Found Money (25 page)

Ryan’s pager chirped just north of Eads, about an hour from home. He kept one eye on the lonely highway as he checked the number on his belt. He didn’t recognize it. A Saturday evening page usually meant someone was awfully sick. Something told him, however, that this was no
medical
emergency.

He stopped at a gas station, went straight to a pay phone, and dialed the number. The rain seemed to fall harder with each push of the button. He moved closer to the phone, beneath the small overhang. It wasn’t much shelter. Thankfully, it took only one ring to get an answer.

“Brent’s dead.”

The pattering rain made it hard to hear. “
What
did you say?”

“Your brother-in-law’s dead. Shot twice in the head. His body’s laying on Highway 287, about a half-hour from your house.”

Ryan recognized the voice. It was that security guy at K&G. “You killed him.”

“No.
You
killed him. With your father’s gun.”

He immediately thought of the break-in at his mother’s house. “You broke in and stole the gun.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Like the police are going to buy that one.”

“How’d you find it? How did you even know my father
had
a gun?”

“Registration records. And let’s face it. Isn’t the top drawer in the master bedroom the first place you’d look?”

“You bastards. You won’t get away with this.”

“Don’t be so sure. Listen to this.”

There was a click on the line, followed by Ryan’s own voice. It was a tape recording of his conversation with Norm after the hearing. Ryan listened in stunned silence as Norm’s words were played back to him.
“My advice to you is to stay clear of your brother-in-law.”
He braced himself for his own reply:
“I will. Just as soon as I break his friggin’ neck.”

The recording was over. Ryan closed his eyes in disbelief. “You bugged Norm’s truck.”

“Not me. It probably was that bum who bumped into you outside the courthouse. Must have dropped something in your coat pocket. We heard the whole courtroom disaster—and everything since.”

Ryan reached frantically into his coat pockets, left, then right. A tiny microphone was buried at the bottom. He pulled it out and crushed it, erupting with anger. “Stop this! What do you people want from me!”

The reply was smug, unemotional. “Stay away from the FBI. And forget you ever heard of Joe Kozelka.”

“Or what?”

“Or the police are going to find this gun. They’re going to hear this tape. And they’re going to come knocking on your door.”

Ryan had no chance to speak. The line clicked, followed by the dial tone. He put the phone in the cradle but didn’t let go. The rain started to blow, soaking his hair and face. He didn’t know who to
call first. Sarah. His mom. Norm. As he lifted the phone, he was certain of just one thing.

Definitely
not
the FBI.

Nathan Rusch hung up the pay phone and started back to the car. As an added precaution, he was taking the long way back to Denver, west to Pueblo and up I-25. He’d driven as far as Rocky Ford, the self-proclaimed melon capitol of the world. Banners and painted signs along the road heralded the upcoming Arkansas Valley Fair, held every August when the melons were in season. All the water-melon hoopla reminded Rusch of those old David Letterman shows where the host would drop big twenty-pounders off buildings in Manhattan, splattering them on the pavement. The result was not unlike Brent’s head on the highway.

Melonhead Langford.
Twenty years in the business, he gave all his jobs a name. He especially liked this one.

The parking lot outside Denny’s restaurant was nearly full. Melons might have been the local claim to fame, but the Grand Slam breakfast was apparently a Saturday-evening hit. He crossed several rows of parked cars, then stopped alongside a white Taurus. The driver’s window slid down. His partner was behind the wheel. She wore neither the black nor the blond wig tonight. She was her natural brunette.

“Did you reach him?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She slid across the bench seat to the passenger side. Rusch opened the door and got behind the wheel.

“I guess we’re a pretty good team, huh?”

He started the engine, showing not a hint of
friendly agreement as he steered out of the parking lot. “You fucked up again, Sheila.”

“No way. I did everything I was supposed to do.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be such an obvious break-in. The whole key to the frame-up is that Duffy used his father’s gun. If it looks like somebody broke into the house and stole it before Brent got whacked, we got nothing.”

“The house was locked. What was I supposed to do? I thought I did a damn good job of finding the gun as quickly as I did.”

