Found money

by James Grippando

  Marilyn followed the exit ramp off the express-way and steered into downtown Denver. It was after midnight, so the traffic lights had changed over to a string of blinking amber dots. Stores and offices on either side of the street were secured for the night, some with roll-up metal gates that resembled garage doors. A group of homeless people were haggling with a police officer on the corner. The Volvo cruised through one quiet intersection after another, passing only a handful of cars along the way.

  Amy checked the street signs, then glanced back at Marilyn. “So, your friend Jeb will take us up to the dam, I presume?”

  “Right. We’ll use his van as a staging area. Park it somewhere out of sight. I’ll be wired, so the two of you can hang back and listen from inside the van while I talk to Rusch.”

  Amy looked confused. “What do you mean, hang back? I’m talking to Rusch.”

  As the car slowly turned the corner, Marilyn caught Amy’s eye. “Don’t argue with me.”

  “There’s no argument. This is something I have to do.”

  “Amy, this is a risk a young mother shouldn’t be taking. It isn’t necessary. It isn’t even logical. Rusch won’t tell you anything. He won’t tell me anything if you’re standing at my side. The only chance of getting him to say anything about your mother’s death is if I go alone.”

  Amy wanted to argue, but she sensed Marilyn was right. “This wasn’t the way I envisioned it.”

  “If you think about how this is likely to unfold, it’s our only alternative.”

  “How do you see it?”

  “It basically boils down to one likely scenario. When I talked to Joe this afternoon, he told me to leave the keys in my Mercedes, so I presume Rusch is going to use the car somehow. My guess is he’ll park it out in the open for Duffy to see. Duffy will walk right up to the car, thinking it’s me inside. When he does, Rusch will either shoot him on the spot or put him in the trunk and then shoot him somewhere else. I think it’s fair to say that there are only two people on the planet who can walk up to that car and live to tell about it. Joe Kozelka is one of them. The other one is not you.”

  “How can you be sure Rusch won’t shoot you?”

  “First of all, he has no reason to think I’m not on his side. Not yet, anyway. Secondly, I’m too important to Joe. My appointment is too important.”

  “What if something goes wrong? What if Rusch somehow discovers you’re wearing a wire.”

  “Then we kick into plan B.”

  “What’s plan B?”

  She pulled into a parking space and killed the engine. “I was kind of hoping Jeb might help us figure that out.”

  Amy tried not to look worried as they stepped down together and started toward Jeb Stockton’s office.

  Phil Jackson was still mad. Liz had phoned him at dinnertime, said she was thinking about finding a new lawyer. The ingrate. Without him, she would have gotten nothing. Now she was at the doorstep of the mother lode. Of course, she couldn’t completely stiff him. The judge would order her to pay him the fair value of his services so far. That wouldn’t come close to the fees he would have racked up had he seen this battle through to the final chapter. Assuming he could get to the Duffys’ Panamanian accounts, the contingency fee he and Liz had discussed would have earned him over nine thousand dollars an hour. And he was worth it.

  Liz hadn’t found the courage to utter the words, but he figured it was only a matter of days before she officially fired him. She’d probably do it by letter. Backstabbing bitch.

  He’d been stiffed by clients before, but this one was especially hard to swallow. He’d worked hard on the case, but he always worked hard. He didn’t mind the sweat. This case, however, had taken his blood. Almost a half-pint of it, spilled on the garage floor in the predawn beating.

  The anger, the resentment, were not subsiding. If anything, he’d worked himself more into a dither as the evening passed. It was hard to concentrate, difficult to make decisions. One thing, in particular, had become a vexing quandary. The briefcase.

  It had been delivered by courier to his doorstep around ten o’clock, marked “PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.” It was addressed to his client. The return address indicated it was from Ryan Duffy.

  He was naturally suspicious. After Brent’s murder, he was at first afraid to touch it, fearing a booby trap. But the more he thought about it, the less likely that seemed. As much as he’d tried to make Ryan look like a gangster in the courtroom, he didn’t seem the type to send his wife a letter bomb. He seemed more likely to send a peace offering — a settlement.

