“I wasn’t about to give up the only piece of evidence I had that could lead me to the person who had followed me. I gave him a glass from the hotel. I didn’t give him this glass.”
Norm was about to chew him out for having lied to his lawyer, but he was more intrigued than angry. “You think any of her fingerprints are actually left on it?”
“I did my best not to smudge it. I bought this bag and bubble wrap right at the hotel especially for it. I was hoping it might help me find that woman eventually. But if things go sour, as you say, maybe the FBI will be interested to see how good I am at preserving evidence.”
“Depending on where the investigation goes, the FBI could be very interested.” Norm looked closer and inspected the dried lipstick along the rim. “There might actually be enough dried saliva here for a DNA analysis.”
“I take it we now have something to negotiate with?”
“It’s a good start. We could always use more.”
“That’s pretty much it,” said Ryan.
Norm sensed something in Ryan’s voice. “You’re holding back, aren’t you?”
Ryan looked away. It was time to tell Norm about Amy. It only took a minute.
Norm pounded the steering wheel and drove angrily off the highway. The truck stopped in the parking lot to a motel. “Damn you,” he said harshly.
“What?”
“I’m fed up already. The glass was one thing. Hiding this Amy from me is another. You keep acting like you’re the know-it-all doctor and I’m the stupid patient. You tell me only what you think I need to know. That won’t work. I’m your lawyer. You’re my client. I need to know everything.”
“I’m not playing games with you, Norm. I just don’t want to get Amy involved with the FBI.”
“Why not? Hasn’t it occurred to you that she might be the safety valve I talked about? Maybe she has the information that your father used to extort the five million dollars. Maybe it was her job to release the information to the public if anything untoward ever happened to your father.”
“Yes, I did think of that. But it’s not fair to get her involved until I’ve ruled out one other possibility.”
“What’s that?”
Ryan lowered his eyes, speaking softly, almost ashamed. The fact that he had felt some early chemistry with Amy made it even more difficult to explain. “I need to know if she’s connected to the victim. Of the rape, I mean.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure. We know my father was convicted of rape as a juvenile. That means there had to be a victim. Obviously, Amy is too young to have been the victim herself. But maybe her mother or her aunt or someone in her family was raped. I just want to make sure that the money my father gave to Amy wasn’t Dad’s way of making amends for that, a way of easing his own guilt.”
Norm nodded, seeming to understand. “Problem is, those court records are sealed. Hell, they were probably destroyed years ago. By law, juvenile records are destroyed once the offender reaches a certain age, usually somewhere in his twenties. I don’t see how you could ever verify the victim’s name.”
“Right now, it’s my number-one priority. When we met last Friday, she gave me a one-week deadline to prove that the money came from a legitimate source. That means she should be calling me tomorrow or Friday.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said, staring out the window.
“But by tomorrow, I better think of something.”
“That’s a pretty short fuse. What if you’re stumped?”
He glanced at Norm, troubled by the thought of telling anyone his father was a rapist — let alone a woman who might have known the victim. “Then I’ll do the only thing I can do.”
“What?”
He looked away again. “I’ll ask her.”
37
On Thursday morning, Ryan was ready to call home. His father wouldn’t answer.
That was a fact Ryan had not yet gotten used to. His father had always been the one to answer. Mom hated talking on the phone. Frank Duffy used to love it. You could hear it in his voice, the way he would answer. Not a lazy “Hello.” It was a distinctive and energetic “ Hay — low,” a genuine greeting to anyone who did him the favor of dialing his number. It had been somewhat of a joke among friends, the way people would call for Ryan, Sarah, or their mother and end up speaking to Frank. He always wanted to hear what was going on.
Ryan wondered if he was listening now.
Last night had been tough. He’d spent most of it thinking how best to tell his mother what he’d learned, especially about the rape. There was no easy way. Face-to-face was probably best, but with the FBI on his tail he at least had to bring her into the loop.
At the first sign of daylight, he placed the call from Norm’s spare bedroom. It hadn’t occurred to him that his mom would be anything but wide awake and dressed for the day — and it wasn’t just because of the neighbor’s blasted roosters that rattled the Duffy homestead with every sunrise. Jeanette Duffy wasn’t a Duffy at all. She was a Greene, part of a pioneer family that more than a century ago had planted roots on the plains with two mules and a sod house. She had always been an early riser, as if genetically programmed to get up before dawn to milk the cows and feed the chickens, even if they didn’t own any cows or chickens. Since the funeral, she’d been rising even earlier than usual. The big house was empty without Frank and his booming voice. Lying around in bed could only make it seem emptier. The image saddened Ryan. The loss had siphoned her frontier spirit. She looked older to him now, even in his mind’s eye. He envisioned her sitting at the kitchen table with the phone to her ear, watching her morning toast and coffee get cold as Ryan tried to tell her the truth about the man she had married.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said again, firmly.
It was a worn-out refrain, repeated like a mantra throughout their conversation. Ryan couldn’t give her any details. She wouldn’t allow it, threatened to hang up. It was as if she had fulfilled her promise to Frank by telling Ryan about the safe deposit box, and now she was done with it. It had been Ryan’s decision to open the box. Now he had to deal with the consequences. Not her.
