Found money

by James Grippando

  “I just think the celebration is premature.”

  “Norm, don’t deprive me of this.”

  “Do you want my honest opinion or don’t you?”

  “Yes. But all along, you’ve never wanted to even entertain the possibility that my dad was innocent.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. What are you — jealous that maybe now I’ll keep the money?”

  “Ryan, I’m your friend.”

  “Some friend. You of all people should know that innocent people do get convicted.”

  “Not very often.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “In some cases, yes.”

  “What the hell do you have against my father?”

  “For God’s sake, Ryan! If your old man was innocent, don’t you think he would have looked you straight in the eye and told you?”

  Norm’s voice slashed with a cutting edge, as if he were grabbing his friend and shaking him by the lapels. It was a heated moment that left them both cold.

  “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

  The phone was shaking in his hand. “No, you’re right. We need to think this through. There must be something we’re overlooking.”

  “Well, we need to think fast. Agent Forsyth called me at home this morning. Now more than ever, the FBI wants our meeting to go forward tomorrow.”

  “Let’s put that off. Just tell them I need a few days to bury my brother-in-law.”

  “Any more stalling and Forsyth implied the U.S. attorney would initiate a forfeiture proceeding against the Panamanian account. That’s an added three-million-dollar headache we don’t need right now.”

  “Who do they think I am, Al Capone?”

  “No. But they don’t see you as the typical grieving family member, either. The FBI doesn’t normally get involved in murder cases. But when a witness is murdered and an attorney is beat up in a pattern of criminal activity that may include extortion and money laundering, that can add up to a federal racketeering charge.”

  “Wait a minute. You mean they’ve already linked me to Brent’s murder?”

  “You’re probably the number one suspect, Ryan. And that’s just based on what happened in court yesterday. They don’t even have the gun yet.”

  “Great. Kozelka is going to give them the damn gun if we go forward with tomorrow’s meeting with the FBI.”

  “Kind of a catch-twenty-two, I know. But there’s one sure way to beat it.”

  “What?”

  “Just tell the FBI you’re being framed.”

  “I can’t. It’s like my mom said. If I tell them I’m being framed, I have to tell them why I’m being framed — which means telling them all about the rape and the extortion. And you know what, Norm? You may have your doubts about my father, and those doubts may be reasonable. But if that letter from Debby Parkens is true and my dad didn’t commit the rape, then he did deserve the money. That money was his justice. Turning it over to the FBI and telling them it’s extortion isn’t just stupid. It’s a betrayal.”

  “I can see how you feel that way. But there comes a point where it may be too late to claim you were framed.”

  “I haven’t even been formally accused yet, Norm.”

  “True. But as more time passes, the tighter Kozelka can weave his net.”

  “Why the hell is he going to all the trouble of framing me, anyway? If he wanted to keep me from talking to the FBI, why not just kill me outright?”

  “My guess is that the trip you made to K &G Enterprises saved your life. It would have been very incriminating if you were to turn up dead right after paying Kozelka a personal visit.”

  “That makes sense, I guess.”

  They paused to collect their thoughts. Finally, Norm asked, “What are you thinking?”

  “I was thinking about timing. You said Joe Kozelka and Marilyn Gaslow were divorced twenty years ago. Was it before or after Amy’s mother wrote this letter to my father?”

  “After. The divorce was final within a year, actually.”

  “So they were still married when Kozelka started making the first few extortion payments to my father.”

  “That’s right.”

  Ryan asked, “Why would he keep paying after they were divorced?”

  “Probably for the same reason he’s so determined to keep you from talking to the FBI.”

  “But speaking from personal experience, if someone were blackmailing Liz, I’m not sure I’d feel obligated to keep paying after our marriage was over. What kind of thing could he have going on with his ex-wife?”

  “Something’s screwy there.”

  “You’re telling me.” Ryan thought for a moment. “Push our meeting with the FBI to the end of the day, at least. I need some extra time.”

