Found Money (13 page)

It took longer than Amy had expected to fix her truck. She didn’t get on the road until the late morning. It wasn’t just a leaky water hose. The radiator had holes in it. Not rust holes. They were small and perfectly round, evenly spaced apart, as if the metal had been punctured by something. Or someone. The mechanic suggested it might have been kids, possibly a prank—rowdy teenagers with nothing better to do on the plains in the summertime.

Amy wasn’t so sure.

She drove straight to Boulder from Kit Carson, stopping only once for gas and to make phone calls. Nothing urgent at work. No answer at home. That didn’t surprise her. Gram took Taylor to the youth center three afternoons a week, always on Monday. She would play cards with the other seniors. Taylor would jump rope or play kickball, though most of her time was spent running from the boys who felt compelled to pull the hair of the prettiest girl on the playground.

At 5:20 Amy reached the outskirts of Boulder. She would have liked to go directly to the youth center to pick up Taylor, but during the peak of rush hour she couldn’t have gotten there before the place closed at six o’clock. She went home to the Clover Leaf Apartments, where she’d wait for Gram and her little girl.

Amy inserted her key in the lock, but the deadbolt was already open. That was surprising. Gram
never
left the door unlocked. She turned the knob. It felt different, the way it turned. The door creaked open by itself, just a few inches. She realized what was wrong.

The lock had been picked. Someone had been there.

Logic told her to run, but maternal instinct wouldn’t let her. She was worried about her daughter. “Gram, Taylor!” she called out.

There was no reply. She nudged the door, swinging it open slowly. Her eyes widened with horror as the scene unfolded.

The apartment had been ransacked—
completely
torn apart. The sofa had been butchered, the cushions sliced open. The television was smashed. Shelves had been emptied, books and mementos strewn across the carpet. They had been searching for something.

“Taylor!” she called, but all was quiet. Amy knew they were
supposed
to be at the youth center, but something told her differently. The
smell
. The whole apartment had that smell.

She ran to the bedroom. Broken glass from picture frames crackled beneath her feet. It was an obstacle course of broken furniture, shattered memories. “Taylor, where are you!”

Amy shrieked at the sight. Taylor’s bedroom was destroyed, her mattress shredded. The dresser was overturned, her little clothes thrown everywhere. But no sign of her daughter.

“Taylor, Gram!” She ran to the other bedroom. It was the same scene—completely destroyed. The cordless phone lay on the floor beside the shattered lamp. She snatched it up to dial 911, then
stopped. They couldn’t tell her what she needed to know. She tried the youth center first, speaking as fast as she possibly could.

“This is Amy Parkens. I’m looking for my daughter, Taylor. And my grandmother, Elaine. It’s an emergency. My grandmother should be in the senior recreation room.”

“I’ll check,” said the woman on the line.

“Hurry, please.” Amy’s eyes scanned the wreckage as she waited, but the wait wasn’t long. Gram was on the line.

“What is it, darling?”

“Gram, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m up five bucks.”

“Someone broke into our apartment. The place is destroyed.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Yes, I’m here right now. Where’s Taylor? Is she with you?”

“She’s—I left her with the counselor. Outside. Let me see.” Gram went to the window and scanned the playground. Kids were tumbling and running in every direction. She searched the swing set, the monkey bars. Finally she saw her. “Yes, she’s right outside playing on the teeter-totter.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“What about the money?” asked Gram.

Panic struck. “I didn’t even think to look. Let me check.” She hurried to the refrigerator, cordless phone in hand, stepping like a hurdler over toppled furniture. She stopped in the kitchen doorway. The cabinets had been emptied. Appliances had been yanked from the walls. Gram’s favorite dishes were broken, the pieces scattered everywhere. The doors to the freezer and refrigerator were wide open. Their food covered the floor. The
odor was pungent—meat or something was rotting in the heat.
That
was what she had smelled earlier.

Amy checked the bottom shelf of the freezer, where Gram had stashed their nest egg.

Her hand shook as she spoke into the phone. “It’s gone. The box, the money.
Everything
is gone.”

Gram could barely speak. “What do we do now?”

“What we should have done in the first place. We call the police.”

Ryan didn’t call the police. Sure, he’d been robbed—robbed of the paper trail that could prove his father was an extortionist. He needed help, but not from law enforcement. He needed a lawyer. A good one.