“Mom, at least let me say this much. It’s possible the FBI will contact you.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Don’t get nervous. I said it’s possible, not definite. Yesterday, Norm notified the assistant U.S. attorney that he is the legal counsel for the entire Duffy family. They shouldn’t contact any of us directly now that we have a lawyer.”
“What do I say if they do call me?”
“Tell them they should call me or Norman Klusmire. Period. Don’t try to be polite and helpful. You need to be firm on this.”
“All right.”
“Sarah needs to hear this, too. I’ve been trying to call her since late last night. Nobody answers at her house. Is she okay?”
“As far as I know, yes. She’s okay.”
“If you see her, tell her exactly what I told you. And have her call me as soon as possible. I’ll be at Norm’s house or at his office the rest of the day. We need to talk about Brent.”
“Brent came back yesterday.”
“So you heard what he did in Denver?”
“Uh — when are you coming home, Ryan?”
He paused. She obviously didn’t want to talk about Brent. She didn’t seem to want to talk about anything. “Maybe tomorrow. I have a few things to take care of here in the city.”
“What are you doing about the clinic, son?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m referring my patients to Dr. Weber in Lamar.”
“Oh, he’s a fine doctor. And his receptionist is just lovely. Sweet and very pretty. Maybe you can give her a call once you and Liz are legally-”
“ Mom,” he groaned. His mother seemed to focus on the goofiest things in times of crisis. “Goodbye, Mom. I love you. Just remember, none of us has anything to be ashamed of. We’ve done n
othing wrong.”
“Yes,” she said in a voice that quaked. “I’ll try and remember that.”
Sarah waited for the click on the other end of the line, then hung up the phone. She’d heard it all, without Ryan’s knowledge.
Yesterday’s attempt to confront Brent about the attack had proved disastrous. She’d spent the night at Mom’s, giving her hotheaded husband some time to cool off. She and her mother had spent most of the night talking about Ryan. Sarah was suspicious. Partly it was because of things Brent had said, but not entirely. It seemed Ryan was keeping her in the dark, maybe for his own purposes. Jeanette had let her eavesdrop on this morning’s phone call to ease her concerns.
Her slippers shuffled along the floor as she moved from the living room to the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway and glared at her mother. She was accusatory, not quizzical. “Why didn’t you let him talk?”
Jeanette sipped her coffee, then grimaced. It was cold. “What do you mean?”
“You wouldn’t let him tell you what he found out.”
“I didn’t want to know.”
“Well, I want to know.”
“I’m sure he’ll tell you.”
Sarah groaned, exasperated. “That was the whole point of letting me listen in on the phone call, Mom. To see if he would tell you things he wouldn’t tell me.”
Jeanette refilled her coffee cup and returned to her chair. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to get involved in this just to eliminate your crazy suspicions about your own brother.”
“It’s not crazy.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you with him on this?”
She stopped in mid-sip. “What?”
“Neither one of you wants me to know what’s going on.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You two are together on this. As soon as I walk out that door, you’ll call him right back and get all the information. You’re leaving me out of the loop.”
“Sarah, get hold of yourself. This is your family you’re talking about.”
“Mom, I was on the phone. I heard, okay? All he had to do was mention Brent’s name and you start talking about some silly receptionist in Lamar. Is that the problem? You’re afraid of Brent? Or do you not trust me, either?”
“Of course I trust you, Sarah. And your brother does, too.”
“Then why didn’t he tell me about that woman named Amy?”
“What woman?”
“The woman who Dad sent some money to in a box. She went to see Ryan, and he never told me. Then she came to see me.”
Jeanette shook her head vigorously. “I don’t want to know about that. I’m sure Ryan had his reasons.”
Sarah came to the table and sat across from her. It was clear her mother didn’t want to discuss it, but she wouldn’t let it go. “She came here to Piedmont Springs. I talked to her. Says Dad sent her a thousand dollars in a box. I got bad vibes from that woman. Real nervy-like. I didn’t like her. Didn’t like her at all.”
Jeanette said nothing.
Sarah said, “She had an attitude. Came on too strong for my taste. Like she was entitled to something. Like she was part of the family or something.”
Jeanette stared down into her coffee cup. Her hands were shaking, as if she were bracing herself for the worst.
“Mom, I need to ask you something. Was Dad ever unfaithful to you?”
Silence fell between them. Sarah tried to catch her eye, but her mother wouldn’t look up. Finally, she answered in a voice that was almost inaudible. “That’s a very personal question.”
“Was he?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“A man can’t have an illegitimate Amy, unless he was unfaithful.”
She nodded slowly, reluctantly. “Now that you put it that way, I’ll answer as best I can.”
Sarah watched her mother struggle for words, then put her question more firmly. “Well, was he?”
Jeanette looked her daughter in the eye. “I think he could have been.”
At 7:35 A.M. Amy was on her way to the office. Morning traffic was heavy on Arapahoe, but she was traveling on automatic pilot, deep in thought.
