?”

  “Do not go to the Cayman Islands. I’ll have my investigator check out that lead discreetly. Everything you do from here on out, you have to assume the FBI is watching.”

  “This is getting so nuts.”

  Norm sensed his frustration. “Ryan, take it easy. You’ve done nothing wrong. If a crime has been committed, it was your father. The FBI can’t send you to jail for something your father may have done.”

  “The FBI may be the least of my problems. Obviously someone has been tailing me all over Panama, maybe even followed me from Denver. And I still can’t figure out why the same woman who scammed me out of my bag at the hotel bar would then warn me that the police were coming to my room to pick me up.”

  “Are you sure it was the same woman?”

  “Sounded just like her. If it wasn’t, that’s even more baffling. It is strange, though. Why would someone who essentially robbed me suddenly decide she’s on my side?”

  “Maybe she’s not exactly on your side. Just that in certain respects your interests coincide.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The essence of blackmail is the secret. Neither side wants the secret to get out. If it does, the blackmailer loses his cash cow, and the person paying the blackmail has to suffer the consequences of the world knowing the truth about him.”

  “You think she’s protecting the person who was blackmailed?”

  “I think she knows who paid the money. And I think it’s her job to make sure nobody finds out.”

  Ryan swallowed hard. “Then why doesn’t she just kill me?”

  “Probably for the same reason she didn’t just kill your father. He must have worked out some arrangement where the secret would be revealed if anything untoward happened to him or his family. It’s a fairly common safety valve in any extortion case.”

  “How would it work?”

  “Hypothetically, let’s say your father had photographs of a famous TV evangelist having sex with his German shepherd. This is not the kind of thing that advances an evangelist’s career. Your father blackmails the evangelist, but he’s afraid the bad guys might kill him rather than pay him five million dollars. So he sends copies of the photographs to some third party, along with explicit instructions. If Frank Duffy dies under suspicious circumstances, the photographs are to be sent immediately to the National Enquirer. That way, killing the blackmailer accomplishes nothing. The only option is to pay the money.”

  “So in my situation, this third party would be… who? My mother?”

  “Not likely a family member. Maybe a friend. Maybe someone with no apparent connection to your father at all.”

  Ryan fell silent, pensive. Maybe somebody like Amy. Maybe that was why she had balked at his hints to move their relationship beyond business.

  “You still there?” asked Norm.

  “Yeah, I’m here. I was just thinking. This third party you mentioned. They probably wouldn’t work for free, right?”

  “It would be typical to give them a cut of the extortion money.”

  “Say two hundred thousand dollars?”

  “I guess. Whatever they negotiate. What are you driving at?”

  “Maybe it’s best I’m not going to the Cayman Islands after all. There’s something I need to check out back in Denver.”

  Norm stiffened, concerned. “You’re getting that funny sound in your voice again. What are you thinking?”

  He smiled with his eyes. “I’m thinking that things are just beginning to make sense.”

  34

  Visiting hours at Denver Health Medical Center started at 7:00 P.M. Liz reached Phil Jackson’s private room at 7:01.

  She was eager to see him and make sure he was okay. She walked briskly, then slowed steadily. A journey down the busy hospital corridors triggered memories of Ryan’s medical school residency, back when DHMC was called Denver General Hospital. She remembered the night he’d decided to be a surgeon. She remembered the following nights, too, the years of sacrifice. Ryan worked twenty-hour shifts for wages that didn’t even come close to paying his student loans. They lived week to week on Liz’s paycheck. They saw each other once a day for dinner right at the hospital, usually a ten-minute burger break between her night job and her day job. Ryan had invested so much. She had invested just as much. All for the glorious payoff of life without parole in Piedmont Springs.

  For Liz, it was a return to failure. She had grown up dirt poor, one of seven children in a dilapidated four-bedroom farmhouse. She was the only one in her family wh
o had ended up staying in Piedmont Springs. It was a bitter irony. Her heart had been broken when Ryan had gone away to college without her. She was seventeen and left to play mom to six younger siblings, an experience that had taught her never to want children of her own. Four years later, her friends had been so jealous when Ryan invited her up to Denver and asked her to marry him. A medical student. A future surgeon. He could have been her way out. No one had told her it was a round-trip ticket. In hindsight, she should have smelled trouble when it took five years of living together to move the engagement to the wedding.

  “Knock, knock,” said Liz as she appeared in the doorway.

  Jackson was sitting up in bed and conscious. He looked battered but better than expected. The right side of his face was swollen with purple and black bruises. A bandage covered eleven stitches above his right eyebrow. Painkillers and a glucose solution fed intravenously into his needle-pricked forearm. His dinner rested on a tray over his lap. It had hardly been touched. At his side was a yellow legal pad and a case file his secretary had brought from the office.

  “Phil?” she said softly.

  He waved her in and tried to smile, but the movement of any facial muscles seemed to cause him pain.

  “You poor man.”

  “Nothing a good dose of work can’t cure.”

  “Don’t you ever stop?”

  “Don’t complain. It’s your case I’m working on.”

  She nearly shivered with gratitude. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that. I was so afraid you would drop my case.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  She shrugged impishly. “I spoke to your paralegal this afternoon about the phone conversation I had with Sarah Langford. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “She told me everything. Honestly, I figured it was Brent long before you even called.”

  “And you’re still sticking with me?”

  He laid his legal pad aside and took her hand lightly, looking her straight in the eye. “Let me tell you something. I have deposed everybody from Teamsters to gangsters — and ripped them to shreds. I have had my tires slashed, my house vandalized, my life threatened. If I were easily intimidated I’d be sitting in an office at some big law firm doing bond work. I’m more committed to your case than ever. Nobody threatens Phil Jackson. Least of all a punk like Brent Langford.”