  “Oh, shit. Last time I heard you talk like this you nearly landed in a Panamanian prison.”

  “Don’t worry. This time I’ll wear my running shoes. Talk to you later.” He hung up the phone and hurried to his truck.

  54

  Sunday was a workday for the presidential appointee. Marilyn Gaslow had just a few days to prepare for her Senate confirmation hearings, and she was wasting not a minute.

  Her advisors were working with her at her home in Denver. Some were her friends, some were paid consultants. Today, they would engage in role-playing. Five partners from her law firm pretended to be the Senate Judiciary Committee, firing questions. One of them even showed up with a hangover to lend an added element of authenticity. Marilyn would answer as if it were the real thing. No one was to pull any punches. They assured her that this mock exercise would be much tougher than the real thing.

  Marilyn prayed they were right.

  To say that head of the Federal Reserve had been a lifelong dream wouldn’t be entirely correct. Marilyn was too much of a realist to dream for things that didn’t seem attainable. True, she had been one of the President’s earliest supporters in Colorado. Her law firm had raised millions for his two campaigns. It didn’t take a cerebral hernia to figure out that someone at Bailey, Gaslow & Heinz was due a political plum of an appointment. The buzz at the law firm was something along the lines of an assistant cabinet position or perhaps an appointment to the federal appeals court in Denver. But not the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve — and certainly not the chair. Some of her colleagues had kidded her, saying she must have had influential friends she wasn’t telling them about. Marilyn took it as good-natured ribbing. She simply smiled and said nothing.

  “I need a break,” said Marilyn. By 9:00 A.M., they had already been role-playing for ninety minutes. Marilyn’s head was beginning to hurt.

  “You okay?” asked her consultant. Felicia Hernandez was one of the paid assistants, a young and wiry go-getter who survived on caffeine. Marilyn thought of her as a cheerleader with a Ph. D. in psychology.

  “Yeah,” she said, massaging her temples. “I think I’d just like to get some aspirin.”

  “All right. Everybody take five.”

  The group disbursed, most of them heading toward the coffee and bagels. Marilyn headed down the hall toward her bedroom, alone. She was prone to headaches, though not usually this bad. The excitement over the presidential appointment and the apprehension over the approval process was a deadly combination. Although she had passed Senate confirmation once before, years ago, when she was approved for her position on the Commodities Futures Trading Commission, she knew that wasn’t dispositive. Professor Bork had been approved as a federal appeals judge before Reagan had appointed him to the Supreme Court. That didn’t keep his enemies from running down to Blockbuster Video to see what movies he’d been renting — anything to dig up dirt and keep him from getting the higher appointment. And they succeeded.

  Marilyn went straight to the medicine cabinet and swallowed two Tylenol. As she screwed the cap back on, a noise startled her. From the bathroom off the master, she could hear the fax machine in the bedroom. Curious, she cut across the room. Sure enough, two pages were r
esting in the receiving bin. They were still warm to the touch.

  She checked the first page. It confused her at first. Every other word was blacked out, so that it made no sense to anyone — except to someone who had seen the original. A closer look took her throbbing headache to yet another level. She could see it was a letter addressed to Frank Duffy. And she recognized the signature of her old friend Debby Parkens — Amy’s mother.

  She quickly turned to the second page. The message was brief: “Meet me at Cheesman Dam. Monday. Two A.M. Alone.”

  Her consultant appeared in the doorway. “Marilyn?” she said in her perky cheerleader voice. “You coming? Lots of work to do.”

  She folded the letter and quickly tucked it in her pocket. “Yes,” she said nervously. “Lots of work.”

  A trail of dust followed Ryan up the driveway. The morning sun had already baked the back roads, leaving no sign of last night’s rain. As he stepped down from his truck, he heard the screen door slap shut. He looked toward the house. His mother was standing on the front porch.

  “You ready to talk?” she asked as she lowered herself into the chair.

