Found Money (6 page)

Two days had passed, and Amy was still working up the nerve to phone Ryan Duffy. Just one question—the two-hundred-thousand-dollar question—had her paralyzed: Did she have the right Duffys?

She had done some serious checking. Yesterday, she’d even taken a sick day from the firm and driven all the way to Piedmont Springs, looking discreetly for obvious signs of wealth, a lifestyle befitting a family that could spare an extra two hundred thousand dollars. She found nothing of the sort. The Duffys owned a simple house in a rural middleclass town. The only car in the driveway was an older Jeep Cherokee. Ryan’s clinic had the street presence of an abandoned five-and-dime store, serving patients who looked like they might barter sheep for services. And Frank Duffy had worked for wages his entire life.

Her findings had so befuddled her that last night she’d gone back to the computer to check the remaining Jeanette Duffys on her list. No one, however, seemed more promising than the Duffys of Piedmont Springs. Amy figured that whoever had sent the money didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to do it.
Something
had to trigger the decision—a traumatic and life-altering event, like Frank Duffy’s illness and impending death. It
couldn’t be coincidence. It had to be
these
Duffys. For whatever reason, they just didn’t flaunt their money.

Amy had to be cautious in her approach. It simply wouldn’t be smart to phone Frank Duffy’s son and say, “Someone in your family appears to have sent me a box full of cash for no good reason.” Greedy heirs weren’t likely to explain why she’d gotten the money. They were more likely to say, “It’s mine, give it back.”

At lunchtime Thursday, Amy grabbed a Pepsi and an orange from the employee lounge and went back to her office. She peeled the orange and broke it into wedges as she glanced at the handful of snapshots she’d taken of the Duffy house. Eight of them were spread across her desk. It had seemed wise to take pictures, just in case she ever had to go to the police. Police were always taking pictures—at least that was her experience. She remembered when she was eight, when her mother died. The police were all over the house taking photographs.

Funny, but the Duffy house resembled her old house in some ways. An old two-story frame with green shutters and a big porch out front, the kind they didn’t seem to build anymore. She wondered if Frank Duffy had died in that house, as her mother had died in theirs. She wondered who had found his body, the first to realize he was gone. The thought chilled her. There was something eerie about a house in which someone had died, which was only compounded when, as in her house, that someone had died so violently. Amy hadn’t gone back to her old house since the night of the gunshot. That is, she hadn’t
physically
gone back there. In her mind, she’d relived that night many times. Now, alone in the silence of her office, the
photographs of the Duffy house seemed to blur, drifting out of focus. Her mind, too, began to drift. The image in the photographs looked more and more like her old house, until she could see beyond the likeness, see right into her old bedroom. She saw herself on that unforgettable night, a frightened eight-year-old girl alone in her dark bedroom, shivering with fear on a warm summer night, unsure of her next move…

Amy was sitting on the window ledge, a tight little ball with her knees drawn up to her chin. She had waited for another gunshot, but there had been only one. Not another sound. Just silence in the darkness.

She didn’t know what to do, whether to run or stay put. Someone could be out there, a burglar. Or Mom could need her help. She had to do
something
. It took all her courage, but slowly she lowered her feet to the floor. The wooden planks creaked beneath her feet, startling her. She took a deep breath and started toward the door. She stepped lightly, so as not to make a sound. If there was someone out there, she couldn’t let them hear her.

The knob turned slowly in her hand. She pulled the door toward her. It opened a crack, then caught on something. She tugged harder. It would open no more than a two-finger width. With her cheek pressed against the door frame, she peered out the narrow opening. She blinked, confused. A rope was tied to her bedroom doorknob. The other end was looped around the banister across the hall. With the door open just an inch, it was taut as a tightrope.

Someone on the outside had tied her
inside
her bedroom.

She closed the door, trembling. On impulse, she ran into the closet and shut the door. It was pitch dark inside. She was accustomed to the dark, all the nights she’d spent with her telescope. For the first time, however, she was truly afraid of it.

The flashlight
, she thought.

It was in there, she knew, with her astronomy books. The third shelf. She groped in the darkness, sorting through her possessions by touch. Finally, she found it and switched it on. The brightness hurt her eyes, so she aimed it at the floor. The closet glowed. Her eyes adjusted. Shoes lay scattered on the floor. Her clothes hung on a rod directly above her head. To the side were the built-in shelves, reaching like a ladder from floor to ceiling. At the top was a panel—an entrance to the attic.

She had used it once before to make an escape, when she was playing hide-and-seek with her friends. It led to the guest room across the hall. When her mother had found out, she’d told her never to go up there again. Tonight, however, was clearly an exception.

Amy was frightened to go up alone but even more afraid to stay put. She swallowed hard for courage, then tucked the flashlight under her chin and climbed up the shelves.

