Found Money (21 page)

Amy called Marilyn Gaslow at her home in Denver, but her housekeeper said she was out of town through Monday. Fortunately, Amy was on the standing short list of people who could reach Marilyn anywhere in case of a true emergency. It was a privilege Amy had never invoked—until tonight.

“Miss Marilyn is staying at the Mayflower Hotel in Washington,” said her housekeeper.

Amy got the number, thanked her, and dialed the Mayflower. The hotel operator put her through to the room.

Marilyn’s seventh-floor suite was furnished with handsome early-American reproductions. The shirt-stripe wallpaper was Laura Ashley. A tasteful fox hunt photograph hung over the desk. Marilyn was alone in the king-size bed, clad in her favorite chenille robe, sitting up against the headboard with her feet propped up on a pillow. It was after midnight in Washington, but she was still awake and reading as the phone rang.

“Yes?”

“Marilyn, do you have a minute?”

“Amy?” she said, the familiar voice registering.

“Is something wrong?”

“There’s something very important I have to ask you. I wanted to do it in person, but it really can’t
wait. At least,
I
can’t wait. Is now a good time?”

Two black-binder notebooks lay on the bed beside her. Another was in her lap. “Amy, I don’t mean to be difficult, but I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow. I’m still preparing, and I have to get some sleep.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot you were two hours ahead of me.”

“It’s okay.” She pushed the notebook aside. “Go ahead. What do want to ask me?”

“There’s something I need to know about Mom.”

The silence was suddenly palpable. Marilyn scooted to the edge of the bed, sitting erect. “Okay. What is it?”

“I met a man for coffee tonight. I think his father knew my mother.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Ryan Duffy. His father was Frank Duffy. It’s the same Duffys I was telling you about before—the ones who gave me the money that was stolen from my apartment.”

“I told you to let that go.”

“I know. But I couldn’t. And now look what I found out.”

“Amy, please. Just listen to me, okay? Stay away from Ryan Duffy. Stay away from the whole Duffy family.”

“You
know
them?”

“Just stay away from them.”

Amy’s voice shook. “So…it’s true?”

“What’s true?”

“Frank Duffy raped my mother.”

“What?”

“That’s what I think Ryan was trying to tell me. His father raped my mother.”

“Frank Duffy didn’t rape your mother.”

“How do you know? Did you know Frank Duffy? Tell me if you did.”

“Yes. I knew him when I was in high school.”

“You went to high school together?”

“No. He went to Boulder High, I went to Fairview.”

“But you met him?”

“Yeah. You could say that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before? You just sat there and pretended you didn’t know him.”

“I—I just couldn’t.”

“Because he raped my mother. And Mom didn’t want me to know. That’s
why
.”

“Amy, I told you. Frank Duffy didn’t rape your mother.”

“How do you know that?”

“Your mother and I were best friends. We told each other everything.”

“Mom never told you she was raped?”

“Never.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“Amy, I know it didn’t happen.”

“How could you possibly know for sure?”

“Trust me. I know.”

“Marilyn, don’t be coy with me. If this man raped my mother, I have a right to know.”

“He didn’t.”

Her voice turned shrill, the way only family would shout at one another. “You’re lying! Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Then how do you know he didn’t rape her?”

“Because…”

“Because
why?
”

“Because he raped
me
, Amy. Frank Duffy didn’t rape your mother. He raped
me
.”

Amy’s hand shook as she gripped the phone. “Oh, my God. Marilyn, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I hope—”

“Forget it. Just forget all about it. It was a long time ago. I’ve put it behind me. And that’s where I want it to stay. Promise me, Amy. We will never talk about this again. To anyone.”

“But—”

“Amy,” she said sternly. “
Never
again. I don’t need this back in my life. Not now. Especially not now. Do you understand?”

Amy swallowed the lump in her throat. “Marilyn,” she said weakly, “I only wish I understood.”

Ryan stayed in the media room all night, studying the old yearbooks of Boulder High School. Norm had said the copies were photo quality, which didn’t say much for the quality of the original photos. Eight hundred grainy black-and-white mug shots were enough to make anyone’s eyes blurry. Even after a pot of coffee, it was difficult to stay focused. He’d never seen so many kids wearing glasses—
ugly
eyeglasses at that. A lot of people said television or the airplane was the greatest invention of the twentieth century. Some of these geeks made a pretty compelling case for contact lenses.

After a few hours, Ryan had developed a system. He would check the eyes first. Amy had bright, almond-shaped eyes. Then the bone structure. Amy’s face was heart-shaped, the makings of a natural beauty. From there, the task got more difficult. Most of the girls in the yearbook were smiling. It made him think of his first meeting with Amy, how pretty her smile had been. He imagined her mother’s was much the same.

Though neither Duffy had given them much to smile about.