  He climbed the stairs, saying nothing, the answer being obvious. Ryan still wasn’t convinced that last night’s timely arrival of Josh Colburn was coincidental. Nor was he convinced that Sarah’s tears were genuine. It all had the makings of a big diversion his mother had created to preempt the family meeting she had promised. Ryan had the unsettling feeling that for whatever reason his mother might never tell him the whole story. Perhaps it was just easier for her, emotionally, to tell him a little at a time. At this point, he’d take whatever he could get.

  He leaned against the railing, his back to the yard. “An interesting night,” he said. “Mr. Colburn took me by surprise.”

  “Me too.”

  “Why do I doubt that?”

  “You shouldn’t,” she said.

  “Are you telling me you knew nothing about the letter in Mr. Colburn’s safe?”

  “Ryan, I swear on your father’s soul I know nothing about anything that was part of the blackmail.”

  “But you knew about the rape.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “Because I believed it never happened.”

  He made a face, confused. “Why did you believe that?”

  “Because that’s what your father told me.”

  “And you just accepted it?”

  “It took time. A long time.”

  “You must have had a reason. Did Dad show you something, say something?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t want a fancy explanation in some signed and sealed affidavit. Too much time had passed to dig it all up again. I believed him for one reason only, Ryan. Because I wanted to believe.”

  Ryan looked at her skeptically. “Mom,” he said in a voice that shook. “I’ve never said this before, but I have to say it: I don’t believe you.”

  “What don’t you believe?”

  “I don’t believe you just took it on faith that the rape never happened. Dad was convicted. You don’t just take a convicted man’s word for it that the crime never happened.”

  “You do if that man is your husband, the father of your children.”

  “No.” He started to pace, trying to contain his anger. “You saw the letter, didn’t you?”

  “I never saw anything, Ryan.”

  “That’s why you believed Dad. You saw the letter from Debby Parkens.”

  “I told you, no.”

  “You’re the reason he got the letter, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Dad told you it never happened, and you didn’t believe him. So he had to go out and get the letter from Marilyn Gaslow’s best friend saying she made it all up.”

  “I never saw the letter.”

  “But you knew about it.”

  She paused. “Your father told me he had proof it never happened. He said he was going to use it to get even with the bastard who had framed him. I never saw the proof he had. Just, all of a sudden, money started pouring in. Millions of dollars. That was enough for me to believe him.”

  “Why didn’t you just look at the letter?”

  “Because I believed him without seeing it.”

  “You refused to look at it, didn’t you. You felt guilty for not believing him.”

  “Ryan, you’re getting this all backwards.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Ryan, did it ever occur to you that I didn’t want to see the proof because I believed him just fine without it? That maybe my greatest fear was that seeing the so-called proof would just raise more questions in my mind?”

  Ryan searched her eyes. Her agony seemed genuine. He wanted to console her, but he was suddenly thinking back to a pointed question Norm had raised: If his father was innocent, wouldn’t he have told Ryan? The answer might have been right before him all along, deep in his mother’s eyes. Maybe Dad couldn’t face the pain of yet another loved one who said “I believe you” but in the heart harbored doubts.

  Then another possibility chilled him.

  He got down on a knee and took her hand. “Mom, I’m going to ask you something very important. I want a completely honest answer. Do you think it’s possible that Dad made up the proof? Would he go so far as to forge a document to prove he was innocent?”

  Her reply was soft, shaky. “I don’t know, Ryan. But this is the way I’ve always looked at it: Would a phony document make somebody pay five million dollars?”

  It was the kind of question that needed no answer. Until he thought about it. “Depends on how good the fake is.” He rose and retreated into the house, letting the screen door slap shut behind him.

  55

  Liz slept late on Sunday. She’d had trouble falling asleep. Yesterday’s court appearance had given her the jitters. They’d lasted all day, keeping her up most of the night. Not even a bottle of Merlot had calmed her nerves. She’d never testified in court before. Jackson had told her she was terrific, but she didn’t have the stomach for it. Thankfully, Ryan’s lawyer hadn’t come after her. She knew that wouldn’t be the case, however, if the legal battle continued. Yesterday had been a victory for sure. But it had taught her something. She was far less interested in courtroom warfare than her lawyer was.