  Jackson settled into the plush sofa in his family room, staring at the briefcase on the coffee table before him. He noticed the tumblers near the latch. There were three altogether. A lock with a three-number combination. Just like the combination Liz had testified to in court. Three numbers: 36-18-11.

  The realization hit like lightning. That was exactly what this was — Liz’s share of the money. Ryan had very cleverly put together a settlement offer his greedy wife couldn’t refuse: a briefcase full of cash. His instincts took over. This was his chance. Liz was trying to screw him, but he could beat her to the punch. He’d bet his life there was money inside. And he knew the combination.

  He jumped forward and laid the briefcase flat. Eagerly he turned the tumblers into place, left to right. The first one, thirty-six. The next, eighteen. Finally, eleven. He flipped the latches, left and right. They popped up. His body tingled with a surge of excitement. This was it. He opened the briefcase. It opened just an inch, then seemed to catch on something, moving no farther. He heard a click. An ominous click. In a flash, he knew it wasn’t a cash settlement offer and that it wasn’t from Ryan Duffy.

  Oh, shit!

  A fiery orange explosion decimated the entire west wing of the Jackson estate. The impact rattled windows around the neighborhood, as a shower of glowing embers rained down on the brand-new windshield of his just-repaired Mercedes.

  63

  Two minutes after they met, Ryan already had a name for him: the gadget man.

  Bruce Dembroski was a friend of Norm’s, a former CIA agent whose specialty had been sniping. Though life after the agency didn’t present many opportunities to use his laser range finder, suppressed weapons, or ultra-long-range. 50-caliber sniper rifle, he had found a profitable niche in offering high-tech, high-quality private investigative services to an elite clientele, mostly security-conscious corporations. His bread and butter was in the latest surveillance and countersurveillance equipment, from simple cordless phone monitors to fax machine intruders. He had all the toys and wasn’t afraid to use them. That bravado had occasionally taken him beyond the accepted limits of corporate espionage. It was Norm who routinely got him out of legal trouble. They had an old-fashioned barter arrangement. Norm got the services of an investigator he couldn’t otherwise afford, and Dembroski got a top-notch lawyer free of charge.

  Norm’s garage was their meeting place. Both cars had been backed out to give them room. Norm was a bit of a gadget man himself. A long wooden workbench stretched across the back. A wide array of tools was neatly arranged on the tool board, though most of them looked like Father’s Day gifts that had never been used. The bare cement floor and white fluorescent light made the garage look cooler than it was. Maybe it was nerves, maybe it was just one of those sticky summer nights. Ryan, however, was sweating heavily beneath his Kevlar jacket.

  “I’m roasting.” Ryan was dressed in long pants and a full-length ballistic jacket. It looked like something he’d wear on an autumn hike in the mountains.

  Dembroski zipped him up, checking the fit around the torso. “You want safety, or you want a fashion statement?”

  “If I get any hotter, the choices will be white meat or dark. Will this really do any good?”

  “Heck, yeah,” said Dembroski. “You have a Kevlar lining in here that protects the full upper torso. It’s less conspicuous than a vest, and it’s better protection. Most vests don’t protect against sid
e entry. The jacket does.”

  “Let’s just hope no one shows up with a bazooka.”

  “Actually,” said Dembroski, “I could probably arrange for that.”

  “Stop,” said Norm. “This is crazy enough as it is.”

  “I was only kidding.” He reached in his duffel bag and removed a pistol and ammunition clip. “This is another advantage of the jacket. You can easily conceal a firearm. This is a Smith and Wesson nine-millimeter parabellum pistol. Four-inch barrel. Slide mounting decocking lever. I brought one with tritium night sights, which may come in handy in the dark. Fifteen-round magazine. We’re talking serious firepower.”

  “I know how to use a gun. My dad was quite the hunter.”

