Found money

by James Grippando

  She squeezed his hand, then pulled away shyly.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “You can’t help yourself. All women find men with purple faces absolutely irresistible.”

  “It is a very nice shade of purple.”

  He smiled, then turned more serious. “You know, I’m not the only one who has to gear up for a fight. You need to brace yourself as well.”

  She nodded tentatively. “I’ll do what I have to do.”

  “Good. Because this is going to get nasty. And I don’t just mean Brent’s deposition. The whole Duffy family is going to feel the pressure. In fact, the FBI should be taking a pretty close look at them already.”

  “The FBI?”

  “One of my most satisfied former clients is now a special agent in the Denver field office. I called her this morning from the hospital and asked her to poke around a little. Brent’s attack is a federal offense — obstruction of justice. The FBI has much bigger fish to fry, but with a little friendly encouragement and factual embellishment, I think I piqued her interest. Ryan’s phony invoices at his clinic. Frank’s talk of all the money he was going to leave you. Brent’s statement that it was ‘family business.’ It probably won’t amount to anything, but it doesn’t hurt to have your husband squirming under the microscope of a possible federal racketeering investigation.”

  She blinked nervously. “That’s pretty harsh, don’t you think?”

  “Do you want to win or don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I want to win. But-”

  “No buts. Now do me a favor. Take this,” he said as he handed her a slip of paper. It had two phone numbers written on it.

  “What’s this?”

  “My secretary got a call today from the law office of Norman Klusmire. He’s your husband’s new divorce attorney. The top number is his beeper number. On your way home tonight, stop at a pay phone and dial his beeper. Be sure to use a pay phone so there’s absolutely no way of tracing the call back to you. Just enter the other number and hang up.”

  “Whose number is it?”

  “It’s the home phone number for the judge in your case. He’s a crusty old fart who goes ballistic whenever lawyers call him at home. He won’t even give Klusmire a chance to explain he was answering a bogus page. This is the kind of stupid little thing that’ll have Judge Novak riding his ass all the way to trial. It should teach a hotshot criminal lawyer like Klusmire to think twice before taking on another divorce case.”

  “That’s too clever,” she said as she tucked the piece of paper into her purse.

  “I can’t take full credit. I sort of stole the idea from one of my clients. Whenever she suspected her husband was off with his mistress, she used to beep him with their rabbi’s home phone number.”

  “Do you always steal from your clients?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What are you going to steal from me?” she asked coyly.

  He raised an eyebrow till it hurt. “We’ll see.”

  35

  Amy had taken her daughter to Denver only a dozen times or so in her young life, and each time it seemed their destination was LoDo — short for lower downtown. It had two of Taylor’s favorite attractions: the world-renowned roller coaster at Elitch Garden Amusement Park and the Colorado Rockies professional baseball team at Coors Field. Of special moment that Wednesday night was “hat night” at the ballpark. The first ten thousand fans through the gate would receive a free baseball cap. Taylor was certain that fans would be coming from places as far away as Pluto for such a tempting giveaway. Mommy had to take her. On the heels of the break-in at their apartment, some time away from Boulder would do them both good.

  Built of red brick and green steel, Coors Field was one of the league’s new breed of “baseball-only” stadiums that had the aura of an old ballpark. A natural grass playing field and intimate seating arrangement gave ball games the feeling they used to have, before domed stadiums and artificial turf became so popular. Even the nostalgia buffs, however, appreciated the modern touches, such as big-screen scoreboards, plenty of concession areas, and enough rest rooms to ensure that a second-inning trip with Taylor to the potty didn’t mean a return sometime after the seventh-inning stretch.

  It was a cool summer evening, perfect for a ball game. They sat in the cheaper seats in right field. Taylor brought her baseball mitt to catch any long home runs. The free cap was several sizes too big and kept falling over her eyes, completely blocking her vision. Every twenty seconds it was “What’s happening now, Mommy?” Amy had to play radio announcer for the entire first inning until Taylor finally tired of the silliness and agreed to lose the hat.

  By the sixth inning, Taylor’s eyes were getting heavy. She was starting to slump in her seat. Amy, too, had drifted away from the game. She was thinking of the conversation she’d had with Marilyn Gaslow. She could actually see Marilyn’s office from the stadium. The lights burned late on the forty-second floor. She wondered if Marilyn was still there. She wondered if Marilyn had spoken to anyone about their conversation.

  She quickly shook away her doubts. Talking to Marilyn was like talking to Gram. Without the guilt.

  Still, it was bothersome that Marilyn didn’t quite seem to believe her. Amy wasn’t sure which part of the story had been so difficult for Marilyn to swallow. Maybe she didn’t believe a word about the two hundred thousand dollars in the first place. Maybe she didn’t believe Amy had no connection to the dying old man who had sent it. Worse yet, she wondered if Marilyn had conveyed her own hidden sentiments when she’d warned that others might call her a whore.

  Good thing she hadn’t mentioned that his son Ryan was a heartthrob. It would only have fueled Marilyn’s suspicions.

  “Me tired,” said Taylor. She was half in her own seat, half in Amy’s lap.