“It wasn’t that brilliant, Sheila. Nine out of ten people keep their handgun in a bedroom dresser drawer.”

She glanced out the window. “You never give me credit.”

“Credit for what? You go to Panama, you leave your damn fingerprints all over a cocktail glass. You go to Duffy’s house, you break in like an amateur.” He shook his head, grumbling. “I must have been crazy to think I could promote you from bedroom detail.”

She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. “We all have our own strengths,” she said as she ran her fingertips along the inside of his thigh. “And we all have our weaknesses.”

He knocked her hand away. “That’s not going to work this time. I can only carry you so far. Kozelka doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

“What are you telling me, Nathan?”

He glanced her way, then back at the road. “Mr. Kozelka was very concerned that Duffy would take that cocktail glass to the FBI and implicate you. He was even more concerned that you might turn around and drop the name Kozelka. Now, there
were two ways for me to make sure that didn’t happen. One was to make it impossible for Duffy to meet with the FBI. The other…well, I think you understand the other.”

She glanced nervously at his hands on the steering wheel, as if suddenly aware of how huge they were. “Under the circumstances, I wish the frame-up were a little tighter.”

“It should work in the short run. Even with your botched break-in, I can’t see Duffy running to the FBI before he and his lawyer have a chance to sort this out.”

“Then what?”

“Then we reevaluate.”

She managed a weak, awkward smile. “Sure hope this works.”

“Yes,” he said coldly. “I know you do.”

Ryan’s first call was to his mother. She was still at the McClennys’, where he had told her to stay until he returned from Denver. The rain continued to fall as he filled her in on everything from the courtroom disaster to the threatening phone call. By the time he’d finished, he was barely aware that he was completely rain-soaked.

She seemed shocked by the news of Brent’s death, though not exactly saddened. That pioneer spirit that had been missing since the death of her husband was suddenly back. She was circling the proverbial wagons.

“Are you sure he’s dead?”

“I haven’t seen the body, if that’s what you mean.”

“Then how do you know that man wasn’t bluffing?”

“He wouldn’t break into the house and steal
Dad’s gun just to bluff. I can drive down Two-eighty-seven and take a look for myself, if that’s what you want.”

“No, don’t do that.”

Her tone alarmed him. “Why not?”

“Because the police could be there already. I don’t think you should talk to them.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have to think this through first. What are you going to tell them?”

“I was going to tell them I think I’m being framed for a murder I didn’t commit. That way, I’ll just beat Kozelka’s thug to the punch.”

“Please, don’t do that.”

“Why not, Mom?”

“Because if you tell the police you’re being framed, you’ll have to tell them
why
you’re being framed.”

“I think it’s about time we just came clean on this.”

“No.”

Ryan cringed. “What do you mean, no?”

“It’s not totally your call anymore, Ryan. I have a say in this.”

“What are we arguing about, Mom? I’m being framed for
murder
.”

“Not yet. They’ve only threatened to frame you. The only way you will be framed is if you tell the FBI what your father did. If you keep your mouth shut, Brent’s just another unsolved murder.”

His mouth opened, but words didn’t come. He couldn’t believe what his own mother was saying. “Mom, somebody was murdered here.”

“Not
somebody
. Brent. I’m sorry, but I’m not shedding any tears over a human slug who took a
fist to my own daughter. Brent’s dead. You can’t change that by telling the police you’re being framed. And you can’t tell the police you’re being framed without ruining your father’s good name and reputation. None of that can bring Brent back, even if we wanted him back.”

“Mom, I’ve already done more than I should to keep this blackmail a secret.”

“Damn it. It’s not the blackmail I’m worried about. It’s the
rape
. I can’t have everyone in Prowers County thinking I was married forty-six years to a rapist!”

Ryan froze. “I thought you didn’t know about the rape. You told me you didn’t know what was in that safe deposit box in Panama. You said you didn’t
want
to know.”

Her voice was shaking, but she was no longer shouting. “Of course I knew.”

“Why did you lie to me before I went down to Panama?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you tell me what you knew?”

“Ryan, please.”

“
No
,” he said sharply. “You knew. Why didn’t you
tell
me?”

