Found money

by James Grippando

  Ryan crossed the spacious lobby and headed for the sign marked LAS CAJAS DE SEGURIDAD — SAFE DEPOSIT BOXES. The boxes were located in a small, windowless wing behind the tellers, part of the private banking section. Ryan left his name with the receptionist and took a seat on the couch, absorbing the surroundings. The well-dressed man seated beside him was reading a French magazine. The receptionist appeared to be a descendant of a local Indian tribe. One of the tellers was black; the other, Chinese. Ryan had read somewhere that Panama was not a melting pot but a sancocho pot. As in the local dish, the various “ingredients” contributed their own flavor but retained their own individual identity. The meaning was beginning to come clear.

  “Senor Duffy?”

  Ryan looked up at the woman in the doorway.

  “ Buenos dias, senora. Yo soy Ryan Duffy.”

  She smirked, obviously sensing from his accent that Spanish was his second language — a distant second. She answered in English. “Good morning. I’m Vivien Fuentes. Please come with me.”

  Though not perfect, her English was fairly good, which helped account for his father’s selection of this particular bank. Ryan followed her to the small office around the corner. She offered him a chair, then closed the door and seated herself behind her desk. She smiled pleasantly and said, “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here on family business, I guess you’d call it. My father recently passed away.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. As the executor of his estate, I’m accounting for all of his assets. It’s my understanding that he has a safe deposit box here at your bank, which I’d like to access this morning.”

  “Very well. I’ll need to see your passport and power of attorney.”

  “Sure.” Ryan opened his leather bag and removed the power of attorney his father had executed when he became ill. He handed it over with his passport.

  “Thank you.” She flipped right to the photo ID, then glanced at Ryan. She seemed satisfied. “Your father’s full name?” she asked, poised to enter it on her computer keyboard.

  “I believe it’s a numbered account.”

  “It’s numbered as far as the outside world is concerned. We do have the names in our internal data bank.”

  “Naturally,” he said, feeling a little stupid. “His name was Frank Patrick Duffy.”

  She typed in the name and hit ENTER. “Here it is,” she said, checking the screen. “Yes, he does still have a safe deposit box with us.”

  “Box Two-Forty-Two,” said Ryan as he pulled the key from his bag.

  “That’s what your key says. It’s actually Box One-Ninety-Three. It’s coded for security purposes.”

  “Whatever it is, I’d like to get into it as soon as possible.”

  “First, I need to check your father’s signature on the power of attorney against the signature specimen on file here. Standard procedure. It will take only a second.” She clicked her mouse, bringing up a signature on her computer screen. She fed the signature page from the power of attorney into a document scanner on her desktop. In seconds, as she had promised, it verified the signature as genuine.

  “Let’s go,” she said, rising.

  Ryan followed her out the door and down the hall. They stopped at the security checkpoint, where another armed guard was posted. He unlocked the glass door to allow Ryan and his escort to pass. The safe deposit boxes were all in one secured area, arranged from floor to ceiling like a locker room. Everywhere he looked was another stainless steel box. The large ones were on the bottom. Smaller ones were on top. Ms. Fuentes led Ryan to Box 193, which was one of the smaller ones. It had two locks on the facade. She inserted her master key into one lock and turned it.

  “Your key is for the other lock,” she said. “I’ll leave you alone now. If you need me, check with the guard. There’s a room with a table and chair to your left. You can take the whole box with you and open it there, if you wish. No one else will be allowed in here until you’re finished.”

  “Thank you,” said Ryan.

  She nodded, then turned and walked away.

  Ryan stared straight at the shiny stainless steel box. He could only shake his head. His father had led a simple life. So simple, his secrets were locked in a cold steel box in Central America.

  To his surprise, he felt numb, nearly paralyzed. Even just five minutes ago, he had been so eager to open the box that he thought he might conceivably break the key in the process. Now, however, he wasn’t so courageous. He felt his mother’s trepidation. Norm’s warning haunted him. He did have a choice. He could open the box. Or not. It wasn’t just a matter of wanting to know the truth. The question was, could he deal with it?

  Slowly, he brought the key to the lock and inserted it. With a turn of the wrist, the tumblers clicked. He grabbed the handle and tugged. The box slid forward a few inches, opening like a small drawer. He froze. He felt a sudden impulse to shove it back in place, closing it forever. There was still time to turn back. He could not yet see inside. He hadn’t come this far just to pay homage to the past, however, leaving it safely buried.

  With a steady pull he removed the box from its sleeve. He laid it on the bench behind him. It was no larger than a shoe box, sealed all the way around. With the truth so close, curiosity took over. He didn’t bother taking the box to the back room with the table. His heart quickened. He flipped the latch and opened the top.

  He stared inside. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this didn’t look like much. Just some papers. He reached inside and removed the top sheet. It was a bank record for yet another Panamanian bank, the Banco del Istmo. Ryan read it closely. He recognized his father’s signature at the bottom. It was an application for a numbered bank account. Attached to the back was a deposit slip. Ryan shuddered.

  The deposit was three million dollars.

  “Holy shit,” he uttered. His mind raced. The two million he’d already found in the attic was possibly part of the three million. Or perhaps the three was in addition to the two. The thought made him dizzy.

  He reached inside the box for the remaining contents, which were in a large manila envelope. He opened the flap and removed a document. It looked old, tattered around the edges. It was old. Forty-six years old, to be exact.