  Amy stroked her daughter’s forehead, then took her in her arms. “It’s time to go anyway.”

  “I didn’t catch a ball yet.”

  “Next time.”

  They walked hand in hand down the cement ramps. Taylor was struggling to keep up as Amy walked with purpose, on the verge of a decision. It was time to regroup. Astronomy was history. She had already missed the Monday deadline to reenroll in the doctoral program for the fall, and she had lost the cash that would have made that possible anyway. The job now was to regain Marilyn’s confidence and prove she wasn’t making up stories about the money. That was something Ryan Duffy could help her with. Last time they’d talked, she had given him one week to come up with a legitimate explanation for the money. The deadline was Friday. She would go through with the follow-up meeting, she decided, even though the money was gone. She would tape-record their conversation and let Marilyn listen. It wouldn’t bring the money back, but it would restore Marilyn’s faith.

  A roar of the crowd disrupted her thoughts. The Rockies had scored. She and Taylor kept walking, leaving through the turnstile and chain-link gate to the north parking lot.

  Amy had never taken Taylor to a night game before. Leaving early had a different feeling at night than in broad daylight. Vapor lights gave the grounds an eerie yellow glow. Trash bins at the gate were overflowing with cans and bottles that had been confiscated from fans on their way in. Ticket stubs lay scattered on the ground. The crowd noise faded behind them. The parking lot was jammed, without another soul in sight. It was an uneasy feeling of solitude, as if forty thousand people had vaporized with the sunset, leaving Amy and Taylor alone in a sea of cars.

  Amy picked up her sleepy daughter and walked faster toward her truck.

  The walk back to the parking space always seemed farther than the walk to the stadium. That was never more true than when you were alone in the parking lot with a sleepy four-year-old in your arms. They passed row after row of empty vehicles. Amy was certain she was in section E, but the rows all looked alike. For the second time she saw the same red Honda. She headed in the other direction this time, searching for her distinctive old truck. Taylor was sound asleep on her shoulde
r. Amy’s arms were getting tired. Her back was aching. Taylor wasn’t such a little girl anymore. Finally, she spotted her truck in the next row.

  She cut between two parked cars and dug out her key. She opened the passenger door with one hand and placed Taylor in the car seat. She closed the door and hurried around the back to the driver’s side. She stopped short, startled by a noise. A blur leaped from behind the truck. Someone jumped up and grabbed her from behind. She started to scream, but a huge hand covered her mouth. A cold knife was at her throat.

  “Don’t move,” he warned.

  She was shaking but unable to move, pinned against the truck.

  He spoke right into her ear from behind her. “We saw the police report. You didn’t mention the money. Smart move.”

  She didn’t even breathe. It was her worst fear — the thugs behind the money.

  “Stay smart, lady. Tell no one about the money. And stay away from the cops.” He twisted her arm, heightening the pain. “Now get in your truck and get the hell out of here. You scream, you ever talk to the police again, it’s your daughter who pays.”

  He knocked her to the ground and sprinted away. Amy hurried to her feet and looked around, gasping for breath. She didn’t see him anywhere. She reached for the rape whistle on her keychain and brought it to her lips, then stopped. His warning stayed with her.

  She jumped in the truck and started the engine. Taylor was still asleep in her car seat. The sight of her little one brought emotions to a head and moisture to her eyes. She leaned over and hugged her with one arm while steering with the left. Her whole body trembled as she drove quickly from the parking lot.

  36

  Ryan’s flight landed at Denver International Airport at 11:50 P.M. He hadn’t bothered to retrieve his garment bag from the hotel room in Panama, so he had no checked baggage, just the small carry-on he had purchased to replace his stolen bag. He’d already passed through customs at the plane change in Houston. Norm met him out front, near the curbside check-in at the United Airlines terminal. The motor was running in the Range Rover as the passenger door flew open. Ryan jumped inside, laid his bag gently at his feet. After a day that included a run through the streets from Panamanian police, a run-in with the FBI, and nine hours of international travel, he nearly melted into the leather upholstery.

  “Man, am I glad to see you,” he said as he slammed the door.

  Norm checked his disheveled appearance. “You look like Steve McQueen in that old movie about Devil’s Island.”

  “ Papillon? ”

  “Yeah. What did you do, float in from Panama on a sack of coconuts?”

  “Shut up and drive, Norm.”

  A whistle blew, startling them. The DIA traffic gestapo was about to issue a parking citation, as if they expected passengers to catch their rides on the run. Norm hit the gas and quickly pulled back into traffic. They spoke as the truck weaved between car rental buses and stopped cars on the way to the airport exit and Pena Boulevard.

  “You made it out smoothly, I presume,” said Norm.

  “I told them exactly what you told me to say. Got their business cards, too. Forsyth is a field agent here in Denver. The other guy isn’t FBI. He’s from Washington. The criminal

  tax division of the IRS.”

  “I figured it was only a matter of time before they showed up.” Norm steered onto the express-way ramp. “I’ve been doing a little legwork myself while you were traveling. Called a friend over at the U.S. attorney’s office.”

