Found Money (32 page)

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 letter 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.”

Norm asked, “What do you make of that?”

“Could be a lot of things. She could have been drunk. Could have been tired. Or—it could be something else.”

“Like what?” asked Ryan.

“This is a wild guess. But you take the shaky handwriting and combine it with the awkward phraseology, and I can offer one theory. She wrote the letter to your father, all right. But not of her own free will.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying somebody could have told her what to write. Forced her to write it.”

“You mean someone had a gun to her head?”

“Yes,” he said. “Quite literally.”

There was silence in the truck. Ryan glanced at Norm, saying nothing. Norm picked up the phone.

“Thanks, Bruce. If you can, stay by the phone tonight, just in case.”

He hung up, then looked at Ryan. “That sure opens some new possibilities.”

“Not really. It’s a wild theory, if you ask me. And even if she was forced to write it, that doesn’t mean it’s false. Seems to me I’m in the same place
I’ve always been. The letter isn’t dispositive. Only Marilyn Gaslow can tell me if my father raped her.”

“I’m thinking beyond rape.”

“Huh?”

“Take a worst-case scenario. Let’s say Debby Parkens was forced to write a letter saying Frank Duffy was innocent. Say the letter was false, which means your father really was a rapist. Say her death wasn’t a suicide, meaning that somebody conveniently got rid of her. There’s only one person who had motive to make her write that letter. And in my book, that leaves one prime murder suspect.”

Ryan stared blankly, stunned at the thought of his father as a murderer.

Norm asked, “You sure you want to go down this road tonight?”

“Now more than ever.” He opened the door and stepped down from the truck.

Norm stopped him. “Take this,” he said, offering his cell phone. “You get into trouble up there, you call.”

Ryan gave a mock salute, then started toward the dam.

Nathan Rusch was lying in wait. A cluster of gray boulders offered protection and concealment. A black Nomex body suit made him part of the night. Perched on a rock formation that overlooked the dam, he had a clear view of the entire area. He could see the parking lot and both entrances from the north and south ends of the dam. With a crest length of 670 feet—1,100 including the spillway—the dam connected the steep canyon walls that had been separated by thousands of years of erosion. Behind it was the Cheesman reservoir, a man-made vessel for over 70,000 acre-feet of rain and melted mountain snow. The glowing moon glistened on the mirrorlike surface. Rusch was close enough to hear the water flowing into the South Platte River hundreds of feet below. No water ran through the dam. Foresighted engineers had instead tunneled through the natural canyon walls adjacent to the dam to preserve the structural integrity of their man-made wonder. The highest opening was more than 150 feet above the stream. With the valve open, water shot from a hole in the granite wall like water from a hydrant, cascading down into the river. From above, it was a peaceful background noise, like a running stream in the forest.

His weapon was fully assembled. The rifle was the sleek AR-7, lightweight and accurate. It wasn’t
cut for a night scope, but with a little ingenuity the ridge on top easily accepted one. The thirty-shot clip was filled with hollow-point ammunition. The silencer was his own creation, made from a ten-inch section of an automobile brake line, common PVC tubing, fiberglass resin and a few other materials that could be purchased at any hardware store. It was cheap and disposable, two priorities in a profession where ballistic markings made it advisable to use your equipment only once and then grind it into dust.

He checked his watch. Phase one of his plan should already have unfolded. Considering the short notice, the exploding briefcase had been a stroke of genius. Setting the lock to the same combination Liz had testified to in court was an especially convincing touch. His only regret was that he couldn’t be the fly on the wall when Liz and her greedy lawyer popped it open and blew themselves to bits.

Now, phase two was only minutes away.

He raised his infrared binoculars and canvassed the parking lot. Only one car in sight. Marilyn’s Mercedes. He estimated it was forty yards away, exactly where he had parked it, well within range with his three-to-six-powered scope. He lowered the infrared binoculars and looked through the scope, running the plan through his mind. He found success more achievable if he imagined it first. This close to a kill, however, he more than imagined it. He relished it.

In his mind’s eye, he could see it unfold. The target approaching the car, taking the bait. The cross hairs in the night scope converging behind his ear. One squeeze of the trigger. The head snapping back. The knees buckling. The lifeless body falling to the ground.

Rusch would approach and finish the job with a double-barreled, twelve-gauge shotgun. The boss wanted it to look like a suicide—Duffy blows up his wife and her lawyer, then blows his brains out. The barrel would go into the mouth, and a simple squeeze of the trigger would unleash enough buckshot to make it impossible for any medical examiner to determine that a sniper’s bullet was the actual cause of death. The Mercedes would be his getaway car. He’d try to position Duffy at the perfect angle, so the blood, shattered skull, and flying bits of brain didn’t splatter on the paint job. But neatness wasn’t essential. He would have to dump the car at a chop shop anyway.

Especially with what was already inside.

He saw someone coming up the road, heading toward the Mercedes. The fantasy was over. Back to reality. He got in position and braced his rifle for the kill. He peered through the scope. Locked in the crosshairs, the target crossed the parking lot. Sixty yards away, now fifty. His finger caressed the trigger. Forty yards and closing. He could fire anytime. He had a clear head shot. Then he froze. He lowered the rifle in confusion and grabbed the binoculars. His instincts were right. The scope hadn’t lied.

It wasn’t Ryan Duffy.

Marilyn approached the Mercedes cautiously, one step at a time. Loose gravel crunched beneath her feet. Water running beneath the dam was like static in the background. Or maybe that was static from the radio. She was so nervous that it was hard to tell if her earpiece was even working.

“Jeb, you there?” She spoke like a ventriloquist, trying not to move her lips.