By 5:00
A.M
., Ryan had lost track of the number of times he’d been through the photographs. He’d studied so many faces he was beginning to forget
what Amy actually looked like. He’d narrowed it down to about thirty possibilities, but he didn’t feel confident that any of them were actually Amy’s mother. He was about to close the book when something caught his eye. It was a name, not a face. A boy, not a girl.

Joseph Kozelka.

It was an unusual name, Kozelka. Yet it was familiar to him. After a moment, he placed it. There was an entire hospital wing in Denver that bore the same name—the Kozelka Cardiology Center. Ryan had seen the plaque in the lobby years ago, during his residency.

He looked carefully at the photograph. A nice-looking kid. Well dressed, one of the few wearing a coat and tie that actually seemed to fit him. How many Kozelkas could there possibly be in Colorado? If this kid was related, he was one rich son of a bitch. Rich enough to pay millions in extortion.

Ryan nearly leaped from the sofa and hurried out the door. The elevator was right outside the media room, but it was way too slow. Ryan hurried up the dark stairwell and tapped lightly on the door to Norm’s master suite.

The door remained closed, but he could hear Rebecca’s sleepy voice from inside. It was muffled, as if she were calling from beneath the covers. “Tommy, please go back to sleep. You’re getting too old for this.”

Ryan whispered, more out of embarrassment than anything else. “Uh, Rebecca. Sorry. It’s Ryan. I have to talk to Norm.”

He waited. Inside, there was mild grumbling, then footsteps. The door opened about six inches. Norm was wearing a robe. That long strand of hair that covered the ever-growing bald spot was stand
ing on end. His face was covered with stubble. “What the hell time is it?” he asked, yawning.

“Early. Sorry. I think I might have found someone at Boulder High who was actually rich enough to pay my dad the extortion money. Can we get on your computer?”

“Now?”

“Yes. This could be the break I’ve been waiting for.”

Norm rubbed the sleep from his eye, slowly coming to life. “All right,” he said as he stepped into the hall. “This way.”

Norm led him down the hall to the upstairs office. A computer terminal rested atop a small built-in desk that was covered with bills and magazines. Ryan spoke as it booted up.

“His name’s Joseph Kozelka. Unusual name. I’m hoping we can pull up something on the Internet about him.”

“Who is he?”

“I’m thinking he has to be related to the family who established the Kozelka Cardiology Center in Denver. They gave millions of dollars for construction and operation—
tens
of millions.”

The screen brightened and Norm logged on. He went directly to an Internet search engine. “How do you spell his name?”

Ryan leaned forward and typed it in, then hit Enter. They waited as the computer searched databases all over the world for any information on Joseph Kozelka. It seemed to be taking forever.

Norm said, “It’s conceivable we’ll get goose eggs.”

“I know. But if this guy has the kind of money I think he has, his name is bound to be out there at least a few times.”

The screen flashed the results. Both Ryan and Norm did a double take. The computer-generated message read: “Your search has found 4,123 documents.”

“Holy shit,” said Ryan.

Norm scrolled down the abstracts of materials that mentioned Joseph Kozelka. Many of them were in Spanish. “Looks like he lived outside the States for a while.”

“He wasn’t just living there. Looks like he was head of the entire Central and South American operations for some company—K&G Enterprises. I never heard of them.”

“Me neither. But if they do a lot of business south of the border, that might explain the Panamanian bank.”

Ryan took the mouse from Norm and scrolled down himself, scanning the next group of entries.

“He sure has a lot to do with farming.”

“When you get to his level, Norm, I think they call it commodities. Look at this.”

The full text of a
Fortune
magazine article filled the screen. The title read “All in the Family.” It was an exposé on a handful of “family-run businesses” whose sales rivaled companies like Coca-Cola.

“‘Joseph Kozelka,’” Ryan read aloud. “‘CEO and principal shareholder of K&G Enterprises, third-largest privately held corporation in the world. Estimated sales of over thirty
billion
dollars a year.’”

Norm said, “These are the kind of empires people never hear about because they’re family owned. The stock isn’t publicly traded. No public filings with the Securities Exchange Commission, no shareholders to hold them accountable. Nobody really knows how much they’re worth.”

Ryan scrolled further down the list of matches, then stopped when he saw something related to the Cardiology Center in Denver. He pulled up the full text. It was a description of the center, with bios of its directors—including Joseph Kozelka, president emeritus.

“Excellent,” said Ryan. “This is what I wanted. A full bio.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet ‘graduate of Boulder High School’ is right up there on the top of his résumé.”

“Shut up, Norm.”

The bio slowly appeared on the screen, more than words. There was a photograph. It was the face of a man in his sixties. It was the aging smile of the kid in the yearbook.

“Look at those eyes,” say Ryan. “That chin. Gotta be him.” He scanned the bio for pertinent details. “Place of birth,” he read aloud, “Boulder. Date of birth—same year as my dad. They had to be classmates.”