From a phone booth in the hotel lobby, he called his friend Norm back in Denver. With the two-hour time difference, he was still in his office at the end of the business day, feet up on the desk, leaning back in his leather chair.

“Norm, I need your help.”

“What’d you do, steal the locks off the canal?”

“This is no joke. I’ve been ripped off.”

He straightened in his chair. “What happened?”

In a matter of minutes, he told Norman everything. The extortion. The rape conviction. The scam at the hotel. Saying it all on the phone was less agonizing than in person. Knowing his father had committed rape made it almost easy; he seemed less deserving of protection.

Silence lingered after Ryan had finished, as if the pensive lawyer was still absorbing it. Finally, he spoke: “It’s curious.”

“Curious?” he said, chuckling with frustration.

“It’s a nightmare, Norm.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s awful. What I meant was, the extortion is curious. Your father commits a
rape, and then twenty-five years later
he
blackmails somebody for five million dollars. It doesn’t make sense. You would think someone would have been blackmailing
him,
threatening to expose the sealed juvenile records or something along those lines.”

“What does that mean exactly—the records are sealed?”

“It means they’re absolutely confidential. By law, nobody can find out what crimes a person committed as a juvenile.”

“So it’s possible that even my mother wouldn’t know?”

“Definitely. Would your mother have married a rapist? That’s why it makes sense that somebody could have blackmailed your dad. Not the other way around.”

“Except my father wasn’t exactly the kind of rich man you’d target for extortion. I don’t know what’s going on, really. All I know is that some woman is walking around Panama right now with every bit of information I came down here to get. Not to mention my plane tickets and my passport.”

“Did you have any original documents in the bag?”

“Just copies. I left the originals in the safe deposit box.”

“Good. Here’s what we do. First thing, we get you a new passport. I’ll take care of that tomorrow. Do you have any kind of photo ID?”

“Yeah, driver’s license. They didn’t get my wallet.”

“Excellent. Go back to the bank tomorrow. If you talk to the same person who helped you this morning, your license should be sufficient to get you back in the box. Especially if you tell them your
passport was stolen. Make another set of copies of the juvenile record, the account statements, everything that was in your bag. But don’t take any documents from the bank—not even the copies. Have the copies made right there on the premises, then bundle it up and ship it overnight to me. I don’t want you carrying anything on your person.”

“Then what?”

“I’ll get the passport to you through the embassy. But you’re probably stuck down there for at least another day.”

“Good. Maybe I can find that woman.”

“I wouldn’t go to the police, if that’s what you’re thinking. The political climate in Panama today is far different from the dictatorship that existed when your father opened these accounts. They may not look too favorably on the heir to extortion money.”

“I wasn’t going to call the police. I thought I’d just cruise the major hotels. I know her MO. Maybe I’ll spot her hitting on another stupid American who thinks with his crotch.”

“Something tells me you won’t see this woman cruising bars around the city. This is bigger than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The woman was a diversion, obviously. She got your attention while somebody else walked off with your bag. Thieves work in teams like that all the time. But we can’t assume that’s all there is to this.”

“You don’t think it was a random hit, then.”

“Do
you
?”

“I think it was triggered by my visit to one of the banks today, but I’m not sure how.”

“It’s possible somebody got a tip from a bank
employee that you came in and opened your father’s safe deposit box. Maybe that somebody wanted to know what you had removed from it.”

“You’re saying I’m being followed?”

“We’re not talking nickels and dimes here, Ryan.”

“Yeah, but you’re making it sound like some big conspiracy.”

“Call it whatever you want. But if these people can afford to pay your father five million dollars, they can sure as hell afford to put a tail on you.”

“Or worse,” said Ryan, his heart suddenly in his throat.

“A
lot
worse. Take my advice. Don’t waste your time looking for some mysterious woman in a tan suit. Let’s focus on the three million dollars in that second account. We need to find out where the money was transferred from and who transferred it. That’s the root of the extortion.”

“All the banker at Banco del Istmo would tell me is that it came from another numbered account in the bank. Bank secrecy laws prohibited him from giving me the name of the other account holder.”

“I suppose that’s right,” said Norm. “The bank owes a fiduciary obligation to both account holders. They can’t disclose one to the other without the consent of both customers.” He drummed his fingers on his desktop, thinking. “Somehow we have to persuade him to tell us more.”