…The phone rang on her desk, rousing her from her twenty-year-old memories. Just a friend calling for lunch. “Sure,” said Amy. “Meet you in the lobby at noon.”

She hung up, still distracted, connected to her past. It had taken a lot of courage for that little girl to climb out of that closet and see what lay outside her room. It was time to dig inside and find the same fortitude.

She picked up the phone and dialed Ryan Duffy at his clinic. This time, she stayed on the line when the receptionist answered, unlike yesterday when she’d lost her nerve and hung up. “May I speak to Dr. Duffy, please?”

“I’m sorry, he’s with a patient.”

“Can you interrupt him, please? This will take just a minute.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“No, but—”

“If it’s not an emergency, I’ll have him call you.”

“It’s personal. Tell him it’s about his father.”

The receptionist paused, then said, “Hold one moment.”

Amy waited, reminding herself of the dos and don’ts. Tell the truth—to a point. First name only, not her last. No mention of where she lived.

“This is Dr. Duffy.”

“Hi,” she said, somewhat startled. “Thanks—thanks for coming. I mean, for answering. The phone, that is.”
Jeez
, she thought, cringing.
Taylor could have put together a better sentence.

“Who is this?”

“You don’t know me. But I think your father must have. Or maybe it was your mother.”

“What? Is this some kind of crank?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not making much sense. Let me just start at the top, and you can decide what’s going on for yourself. You see, I got a package a couple of weeks ago. It didn’t have a return address, but I’m certain it came from either your father or your mother. I know your father passed away recently, and I didn’t want to trouble your mother.”

Ryan’s voice suddenly lost its edge. “How do you know it came from my parents?”

“That’s just something I figured out.”

“What was in the package?”

“A gift.”

“What kind of gift?”

“A totally unexpected one. I don’t really want to get into it on the telephone. Could we maybe meet somewhere and talk about this?”

“I’d really like to know more about this gift.”

“And I’d be more than happy to tell you,” said Amy. “But please, not on the phone.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“Just someplace public, like a restaurant or something. Not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t know you.”

“Okay. You want to meet here in Piedmont Springs? I can do it tonight, if you like.”

Amy hesitated. It was a five-hour drive from Boulder each way, and she had just made the trip yesterday. Long trips in her clunky old truck were a complete roll of the dice, especially at night. And another day off from work was pushing it. “That’s kind of far for me.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Well, tomorrow I’ll be in Denver on a personal matter. Is that any better for you?”

Amy was sure she could think of
some
computer-related excuse to go to the firm’s Denver office. “Yes, as a matter of fact it is. Do you know the Green Parrot? It’s a coffee shop, dessert place at Larimer Square.”

“I’m sure I can find it.”

“Great,” said Amy. “What time is good for you?”

“I have an appointment at two. Not sure how long it will last. Let’s say four o’clock, just to be safe.”

“Four it is,” she said.

“Hey,” he said, catching her before the hang-up. “How will we know each other?”

“Just give the hostess your name. I’ll ask for Dr. Duffy when I get there.”

“See you then.”

“Yes,” she said eagerly, “definitely.”

Ryan ate an early lunch on Friday and drove alone to Denver. The radio was playing, but he hardly noticed. This afternoon’s property settlement conference with Liz and her lawyer was enough to keep his mind whirling. Now he could also look forward to the mystery woman and her four o’clock surprise.

Ryan had phoned Liz the morning after their Tuesday evening talk on the front porch. Having slept on it, he’d decided to feel her out before telling her about the money. He offered to ride together to Friday’s meeting, hoping she’d suggest they simply postpone the whole divorce thing, maybe start talking reconciliation. But she declined the ride. Seemed she had to be in Denver three hours ahead of time to prepare with her lawyer.

Three hours?
Who the hell did they think he was, Donald Trump?

His heart thumped with a sudden realization. Technically, he
was
a millionaire. But how would Liz know that? Ryan hadn’t even told his own lawyer about the two million in the attic, which raised another set of problems. Eventually, the divorce would force him to disclose his net worth under oath, either in sworn deposition testimony or in his sworn statement of assets and liabilities. For the moment, however, he didn’t consider the
tainted cash an asset. At least not until he decided to keep it. Today, he would just have to finesse things. Later, if he did decide to keep it, he could figure out a way to tell Liz.

Unless she already knew. Somehow.

Seventeenth Street was the lifeline of Denver’s financial district. Amid the shadows of more than a dozen sleek chrome and glass skyscrapers, Ryan drove slowly in search of parking rates that didn’t cause cardiac arrest. It was futile. He parked in the garage of a forty-story tower owned by the Anaconda Corporation, an international mining conglomerate whose
real
gold mine must have been parking revenue. A catwalk took him to the building’s atrium, where he caught an express elevator to the thirty-fourth floor.