  “Well, you can hunt elephants with this baby.” He slammed the clip into the stock and checked the safety. “Keep it in the breast pocket. Don’t take it out unless you intend to use it.”

  Norm said, “I’d rather you leave it here.”

  Ryan ignored him. He took the gun and placed it in the pocket.

  Dembroski stepped back and checked out the ensemble. “Looks good, my man.”

  “I feel like a bulletproof flasher.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Can I take this off now that we know it fits?”

  “I’ll do it,” said Dembroski. “You have to be very careful not to disconnect your microphone.”

  Ryan slipped off one sleeve at a time. A small tape recorder was strapped to his chest. The microphone was clipped inside his shirt collar.

  “Remember,” said Dembroski. “The microphone is voice-activated, so you won’t be recording a bunch of dead time. Just speak in a normal tone of voice and it will pick it up.”

  “It’s not my voice I’m worried about.”

  “It should pick up anyone within a good fifteen feet of you.”

  “So I have to get reasonably close.”

  “You don’t have to stick your tongue down anybody’s throat. But yeah, reasonably close.”

  Norm began to pace, obviously concerned. “Ryan, I really wish you’d let Bruce come with us. Fifteen feet is getting too damn close to someone who may be armed and dangerous.”

  “I’m more than happy to go,” said Dembroski.

  Ryan shook his head. “There’s a public figure involved. If you come with us, you’re likely to recognize her. Nothing personal against you, Bruce, but I don’t want you to know who she is.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know you. And I don’t know what you might do with that information.”

  “What?” he said, half smiling. “Do I look like a blackmailer or something?”

  “In my experience, they can look like just about anybody.”

  Dembroski glanced at Norm, then back at Ryan. “You know, I do most of my jobs on a no-questions-asked basis. But you guys have me totally intrigued. Who is it?”

  “Sorry. If all goes well tonight, you’ll never hear another thing about this. That’s my goal, to put this behind me forever.”

  “And if the shit hits the fan?”

  “Then you’ll probably read about it in the newspapers.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not the obituaries,” said Norm, grumbling.

  “Let’s hope,” said Ryan. “You ready, Norm?”

  Norm nodded reluctantly.

  Ryan grabbed his ballistic jacket and started toward the door. “Let’s do it.”

  64

  They rode with the headlights off, invisible in the night, shrouded in a virtual tunnel of Douglas firs that lined the steep and narrow road to Cheesman Dam. Jeb’s van climbed slowly toward the summit, zigzagging up the switchbacks in the road. Scattered clouds dimmed the light from the waxing crescent moon. Clusters of bright stars filled the pockets of night sky that weren’t hidden by the clouds.

  Cheesman was the oldest reservoir of Denver’s water system, some sixty miles south-southwest of the city. Built at the turn of the century, it was for many years virtually inaccessible to the public, situated in a scarcely populated government forest reserve and surrounded by mountains that soared from 9,000 to 13,000 feet. The archmasonry dam was the first of its type in the country, faced with squared granite blocks that were quarried upstream by Italian stonemasons, floated to the site on platforms, and hoisted into place with a gas-powered pulley. It linked the steep canyon walls in dramatic fashion, like a huge V-shaped fan, barely twenty-five feet across at the narrow base and nearly thirty times wider at the crest. Rising 221 feet from the streambed below, it had been the world’s highest dam at the time of construction. It was no longer the highest but was still the tightest in the entire water system.

  Amy’s ears popped as the van climbed to an elevation of over 6,800 feet, the high-water mark for the reservoir. She sat quietly in the backseat with the surveillance equipment. Marilyn rode in the captain’s chair on the passenger side.

  “When the moon is right,” said Jeb, “this is the most beautiful canyon you’ll ever see at night.”

  Amy glanced out the window. Beyond the guardrail was a sheer granite drop. Up ahead, beyond the dam, the gentle light of the moon reflected on the dark reservoir surface, flickering like quiet glowing embers on the plain. No argument from her.