Ryan thought for a moment. “I bet that woman in the tan suit can help us.”

“I hardly think she would.”

“Maybe she already has.”

“I don’t follow you.”

Ryan was smug. “It’s probably better that way.”

“Careful, my friend. The last time I heard that tone in your voice you nearly got me kicked out of college. We’re not talking dormitory pranks here. You’re in a Third World country with no passport, and God only knows who may be watching you. Don’t be taking stupid chances.”

He remained silent, the wheels turning in his head.

“Ryan, come on. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s like I told you before you left. You’re executor of the estate. Eventually you’ll have to represent to a court that you’ve accounted for all the heirs and inventoried all the assets. What the hell are you going to say about the two million in the attic and three million more in Panama? I’m your friend and I want to help you, but I can’t help any client break the law.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise, I’m not going to break any laws.” He hung up the phone.
At least not the laws of the United States.

Ryan stepped out of the phone booth and crossed the busy lobby, back to the hotel bar. A few more customers had gathered around the television, glued to the soccer game. It was nearing the end of the match, score tied. The bartender looked as if he hadn’t moved. The lone waitress was equally riveted. No one had been tending to the tables since Ryan had left. He glanced toward the table at which the woman had been seated.

Her empty glass was still there.

Ryan smiled to himself.
So far, so good.

The Boulder police arrived in minutes. Curious onlookers gathered outside the apartment and in the parking lot, near the squad cars. Two officers searched the outside perimeter of the complex. Two others marked off the crime scene with yellow police tape.

A detective interviewed Amy in the doorway. She would have invited him inside, but there wasn’t a chair left unbroken. He had salt-and-pepper hair and deep lines in his face, the kind that came from too much work or too much drinking, perhaps both. He was a serious type, with not much of a bedside manner. The closest he came to an expression of sympathy was a clipped “Hope you got insurance, lady.” He took notes on a small spiral pad as he moved from question to question in a plodding, matter-of-fact manner.

Gram arrived in the middle of the interview. The emotion in her eyes touched her granddaughter. They embraced in the hall, just outside the open doorway.

“It’s okay, Gram.” Those same words from her grandmother had never failed to comfort Amy as a child. They felt a little strange flowing the other way.

“Thank God we weren’t home.”

Amy took a step back. “Where’s Taylor?”

“I didn’t want her to see this. She’s over in three-seventeen with Mrs. Bentley.”

Together, their eyes drifted inside to the living room. For Amy, the second look was worse than the first. Details stood out in what before was just wreckage. The potted plants Gram had babied along forever were upside down on the floor. Taylor’s box of toys was a pile of splintered lumber.

Gram spoke quietly, as if at a funeral. “I just can’t believe they did this. They destroyed everything we own.”

“Excuse me,” said the detective. “Who is ‘they’?”

Gram blinked, confused. “I’m sorry—what?”

“You said you can’t believe
they
did this. Who is ‘they’?”

“It was just a figure of speech.”

“Do you have reason to believe more than one person did this?”

“I can’t really say.”

“Do you have any idea who
would
do it?”

“No.”

He looked at Amy. “You told me you were divorced, right?”

“That’s right.”

“What kind of relationship do you have with your ex-husband?”

“We’re civil.”

He paused, taking mental note of the word choice. “Would
he
know who
they
are?”

“Why are you harping on that? My grandmother told you it was just a figure of speech.”

“To be blunt, miss, I don’t think you’ve been telling me everything there is to tell.”

Gram stepped forward and said sharply, “Are you calling my granddaughter a liar?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time a
woman lied to keep the father of her child from going to jail.”

“My ex-husband would never do something like this.”

The detective nodded, though not in agreement. “Let me explain where I’m coming from. I’ve been a cop for almost twenty-five years. This is one of those crime scenes that you don’t have to be a genius to analyze. Doesn’t look like your typical burglary. This has the flavor of personal anger to it. Like someone trying to get even with you for something. Trying to scare you.”

Amy bristled at his insight, but she said nothing.

“In fact,” he continued, “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find out that burglary isn’t the motive at all.”

“I told you exactly what happened. I came home, the place was a wreck. I don’t know why they did it.”

“There
they
go again,” he said, smirking.

Gram glared. “Stop harassing us.”

“It’s all right,” said Amy. “I can see where this might look a little…unusual.”