The reply buzzed her ear. “Stay calm, Marilyn.”

“I’m almost at the car.”

“Then stop talking. If he thinks you’re wired…well, that won’t be good.”

She swallowed hard. Jeb was a master of understatement.

She stopped a few yards from the driver’s door. Dark-tinted windows made it impossible to see inside. She checked around the car for footprints in the gravel. She noticed none. That meant one of two things. Either someone had meticulously swept them away. Or he was in there, waiting. She waited, too. She glanced toward the reservoir, beyond the outer ridge of the dam. The trees had grown, but the slope of the land and rock formations brought back memories. At first it was a trickle. Then the emotional dam burst.

The Mercedes was parked in the very same spot—exactly where the rape had taken place, more than forty-five years ago.

It suddenly didn’t seem that long ago. Her hands began to shake. She drew a deep breath to calm her nerves. She knew the car couldn’t have been positioned there to taunt
her
. Rusch had had no way to know Marilyn was coming. It was there to fool Duffy, to give him all the more reason to think Marilyn was inside. That, however, was little consolation. Whether she’d been targeted or not, the past was staring her in the face. Though she had few memories of that night, returning to this place had torn open the wounds. She had been raped. It had started that night, and it had lasted forty-five years. He had physically assaulted her. Made her accuse the wrong man. Deceived her into marrying him. Kept her under his control to this very day.

And if her suspicions were correct, he might have killed her best friend.

The wave of fear turned to anger. She had a wild thought—but one she had to act upon. She had an overwhelming instinct that it wasn’t Rusch inside the car. It was Joe Kozelka.

On impulse, she charged toward the car and tried the door. It was locked. She dug her keys from her coat pocket. She still had the remote. With a push of the button, the lock disengaged. She pulled open the door.

The front seat was empty. The rear made her gasp.

A young woman lay across the seat. Lifeless. Her hand draped limply onto the floor. A trail of blood ran from a bullet hole in the left temple, having spilled onto the carpet.

Marilyn tried to scream but was mute, paralyzed with fear. Images flashed through her head. She saw herself as a teenager passed out in the back of Frank Duffy’s Buick. She saw Amy’s mother on her deathbed with a bullet in her head. She took a step back. Her voice was suddenly back.

Her scream pierced the night as she ran toward the dam.

The scream rattled the van, sending the decibel meters on the tape recorder well into the red zone. Jeb Stockton called frantically on the radio, but he got no response. “Damn it, Marilyn, where the hell are you?”

“Don’t lose her!” said Amy.

“It’s pure static.”

“Rusch must have her. He must have ripped off her headset.”

“Don’t panic on me. She could have just run
into a low tree branch or something that knocked off the headset.”

“Keep listening,” said Amy as she leaped into the driver’s seat. The motor was already running.

“Can you drive this?” asked Jeb.

She slammed it into gear. Tires spun and gravel flew as the van shot from the turnout. It leaned left, then right, squealing around corners at three times the speed limit, barely gripping the road.

“Guess so,” he said, holding on for dear life.

She skidded through the last turn, which was sharper than expected. Amy momentarily lost control. The headlights seemed to point in every direction, then finally locked onto the Mercedes straight ahead. A man was running away from the car. Amy steered the van around the back of the Mercedes and slammed on the brakes. The van fishtailed, nearly knocking the man to his feet.

Jeb jumped out, gun drawn. “Freeze! Hands over your head!”

The man raised his hands. Amy hit the emergency blinkers for better light. In the intermittent blasts of orange light, she could see it was Ryan Duffy.

“What did you do to Marilyn!” she shouted.

Ryan kept one eye on the gun, the other on Amy.

“I never saw Marilyn. I just heard a scream and ran over here. The body was already in the car when I got here.”

“Body?” Amy’s voice was filled with panic. She hurried toward the Mercedes.

“Don’t look,” said Ryan.

It was too late. The sight of the body sent Amy back on her heels. “Who is that?”

“It’s a woman I met in Panama. She was sup
posed to meet me here tonight. Apparently somebody got to her before I did.”

Jeb moved toward the Mercedes, took a quick look for himself. “You’re lying. You killed that woman.” He took aim at Ryan’s forehead, cocking the hammer on his revolver.

Ryan swallowed hard. “What the hell are you doing, old man?”

“Pat him down, Amy. Check for a gun.”

Ryan said, “It’s inside my jacket. Check it, please. You can tell it hasn’t been fired. I didn’t shoot this woman.”

Amy cautiously stepped forward, unzipped the jacket, and pulled out the pistol.

“Bring it here,” said Jeb.

She handed it to him. His gun aimed at Ryan, he sniffed the barrel for fresh powder and checked the ammunition clip. It was still full. “He may be telling the truth.”

A scream echoed from somewhere near the dam. All three of them froze, trying to pinpoint the exact location. It had been deafening and shrill—the kind of scream Amy had heard in her nightmares about the night she’d found her mother.

Another scream followed, even louder than the last. It seemed to have come from beyond the hill, along the hiking path that led to the dam.

“It’s Marilyn!” Amy grabbed Ryan’s gun from Jeb, then turned and ran toward the opening in a stretch of woods at the edge of the parking lot.

“Amy, wait!”

Ryan watched as she faded into darkness, then looked desperately at Jeb. “If one of us doesn’t go after her, she’s going to end up like that woman in the car.”

Stockton tightened his aim. “Just stay right there!”

Ryan thought fast. Even in the heavy ballistic jacket, he could probably outrun the old man. On impulse, he turned and ran in Amy’s footsteps.

“Stop!”

Ryan only ran faster, never looking back.