  Jeb said, “Back in the old days, guys used to come here with their sweeties to watch the submarine races. If you know what I mean,” he added with a wink.

  Marilyn glanced at Amy, then said, “Yeah, I know all too well what you mean.”

  Jeb steered into a turnout along the side of the road. The van came to rest at about a twenty-degree angle, slightly steeper than the road grade. Jeb applied the parking brake, then turned to talk business.

  “The dam is less than a five-minute walk from here, straight up the road. If we get any closer, the engine noise will surely give us away.”

  “This is close enough,” said Marilyn. “I definitely don’t want them to know I came here with anyone. Especially you.”

  Jeb climbed out of the seat and maneuvered to the back of the van. A radio control panel with a recorder was mounted into the wall. On the seat beside Amy rested a medium-sized trunk. Jeb opened it and removed a tangle of wires and microphones. He spoke as he sorted the equipment. “We’ll be as good as with you the whole time you’re up there, Marilyn. Your radio has two-way communication. Amy and I will be able to hear everything back here at the van as it feeds into the recorder.”

  “How will you talk to me?”

  “Earpiece. We’ll have to work the wire into your hair to hide it. Should work fine.”

  “All right,” said Marilyn. “How about a panic button or something like that?”

  “Just scream. I’ll keep the motor running. We can be there in thirty seconds.”

  Marilyn checked her watch. 1:30 A.M. Thirty minutes before the designated meeting time. “Let’s get me wired,” she said. “I need to get going if I’m going to get to Rusch before Duffy does.”

  Amy looked at her with concern. She had definitely noticed the look on Marilyn’s face when Jeb had made the innocent comment about the submarine races. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” asked Amy.

  “Sure. This will be just fine.”

  Amy squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, but it unsettled Amy. The touch was very unlike Marilyn. It was remarkably weak.

  “I hope so,” said Amy, her eyes clouded with concern.

  Across the dam, on the opposite side of the canyon, Ryan and Norm waited in the Range Rover. The phone rang. Norm answered it on the speaker.

  Dembroski’s voice boomed inside the truck. “Hey, it’s Bruce. I finished that handwriting analysis you asked for.”

  Norm snatched up the phone, taking him off speaker. Ryan grabbed the phone back and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece so Dembroski couldn’t hear. “Norm,” he said in an accusatory tone, “what’s he talking about?”

  “Bruce was trained in handwriting analysis when he was with the CIA. I asked him to compare the handwriting samples we have for Debby Parkens. The lett
er she wrote to your father. And the letter she wrote to her daughter — the one Amy gave you.”

  “Great. So now he knows Marilyn Gaslow is involved.”

  “No. I blocked out her name in the letter.”

  “What the hell did you do this for, Norm?”

  “Because I don’t want to see you get killed out here tonight, all right? I was hoping that if Bruce could tell you the letter was fake or genuine, maybe that would be enough for you.”

  “I didn’t come all this way to turn around and go home.”

  “Humor me. Let’s just listen to what he has to say.”

  Ryan calmed his anger, then nodded once. He placed the phone back in the holder. Norm put the call back on speaker. “You still there, Bruce?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well, this was pretty quick. I’d like to study them some more.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What’s your gut reaction?”

  “My gut says the letter is genuine. Meaning that whoever wrote this letter to Amy Parkens also wrote the letter to Frank Duffy.”

  Ryan and Norm looked at one another.

  “But,” said Dembroski, “I’m somewhat troubled by a couple things in the second letter — the letter to Frank Duffy.”

  “What?” asked Ryan.

  “The wording is a little off, for one thing. People tend to have a way of expressing themselves in letters. I see different word choices, different turns of the phrase in these two letters.”

  “That’s probably because the one letter is written to my father and the other one is written to her seven-year-old daughter.”

  “That’s a good point,” said Dembroski. “But then there’s the matter of the shaky penmanship. The handwriting in the letter to your father is a little unsteady.”