  “What would they know about this?”

  “In any investigation, the FBI’s legal counsel is an AUSA — an assistant U.S. attorney. A routine subpoena for documents, for example, would be handled at a ministerial level by a junior AUSA. But if your case was assigned to an AUSA who specializes in money laundering, for example, that would tell us something about the focus of the investigation.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Your case is under the major crimes section.”

  “Major?” he asked with concern.

  “Don’t let the name fool you. Everything is major. It’s a slush pile for cases that are too new to be routed to a more defined area of specialization.”

  “Where do you think it’s headed?”

  “Could be strictly a tax investigation. You said your old man didn’t pay taxes on the money. Or if the FBI gets wind of the extortion, it could go to the public corruption section. If it’s money laundering they smell, it could go to economic crimes. Too early to tell.”

  “All this because I pissed off a stupid bank officer at Banco del Istmo.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t just him who brought in the FBI. From what I gathered from the AUSA, your wife’s lawyer is also behind it.”

  “Jackson?”

  Norm nodded as he changed lanes. “He’s in the hospital. Gonna be okay. Looks like Brent may have punched his lights out in retaliation for scheduling his deposition.”

  “What a jerk.”

  “You mean Jackson or Brent?”

  “Both,” Ryan scoffed.

  “Anyway, Jackson has managed to pitch this in a way that has piqued the FBI’s interest. Three million dollars in a Panamanian bank account isn’t necessarily front-page news. But when a high-powered attorney starts poking around and lands in the emergency room, it puts a different spin on the case. Especially a guy like Jackson. Believe it or not, he has friends. And if you’re not his friend, he probably has dirt on you. You remember that hypothetical I gave you about the photographs of the TV evangelist having sex with his German shepherd?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jackson is the kind of guy who would actually have those photographs. File drawers full of things on everybody from the governor of Colorado to your pet goldfish. He’s like the J. Edgar Hoover of the legal profession. He can make things happen. And your brother-in-law Brent has given him every reason to pull out the stops.”

  “Terrific. Does this mean Jackson knows about the money?”

  “Only if someone at the FBI leaked it, which I doubt. But he’s sure getting close.”

  They rode in silence for a moment. The city lights of downtown Denver were coming closer.

  “What’s happening with the yearbook search? Find any millionaires in my dad’s high school class?”

  “Nothing yet. Still working on it.”

  “What about the Cayman corporation? I brought a lot of grief on myself trying to find out who transferred that money into my father’s account. I definitely want to follow up on that.”

  “My investigator is on it. Hopefully he won’t actually have to go all the way to the Caymans.”

  “How am I going to pay this investigator of yours? He’s racking up some serious hours.”

  “Don’t worry about it. He’s on retainer. You’ll just have to cover his out-of-pocket expenses.”

  “How ’bout that. Some good news.”

  “Don’t be so negative. Let’s hear what the FBI’s concerns are. If they say your dad owes back income tax, you pay the penalty and you’re on your way. We just don’t know yet.”

  “You think the FBI knows about the two million in the attic?”

  “I don’t see how they would. If they don’t, we still have some time to decide what you should do about that. As the executor of your father’s estate, you have sixty days to file your sworn inventory with the court. That’s the form on which you would have to disclose the money.”

  “But what do I tell them at this meeting you’re supposed to set up? We can’t put that off for sixty days.”

  “The first meeting I was just planning on listening. I don’t even want you to be there.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said firmly.

  “As your lawyer, I don’t recommend it. It’s best if I go alone and find out what their focus is. Then we can regroup and decide whether you should talk to them.”

  “Norm, I trust you like a brother. But I have to be there. I have to.”

  He sighed, but he didn’t f
ight it. “If you go, you can’t say anything. Don’t roll your eyes, don’t scowl.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Good. We have to approach this meeting like a business negotiation, quid pro quo. It’s like I said before, my gut tells me that this thing is bigger than even your father knew. If that’s the case, I seriously doubt that you’re a target of the FBI’s investigation. But they’ll want to put pressure on you to name names, to help them find out who’s behind the money. And if they find out about the extortion, they’ll want to know everything about that, too.”

  “The only person I can name is dead.”

  Norm glanced away from the road, looking Ryan in the eye. “I knew your father. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t savvy or dishonest enough to orchestrate a five-million-dollar extortion scheme on his own. The FBI will want to know who he was working with.”

  “Well, that puts us behind the eight ball. Because I have no other names to give them.”

  “Names aren’t essential. Just give them something to go on. What about that woman who scammed you in Panama?”

  “I have no idea who she was.”

  “There must be something you could tell the FBI to help find her. I’m not saying we walk into the very first meeting and spill our guts. But if it gets to the point where we’re forced to negotiate for immunity for you or anyone else in your family, it’s essential that we have something to offer the government in return.”

  Ryan reached down into his bag. “I may have something we can offer.”

  “What’s that?”

  Ryan folded away the plastic bubble wrap. “It’s the glass from the bar at the hotel. The one that woman was drinking from.”

  “You told me you gave it to the bank officer at Banco del Istmo.”