  Still, she wasn’t about to back down. Last night, drifting in and out of near-sleep, her mind had wandered to places she hadn’t visited for some time — scenes from her childhood. She was at the Prowers County Fair, and she was nine years old. It was funny how so many of the games at the fair revolved around money, at least the way Liz remembered it. There used to be a flagpole smeared with grease, with a twenty-dollar bill taped on the top. Kids would line up all day to take a shot at climbing up for the prize. Liz was the one who got it. Instead of wearing old shorts like most of the kids, she’d worn a skirt with her bathing suit underneath, using it like a rag to wipe off the axle grease as she climbed so she wouldn’t slide down. Her mother had slapped her face afterward. “What kind of stupid fool are you, Elizabeth? You don’t ruin a twenty-dollar skirt to get a twenty-dollar prize.” Liz understood the logic, but it seemed beside the point. Nothing could dim the feeling of winning that twenty bucks.

  The phone rang on the nightstand. Liz rolled across the bed and answered. It was Sarah.

  She sat up quickly, wiping the sleep from her eyes. She listened in shock as Sarah told her about Brent.

  “Sarah, I had no idea.”

  “Then why was your lawyer down here this morning?”

  “Phil was in Piedmont Springs?”

  “Came right to my house to offer me a deal. He wants me to help you squeeze more money out of my brother. Says you’ll give me a cut of whatever I can get you.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Sarah, I swear to you, I never even talked to my lawyer about this. I wouldn’t. I would never try to turn you against Ryan. All I’m looking to get is my fair share. I’m not looking to destroy yo
u guys.”

  “I’d like to believe you.”

  “You have to believe me. Please. Let’s work this out.”

  Sarah fell silent for a moment. Finally, she said, “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “What?”

  “The way I see it, that snake you hired is going to cost us all a fortune. You’re going to spend a lot of money trying to get your share, Ryan is going to spend a fortune trying to protect the estate.”

  Liz nodded to herself, seeing the logic. “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “I think Jackson uses people. He used Brent. He’ll use you. And he won’t stop until every dime my father stashed away is lining the pockets of his three-piece suit.”

  “He is aggressive.”

  “He’s a shark, Liz. And he’s circling all of us.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “From what I’ve been able to tell, it seems Dad wanted you to share in the family fortune. I’m willing to honor those wishes. On one condition. Fire Phil Jackson.”

  “You want me to fire my lawyer?”

  “Immediately. Jackson is going to screw everything up for everybody. And in the end, the only winners will be the lawyers.”

  Liz said nothing, but she couldn’t disagree. For a split second she was nine years old again, thinking of that twenty-dollar skirt she’d ruined to get the twenty-dollar prize. One Pyrrhic victory was enough for anyone’s lifetime.

  “Let me think about it,” said Liz. “This might just work.”

  Amy drove nonstop back to Boulder, returning just after noon. Taylor was having a tea party in her room with Barbie. Amy was just in time to join them, but she was able to convince Taylor that the affair was much too formal for someone who had traveled clear across the state without showering. Taylor pinched her nose, hugged her as if she were covered with garlic, and sent her mommy marching off to the bathroom.

  Amy had just about made a clean getaway when she heard Gram’s voice.

  “Not so fast, young lady.”

  Gram was leaning against the headboard, reading in bed. Amy was almost too tired to talk, but that was irrelevant to her grandmother. She wasn’t about to settle for the Reader’s Digest version, let alone a simple “Tell you later.” It took thirty minutes, but Amy sat obediently at the foot of the bed and recounted every detail. She even let Gram read the letter. At first it was difficult, but telling the story seemed to energize her. By the time she’d finished, her second (or perhaps third) wind had kicked in and she was ready to brainstorm.