The detective handed her his business card. “I’m gonna take a look around. Why don’t you give yourself a little time to calm down, get over the initial shock. Then give me a call. I have a few more questions.”

“I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”

“Good. Because I’d really like to put this burglary thing to bed. Once the crime scene is cleared, I’d like you to take stock of your things. Tell me if anything’s missing. Anything at all.”

Gram looked confused. “What do you mean, tell you if anything is missing? Of course something is—”

A glance from Amy stopped her cold—subtle but effective.

“You were saying?” said the detective.

Gram hesitated. “I was saying, uh, just look at the place. Something’s bound to be missing.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “You let me know. You got my card.” He raised an eyebrow, then walked away.

Gram pulled Amy aside, speaking softly as they walked alone down the hallway, away from the crime scene. “You obviously didn’t tell him about the stolen money.”

“Not yet. I was about to, but I froze up.”

“He
is
a jerk.”

“It’s more than that. For all the reasons I thought we should have told the police at the very beginning, I was afraid it might get us into even more trouble to admit we’ve been hanging on to it, essentially hiding it from the IRS and everybody else. I felt like I needed some advice first. Some professional advice.”

“From who?”

“There’s only one lawyer I would trust with something like this. That’s Marilyn Gaslow.”

“You sure you want someone in the law firm to know about this?”

She stopped and looked Gram in the eye. “It’s not just someone. It’s Marilyn.”

From a comfortable hotel suite, she watched as Panama City came alive at nightfall. Steam from a hot shower still hovered in the room. A bath towel wrapped her shapely young body. Her wet hair was wrapped in a smaller towel, turban style. A long black wig lay atop the dresser. Ryan Duffy’s leather bag lay open on the bed. She reclined on
the pillow beside it as she spoke into the telephone. Her voice had more of an edge than the soft, coy bar talk she had used with Ryan.

“I got his bag. For a hundred bucks the bartender ran a little diversion scam with me.”

“I told you not to involve anyone else.”

“He’s not
involved
. I’m sure he’s played this same game with half the hookers in Panama City. He just grabbed the bag when Duffy had his mind on other things, so to speak.”

“What’s in it?”

“Bank records, some other papers. Nothing you didn’t already tell me about.” She braced the phone with her neck and shoulder, then zipped the bag closed.

“Did you talk to Duffy?”

“Yeah. But he didn’t bite. Never went beyond some brief bar banter.”

“You losing your edge or something?”

She checked herself in the mirror, then answered in an affected, throaty voice. “What do you think?”

“Guy must be a homo.”

She laughed lightly. “So, what happened in Boulder?”

“I think I got the point across.”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“Come on. I hate working in the dark.”

“Really? And all this time I thought you were leaving the light on for my benefit.”

“Cute. But a crack like that’s going to cost you, asshole. When you are least prepared to pay. Unless you make amends.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Tell me what happened in Boulder.”

“You’re being too nosy for your own good.”

“Maybe. But if I’m going to do my part of the job right, I need to see the big picture.”

“All right, all right. Your instincts were dead on. That happy hour with Amy Parkens you observed at the Green Parrot back in Denver evidently wasn’t just a casual meeting between friends. I found two hundred grand in her apartment. Cash.”

“Whoa. I guess Saint Amy has broken her vow of poverty.”

He asked, “Are you sure you didn’t see Duffy give her anything at that restaurant?”

“I’m sure. I tailed him the whole day, just like you told me. Never took my eyes off him.”

“Somebody must have given it to her before the old man died. I don’t see where the hell else she could have gotten that kind of cash.”

“So, what does all this mean? You want me to keep tailing him?”

“Definitely. But from here on out, you need to be extra careful. With me hitting Parkens and you hitting Duffy at the exact same time, I’m sure we took them both by surprise. But they’re on guard now. I want you to act under the assumption that the two families are sharing both wealth and information.”

“And risk,” she said coolly.

“That too.”

She rose and stepped to the window. The busy streets below were an endless string of lights.

“What do you want me to do next?”

“Just stay there until Duffy leaves, keep an eye on him. And keep that buffoon out of trouble. I want to deal with him when he gets back. So make sure he
gets
back.”

“Got it.” She was about to hang up, then caught herself. “Oh, one other thing.”

“What?”

“I
do
leave the lights on for
your
benefit,” she said, then hung up the phone.