She had been up all night. The drive home from Coors Field had seemed like a blur. It wasn’t until 3:00 A.M., hours after she’d put Taylor to bed, that she’d even stopped shaking. She couldn’t talk about it, didn’t even tell Gram. Four different times throughout the night she’d picked up the telephone to call the police. Each time she’d hung up before she’d finished dialing, the words of her attacker echoing in her ear.
You ever talk to the police again, it’s your daughter who pays.
She wondered who the man was, if he had children of his own. Could one parent actually utter such words to another? Of course. That was how children grew up to be creeps like this. They were everywhere, she knew, people who could hurt children. No one had ever threatened her child, however, at least not directly. She remembered how horrified she’d felt when another pretty little girl had been murdered in Boulder. It had happened miles from their apartment when Taylor was just a baby. As a mother in the same city, she had felt threatened, even violated. This morning, she felt terrified.
But she had to do something.
She stopped at the traffic light. A restaurant marquee across the street advertised a Friday fish fry. Tomorrow was Friday — one week after her meeting with Ryan Duffy. The deadline was up. He was supposed to explain the money. Maybe he could explain who had jumped her in the parking lot.
And to think she had initially hoped to get to know him better. Fool.
She steered into the corner filling station and stopped at the pay phones by the vending machines. She checked her Filofax for the number and dialed it. On the fourth ring, she got an answering machine.
She thought before speaking. She wanted to get her point across, but she had to be vague in case a secretary or someone other than Ryan retrieved the message.
“Dr. Duffy,” she said in a businesslike tone. “It’s time for our follow-up appointment. Meet me at the Half-way Cafe in Denver. Tonight at eight o’clock. I’m sorry this can’t wait until tomorrow. It’s important.”
She hung up and drew a deep breath. Very important.
38
Amy arrived in Denver a few minutes early. Traffic out of Boulder wasn’t as bad as she had expected, and, unlike most days at the office, no one had snagged her on the way to the elevator with some end-of-the-day crisis.
The Half-way Cafe was a trendy downtown restaurant-bar off Larimer Square. It had started as a popular lunch spot for the office crowd, which explained the name. “Meet me at the Half-way” was a cutesy play on “meet me halfway,” a saying often heard in business. The owners, however, soon found that the “halfway” theme offered endless possibilities. Half-priced dinners. Half-priced drinks. It all contributed to a booming business. Amy had picked it for tonight’s meeting only because it was a well-known place, easy to find. In hindsight, she worried that Ryan might read something into her selection of the Half-way, like the makings of a deal — or a relationship.
Amy reached the restaurant at 7:50. She considered leaving her name with the hostess, but Ryan already knew what she looked like. He could find her easily enough. She walked past the lively restaurant section to the bar and took the last available booth in the back. She waited alone, surrounded by oxblood leather. The music was a little too upbeat for her mood. At the table beside her, a foursome was laughing over salty popcorn and draft pilsners from the microbrewery. Two other guys were making fools of themselves arguing over a game of electronic darts. Behind the century-old oak bar was a big-screen television. The baseball game was playing. Amy looked away, harrowed by the reminder of last night’s attack in the parking lot. She checked the blackboard menu without interest. She was suddenly too nervous to read, let alone eat.
The waitress arrived in less than half a minute — another hallmark of the Half-way Cafe. “Just one tonight?”
Amy started,
then relaxed. “No, I’m waiting on someone.”
“Can I bring you something to drink in the meantime?”
“I’ll just have coffee, please.”
“Half-cup or full cup?”
She gave a funny look. “Full, of course.”
“One double coffee,” the waitress mumbled as she scribbled in her pad.
“No, not a double. Just one regular-size cup.”
“A double is one cup.”
“That’s confusing.”
“Not if you’re at the Half-way Cafe.”
“Ah,” said Amy. “So a half-cup would actually be a quarter-cup?”
“No. A half-cup would be a half-cup.”
“But you just said a double cup is a single cup.”
“No. A double coffee is a single cup. A double cup is two cups. A single coffee is a half-cup and-”
“I think I got it,” Amy interrupted. “Why don’t you just bring me the pot?”
“Half-pot or-”
“Never mind.”
Amy rolled her eyes discreetly as the waitress walked away. Should have called this place the Half- brain Cafe.
“May I join you?”
Amy turned at the sound of his voice. It was Ryan.
“Please,” she said.
He slid into the booth and sat directly across from her, nearly banging his head on the low-hanging Tiffany-style lamp. Amy took a good look at him, studying his features more intently this time. If ever she were required to describe him, she wanted to do an ample job. A general “handsome” wouldn’t do.
Ryan caught her stare. “I feel like I’m in a police lineup,” he said, making light.
“Should you be?”
“Whoa. Not exactly picking up where we left off last week, are we?”
“Here we are…” The cheery waitress brought Amy her coffee, then glanced at Ryan. “Something for you, sir?”
Amy jumped in, averting another go-round with Half-Brain. “He’ll have what I’m having. Not half of what I’m having. Not double what I’m having. Exactly the same thing.”
“ Sor-ree.” The waitress backed away, then disappeared.
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