“I was afraid,” she said softly.

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid that you would never understand how I could forgive him. Please, Ryan. Let’s not do it this way. Your sister’s husband has just been murdered. She shouldn’t hear about it through the Piedmont Springs grapevine. I need to go to her. Let me be the one to tell her.”

“Don’t try to hide behind Sarah.”

“I’m not hiding. Not anymore. Meet me at her
house. Then Sarah, you, and I will discuss this. Like a family.”

“Or what’s left of it.”

“Please, son. See me on this.”

A bitterness swelled from deep within—but he swallowed it. “All right, Mom. I’ll see you there.”

Ryan took the long way home, down the lonely gravel side roads he’d discovered years ago as a boy on a bicycle. It wasn’t a shortcut by any means. It was a detour that would keep him from coming upon the scene of the crime on Highway 287. He assumed the police would already be there. After the promise to his mother, he didn’t want to be tempted to stop and say something he might regret.

He drove faster than he should have, kicking up loose gravel that pelted the floorboards. Scattered potholes made the largely one-lane road even more treacherous. A few bumps were so big they brought his chin to his chest. It was a jarring ride at such high speed, almost like off-road. A sane driver would have slowed down. But not Ryan, not tonight. The bumps, the jolts, the disoriented sensation—it was a perfect complement to the jumbled thoughts in his present state of mind.

In all the confusion, the thought of Brent lying dead on the highway was foremost in his mind. He was no fan of his brother-in-law, especially after his testimony this morning. Still, the very thought of money in the attic leading to murder in the family was unsettling. He wondered what Liz would think. He could only imagine what her lawyer might make of it. Even without the gun and the audiotape Kozelka might use to frame him, Jack
son was bound to point the finger at Ryan. Who else had such obvious motive?

Perhaps he even deserved some blame. Fact was, Brent was dead because Ryan had threatened Kozelka. That made him feel guilty in a way, mostly because of all the times in years past he had wished Brent were gone. Now he was.

The long dirt road fed into the highway near an old barn and wind-ravaged silo. Ryan steered onto the pavement without slowing down, reaching Sarah’s house in record time. The truck skidded to a stop in the driveway, and Ryan jumped out. The porch light was on, brightening the rain-slicked path to the front door. He didn’t bother to knock. The door was unlocked.

“Mom?” he said as he entered the living room.

“In here.” The reply had come from the kitchen.

Ryan hurried inside. His mother was seated at the kitchen table. Sarah was a lump in the chair right beside her, leaning on her like a grieving widow. Ryan saw sadness in his sister’s eyes. Slowly, it turned to rage.

“Oh, Ryan,” she said with contempt. “How
could
you?”

“How could I what?”

“I’m giving birth next month. How could you do this to my husband?”

“I didn’t do anything to Brent.” He looked at his mother, pleading. “Mom, tell her.”

“I did,” said his mother.

Sarah scoffed. “Framed? Right. I don’t believe it for one second. Brent told me everything before he went to court this morning. He was afraid you might retaliate. But neither one of us ever imagined
this
.”

“Look, I don’t know what Brent told you, but—”

“He told me that you called him from Panama and asked him to beat up Liz’s lawyer. He wouldn’t do it, so you hired some thug.”

“He said the same thing in court. It’s a lie.”

“Did you hire the same guy to kill my husband, Ryan? Or did you do this job yourself?”

“Sarah, I had nothing to do with Brent’s murder.”

“It all goes back to that night Brent asked you for some money at Mom’s house. You went berserk and started burning it. You almost killed him then. Mom says you even had Dad’s gun that night. You tried to hide it when she walked in, but she saw it. You were gunning for Brent!”

“I didn’t kill Brent, so just shut the hell up!”

Sarah leaned into her mother, crying. Jeanette pulled her daughter close to console her, then looked at Ryan. “We all need to just calm down before we say things we don’t mean. Let’s get a good night’s sleep and talk about this in the morning.”

“No!” shouted Ryan. “You told me on the phone we would discuss this as a family. Well, the family’s all here. Don’t avoid this, Mom. We have to talk—
tonight
.”

“Now isn’t the time.”