The doors opened to a spacious lobby. Silk wall coverings and cherry wainscoting lent the desired air of prestige and power. The floors were polished marble with elaborate inlaid borders worthy of the Vatican. A wall of windows faced west, with a breathtaking view of jagged mountaintops in the distance. Ryan would have guessed he was in the right place from the impressive decor alone, but the shiny brass letters on the wall confirmed his arrival at Wedderburn and Jackson, P.A.

A far cry from the clinic
, thought Ryan.

Ryan felt sorely underdressed in his khaki pants and blazer, no tie. He had read somewhere that even stodgy law firms had caught on to the “casual Friday” dress code that was all the rage in the corporate world. If that was the case, the normal dress at this place must have been black tie and tails.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Ryan turned. The young woman at the reception desk had caught him wandering like a lost tourist.
“I’m Ryan Duffy. My lawyer and I are supposed to meet with Phil Jackson at two o’clock. Mr. Jackson represents my wife. We’re, uh, getting divorced.”

She smiled. It was her job to smile. Ryan could have said he was a serial killer seeking advice on the disposal of body parts and she would have smiled.

“I’ll tell Mr. Jackson you’re here,” she said cheerfully. “Please, have a seat.”

Ryan walked toward the windows, taking in the view. He was twenty minutes early. Hopefully, his lawyer would arrive soon. He had a feeling they could use a bit more preparation than the usual two-minute drill at the water cooler.

In thirty minutes, Ryan went through every magazine in the waiting area. By 2:15, his lawyer was still missing in action. At 2:20, a sharply dressed man approached, looking straight at Ryan. “Dr. Duffy, I’m Phil Jackson.”

Ryan rose from the leather couch and shook the hand of the enemy. He’d never met Liz’s lawyer, but he certainly knew the name. “Nice to meet you,” he lied.

Jackson said, “I called your lawyer’s office to see if she was coming, but she has apparently been called into court on an emergency hearing.”

“And she didn’t tell me?” he asked incredulously.

“I’m sure she tried to reach you.”

Ryan checked the pager on his belt. No message.
Emergency hearing, my ass
. She probably left early on another long weekend. That settled it: he needed a new lawyer. “What about our meeting, Mr. Jackson?”

“We can reschedule for another day.”

“I’ve already canceled my appointments for today. I can’t lose another day.”

“Then we’ll just have to wait for your lawyer to get here, which may be a couple more hours. However, I feel obliged to tell you my rate is three hundred an hour, including waiting time. I may represent Liz, but let’s face it. Eventually,
you
pay.”

Ryan glared. Jackson had taken obvious pleasure in that last remark. “You really have a way with people, you know that?”

“It’s a gift,” he said smugly.

“Let’s just start without her,” said Ryan.

“Sorry, can’t do that. The rules of ethics prevent me from negotiating directly with you if you’re represented by an attorney.”

“I just fired my attorney. So now there’s no ethical problem.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “My, you surprise me, Doctor. I had you pegged for someone who definitely felt constrained to hide behind his lady lawyer’s apron strings.”

I’m feeling constrained to punch your lights out
, thought Ryan. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Right this way.” He led him down a long hall to a glass-encased conference room. The door was open. Liz was seated on the far side of the table, her back to the window. A stenographer was already set up at the head of the table.

“Hello, Liz,” he said. She replied with a weak smile.

Ryan glanced at the stenographer, then at Jackson. “What’s the court reporter here for? I thought this was an informal meeting, not a deposition.”

“No one is testifying under oath,” said Jackson. “She’s just here to take down everything we say, so there’s a record. It’s basically no different than turning on a tape recorder or having my secretary take really good notes.”

Right,
thought Ryan.
Only fifty times more intimidating, you son of a bitch.
“I’d rather she not be here for this.”

“Why?” Jackson asked with sarcasm. “Are you one of those people who will say something only if he can reserve the right to deny he ever said it?”

Ryan glanced at the stenographer. Her fingers were moving on the keys. She’d already recorded the first pointed volley. “Fine. She can stay.”

Jackson maneuvered around the stenographer and took the seat beside Liz. Ryan took the chair on the opposite side of the table. He was facing the window. The blinds had been adjusted perfectly in advance of his arrival, so that the sun hit him directly in the eyes.

“Excuse me,” he said, squinting, “but I left my welding visor in the car. You think we could fix the blinds here?”

Jackson smirked. “Gee, I’m sorry. Let me take care of it.” He leaned back to adjust the blinds—but only a smidgen. In a few minutes, the sun would be right back in Ryan’s eyes. It was part of Jackson’s strategy, Ryan surmised. Every three or four minutes, Ryan would be staring into the sun. Anything to distract and annoy the opposition.
This guy’s unbelievable.

Jackson said, “Let’s start by making it clear for the record that Dr. Duffy has fired his attorney, so he is representing himself today. Is that true, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” said Jackson. “Let’s start our discussion with a review of the documents.”