“Fine. He’s rich and he’s your dad’s age. That doesn’t mean he’s the guy who paid the extortion.”

“It’s more than just that. Kozelka was born and raised in Boulder. He’s my dad’s same age. That means he and my dad were classmates the same year my dad committed rape. We know the extortion has something to do with rape, or the records wouldn’t have been down in the safe deposit box in Panama. Logically, whoever paid the extortion should meet two criteria. One, he probably knew my dad in high school. Two, he definitely has to be financially secure enough to pay five million dollars. I defy you to find someone other than Joseph Kozelka who meets those criteria.”

“Your logic is sound. But only if your criteria are correct.”

“It’s all I have to go on, Norm. Work with me.”

They exchanged glances. Norm said, “Okay, it’s possible. But where do we go from here?”

“We dig in. There’s a ton of material right here on the computer. Something has to give us a clue as to whether he and my dad ever crossed paths.”

“That could take a long time.”

“I’m up for it.”

Norm settled into his chair, thinking. “Maybe we can shortcut it.”

“How?”

“I say we meet with the FBI, like we’re supposed to. You remember what I said about quid pro quo, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, before we take on a corporate shark as big as Kozelka, let’s see who else is fishing. And let’s find out what they’re fishing for.”

Amy woke with fur on her face. It tickled at first, then frightened her. She swung her arm wildly, launching her attacker.

Taylor giggled as a stuffed Winnie the Pooh went flying across the bedroom. Amy sat up in bed, relieved it wasn’t the real-live rat she had imagined.

“Don’t you like bears, Mommy?”

“Yes, I love bears. But I like it better when
you
kiss me good morning.”

Taylor crawled onto the bed and kissed her on the cheek. “Come on,” said Taylor. “I’m making breakfast for you and Gram before you go to work.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll be right there in ten minutes.” She sent Taylor off, then headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth. After a quick shower, she wrapped her wet hair in a towel and threw on
her robe. She was awake, but she didn’t quite feel like it. Last night’s phone conversation still had her mind swirling. Marilyn had certainly put the kibosh on the theory that Ryan’s father had sent Amy money to make amends for the rape of her mother. Things no longer made sense.

“Mom, breakfast!”

Taylor was shouting loud enough to invite the neighbors. But she was allowed. Gram didn’t often turn her kitchen over to a four-year-old, and Taylor was always so proud of the special menu she came up with. Amy put her makeup bag aside and headed for the kitchen table. Her business face was not required for Cap’n Crunch and Kool-Aid.

Gram was seated at the table, eating her cereal and watching the morning news on television. Another place setting was arranged neatly beside her. Taylor was pouring the milk. “Skim milk for you, right Mommy?”

“That’s right,” she said with a smile. She pulled up a chair, then froze. A handsome young reporter on television was standing in front of the Mayflower Hotel in Washington D.C.

Gram said, “Hey, listen to this. They’re talking about Marilyn.”

Amy’s pulse quickened. She reached forward and turned up the volume.

The reporter was saying something about Washington’s worst-kept secret. “According to White House sources,” he said, “Ms. Gaslow met yesterday with several of the President’s high-ranking advisors. She will be meeting this morning with the President. If all goes well, we could possibly hear an announcement by the end of the day. Assuming she meets Senate approval, that would make Marilyn Gaslow the first woman ever to
serve as chairman—make that chairwoman—of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System.”

The Denver anchor broke in, fumbling with his earpiece. “Todd, most of us hear about the Federal Reserve every day, but few of us understand it. Put Ms. Gaslow’s appointment in perspective for us. How significant is this?”

“Very significant. The Fed is often referred to as the fourth branch of government, and that is no understatement. Through its seven-member Board of Governors, it sets the nation’s monetary policy. It controls the money supply, it sets interest rates, it regulates the federal banking system, it engages in a host of activities that affect market conditions. Historically, it has received blame for the severity of the Great Depression in the thirties, and it has received credit for the relatively stable economic conditions of the sixties. In short, it determines the overall economic well-being of the most powerful nation on earth. If Marilyn Gaslow is approved as chairman, she would arguably become the most powerful woman in America.”

“Are there any signs of Senate opposition to Ms. Gaslow’s appointment?”

“None yet,” said the reporter, “but in Washington, things can change in a hurry.”

“Thank you very much,” said the anchor, closing out the live report. The local coverage shifted to a traffic report.

Amy didn’t move.

“Mommy, are they talking about the same Marilyn you work for?”

Amy nodded, but she was deep in thought.

“The most powerful woman in America,” said Gram. “Boy, isn’t that something?”

Amy blinked nervously. She had honored Marilyn’s request to tell no one about their conversation—not even Gram.

“Yes,” she said in quiet disbelief. “That is really something.”