Ryan nearly exploded, but a knock on the front door checked his anger. The three of them glanced at one another, as if to ask who it might be.

“Are you expecting someone?” asked Ryan.

Both women shook their heads.

“Answer it, Ryan. Your sister is in no condition.”

He sighed with exasperation, his feet pounding the floor as he left the kitchen. He yanked hard on the door, harder than necessary. It startled their visitor.

“Hello, Ryan,” the man said timidly.

It was Josh Colburn, the old lawyer who had prepared his father’s will. Ryan hadn’t seen him since the funeral. He was wearing a bright yellow bowling shirt that bore the logo of the local hardware store. “Mr. Colburn,” he said with surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was over at the bowling alley. Word is out about Brent. Poor fellow. I drove by your mother’s house first, but there was nobody there. So I came here as quickly as I could.”

“That’s very nice of you,” he said, bewildered.

“But what’s the hurry?”

“Well, I needed to talk to you. I’m having a little trouble interpreting your father’s instructions.”

“My father? What are you talking about?”

He leaned forward and whispered, as if sharing a matter of national security. “I have the envelope.”

“Mr. Colburn, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The
envelope.
Frank told me to send it straight to the
Denver Post
if anyone in the Duffy family was ever harmed.”

A chill went down Ryan’s spine. It was just like Norm had said. In any viable extortion scheme there had to be a safety valve—an unidentified third person who would automatically disclose the secret in the event the blackmailer or his family were ever killed. It was a way to ensure payment and prevent retaliation.

“Did you send it to the
Post
yet?” asked Ryan.

“No. You see, that’s where I’m confused. I know how your father felt about Brent. He hated him more than you did. To be honest with you, I’m not sure if Brent is considered part of the Duffy family.”

“Where’s the envelope now?”

“Back in my law office. I keep it locked in the safe. Frank told me never to carry it on my person.”

Ryan stepped outside, put a friendly arm around the old man’s shoulder, and started down the porch. “Let’s you and I talk about that,” said Ryan. “On the way to your office.”

The telephone rang after midnight. Amy was stretched across the couch in the living room, watching an old Audrey Hepburn flick. She snatched the cordless receiver from the cocktail table before the piercing ring could wake Taylor or her grandmother.

“Hello.”

“Amy, this is Ryan Duffy.”

She nearly jackknifed on the couch, spilling her steamy bag of microwave popcorn. “How did you get my number?”

“I found an old letter written by a woman named Debby Parkens.”

She rose, stunned. “That’s my mother.”

“I figured. It was postmarked in Boulder. I dialed directory assistance on a hunch. There’s only one Amy Parkens.”

She suddenly regretted ever having told him her real first name. “What do you want?”

“I had to call you. Amy, my father didn’t rape your mother.”

“I know he didn’t. He raped—” She stopped herself. She didn’t want to drag Marilyn’s name into this. “Just stop harassing me. Don’t ever call me again.”

“No, wait. I know why my father sent you the money.”

She fought the urge to hang up. That was one question she definitely wanted answered. “Why?”

“If I tell you on the phone, you’ll think I’m making this up. Meet with me, please.”

“I’m not getting anywhere near you. Just tell me now.”

“Amy, you have to see the letter. I don’t want to share it with you or anyone else until I’m sure it’s genuine. You’re the only one who can verify it. Bring something that will help you identify your mother’s handwriting. But please meet with me. As soon as possible.”

She paused to think. He now knew where she lived. If she refused to meet him, he’d probably show up at her front door, which would give her one more thing to explain to the FBI. “All right. Come to Boulder. But we can’t meet at my apartment.”

“Unfortunately, Boulder won’t work. I can’t leave Piedmont Springs right now. I have some serious family issues I have to deal with.”

“What kind of joke is this?”

“I just can’t go anywhere right now. There’s been a…another death in the family.”

“I’m sorry. But do you really expect me to come all the way down to Piedmont Springs again?”

“Only if you want to find out why your mother would write to my father just two weeks before she died.”

Chills ran down her spine. That was all she needed to hear. “I’ll be there in the morning,” she said, then hung up the phone.