“What documents?”

He handed one to Ryan. “This is something our accountants prepared for us. It’s a more accurate
assessment of your net worth and earning potential.”

Ryan’s eyes moved immediately to the bottom line. He nearly choked. “Seven hundred thousand dollars! That’s ten times my annual income.”

“Ten times your
reported
annual income. Although your tax return shows a modest five-figure income, we know differently.”

Ryan glanced at Liz.
Did she know about the attic?
“What are you talking about?”

Jackson laid a file on the table. It contained a stack of documents nearly eight inches high. “Invoices,” he said flatly.

“Invoices for what?” asked Ryan.

“During the last eight months of your marriage, Liz took over the billing practices of your clinic. She mailed these to your patients with delinquent accounts. You don’t deny she did that, do you?”

“No, I don’t deny it. It was Liz’s idea. I told her we’d never collect, that these people couldn’t pay. She sent them anyway. But you can’t count uncollected invoices as income. That’s absurd.”

Jackson leaned forward, more than a little confrontational. “We don’t think they went uncollected.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You knew Liz was unhappy. You knew this divorce was coming long ago. We intend to prove that you accepted cash payments from patients under the table so that you could hide the money from Liz and keep it for yourself.”

“Have you lost your marbles?” He glanced at his wife. “Liz, tell him.”

She looked away.

“Dr. Duffy, the bottom line is that you owe your wife seven hundred thousand dollars in a lump
sum payment, plus monthly alimony commensurate with a thriving private practice.”

“This is laughable.”

“No one’s laughing, Doctor.”

“Liz, I can’t believe you would set me up like this.”

Jackson said, “I’d appreciate it if you would direct your comments to me, Doctor. Not to your wife.”

“Naturally. I’m sure you’re the one who concocted this scheme in the first place.”

“No one has
concocted
anything.”

“How long have you represented her? Eight months, I’ll bet, ever since she started sending the invoices. Only with the encouragement of a shark like you would she re-bill patients who couldn’t pay and then accuse me of accepting cash payments under the table.”

“I won’t sit here and trade insults with you, Doctor. This meeting will proceed on a professional level, or it won’t proceed at all.”

He rose and pushed away from the table. “Fine with me. This meeting’s over.” He glared at Liz. “It’s definitely over.” He turned and left the room.

Liz jumped up to follow. Her lawyer grabbed her wrist, but she shook free. “Ryan, wait!”

He heard her voice, but he didn’t break stride. It shocked him the way Liz had changed since their pleasant talk on the porch three nights ago. The three-hour prep session with Mr. Congeniality had obviously tapped her negative energy.
Or maybe Tuesday was just a ruse
.

“Ryan!”

He continued through the lobby, never looking back. The elevator doors opened, and he hurried inside. Liz lunged forward as the doors were clos
ing. She barely made it. The elevator began its descent with just the two of them aboard. Liz was red-faced and breathless from the chase. “Ryan, listen to me.”

He watched the lights above the elevator doors, avoiding eye contact.

“This wasn’t my idea,” she said, pleading.

Finally, he looked at her. “What were you trying to do to me in there?”

“It’s for your own good.”

“My own good?
This
I gotta hear.”

“It was my lawyer’s idea to accuse you of hiding your income, just to put you on the defensive. I wouldn’t let him use that ploy at a real deposition or in the courtroom, anyplace where it could embarrass you. But today was just a settlement conference. It’s just posturing.”

“
Posturing?
It’s an outright lie. How could you let him pull a stunt like that?”

“Because it’s time you woke up,” she said sharply. “For eight years I begged you to get your career in order and earn the kind of money we deserved. You could have been a top-flight surgeon at any hospital you wanted, right here in Denver. You just gave it all up.”

“I didn’t give it all up. I’m still a doctor.”

“You’re a waste of talent, that’s what you are. It’s time you stopped playing Mother Teresa for all the poor sick folks in Piedmont Springs and started making some real money—for both of us.”

“You and your lawyer are going to make sure of that. Is that the plan?”

“If forcing you to write a hefty alimony check every month is the only way to blast you out of Piedmont Springs, then by God, I’m going to do it. You brought this on yourself. I didn’t work two
jobs putting you through med school so that I could wake up every morning to the smell of cow manure blowing in from the fields. Piedmont Springs was
not
the future we talked about before we got married. I’ve waited long enough to get out of that hellhole.”

The elevator doors opened. Liz started out to the main lobby. Ryan stopped her.

“Is that what’s driving you, Liz? You just can’t wait to get out of Piedmont Springs?”

Her eyes turned cold. “No, Ryan. What’s driving me is that I’m sick and tired of waiting for you.”

He swallowed hard, tasting the bitterness as she quickly walked away.