  Ryan scanned it from top to bottom. It was the information his mother had intuitively feared. A copy of a sealed record from the juvenile courts of Colorado. A criminal sentencing report for “Frank Patrick Duffy, a minor.” Not only had his father committed a crime, he’d apparently been convicted. In fact, he had pleaded guilty. Ryan felt chills as he read the charge aloud in quiet disbelief.

  “One count sexual assault in violation of Colorado Statutes, section…”

  His heart was in his throat. Before opening the box, he had hoped for many things. This was not on his wish list.

  At age sixteen, Frank Duffy had raped a woman.

  23

  Ryan Duffy, M.D., S.O.R. — son of a rapist.

  That was the identity with which he had to come to terms. He felt anger, resentment, betrayal — a flood of emotions. He and his father had always been close. Or had they? Certainly Ryan was proud to be his son. In truth, however, there had always been a safe emotional distance between them. Dad was a great buddy — a regular guy who would share a round of Irish whiskey on his deathbed. On that level, he and Ryan were close. Hell, on that level, Frank Duffy had been “close” with half the male population of Prowers County. But there were things Ryan and his father had never discussed, things they probably should have talked about. Not just the rape, the money, or the extortion. Other things, too.

  Like the real reason Ryan had chucked a promising career in Denver and moved back to Piedmont Springs.

  Secrets, it seemed, were a bit of a Duffy family tradition. Maybe it was genetic. As a child, he had emulated his father, wanting only to be more like him. How much, he wondered, were they alike?

  Ryan returned to the hotel around 6:00 P.M. He had already chec
ked out of his room, but his flight wouldn’t leave Tocumen International Airport for another four hours. He decided to kill some time in the bar in the main lobby.

  “Jameson’s and water,” he told the bartender.

  He sat alone on a stool at the end of the mahogany bar. It had been a long day. First the safe deposit box at the Banco Nacional, which had led him to a second Panamanian account at the Banco del Istmo — which had turned out to be a veritable bonanza. The two million dollars in the attic hadn’t been withdrawn from that account or even laundered through it, whatever the correct terminology was. The funds were completely separate sums, though inextricably related. Ryan had found an additional three million dollars that his father had obtained through extortion. The total was now five.

  The bartender poured his drink. “ Salud,” he said, then returned to his televised soccer game at the other end of the bar. He and some other fanatics were screaming at the set. Ryan was oblivious to the game, the shouting. He guzzled his drink and ordered another, a double. With each sip, the background noises were retreating further into oblivion. He was beginning to relax. The bartender served him another drink.

  “No, gracias, ” said Ryan, waving it off. “Reached my limit.”

  “Is from the young lady at the table over there.” He pointed discreetly with a shift of the eyes.

  Ryan turned in his bar stool. The bar was dimly lit, but not so dark that he couldn’t see her. She was surprisingly attractive. Very attractive. Ryan glanced back at the bartender. “Is she a… you know.”

  “A hooker? No. You want one? No problemo. What you like, I can get it.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” he said with mild embarrassment.

  “Berry good-looging,” he said with a smirk.

  Ryan checked his reflection in the big mirror behind the bar. No woman had ever bought him a drink before. Bars had never been his forte. He was too shy. He felt like the only man in America who had actually never gotten a woman’s phone number in a bar, not even in college. Maybe I should have been hitting the happy hours in Panama.

  He looked her way to thank her, raising his glass. She smiled — not too much, barely perceptible. A subtle smile that invited him over.

  His battered ego swelled. It had been a long time since a woman had looked at him that way. Liz hadn’t wanted him for months. Amy had sparked him for a few minutes at the Green Parrot, then backed off like a squirrel. Flirting, however, was the last thing he felt like tonight. Still, her interest was flattering. He at least had to be polite, thank her properly. He started across the room toward her table. The closer he got, the better she looked.

  She was in her early thirties, he guessed. Her straight hair was shoulder-length, a rich black sheen beneath the dim bar lights. The eyes were equally dark, not cold but mysterious. She wore a tan fitted suit, probably French or Italian. Her jewelry was gold and sapphire, clearly expensive but still professional. A stunning international businesswoman. Ryan was amazed she was alone.

  Don’t see many women like this in Piedmont Springs.

  “Thank you for the drink,” he said.

  “You’re quite welcome. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you looked like you could use it. That’s a very stressful look on such a handsome face.”

  “Kind of a tough day.”

  “Sorry.” She offered the empty chair. “Care to commiserate?”

  He considered it, then thought better. Nothing good could come from confiding in some stranger, however beautiful. “I appreciate the invitation, but my wife has this thing about me meeting women in bars. Can you imagine that?”

  She smiled thinly. “I understand. That’s very decent of you. Your wife’s a lucky woman.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Does she know how lucky she is?”

  It was an oddly personal question, the kind that sounded rehearsed. Ryan guessed it was a tried-and-true modus operandi, the gorgeous woman in the bar who made married men feel the need to spend time with a woman who could appreciate them. “Thanks for the drink,” he said.

  “Any time.”

  He turned and headed back to his bar stool. The irony nearly choked him — using Liz as an excuse not to meet an attractive, interesting woman. Instinct, however, had him questioning everything and everybody. Especially with what he was carrying in his bag.

  My bag!

  He froze just a few steps from his bar stool. He didn’t see his leather bag. He’d forgotten it had even been there until now. The come-hither looks had made him forget all about it and leave it behind when he’d walked over to her table. He was sure he’d left it on the floor.

  He checked the other bar stools and the floor all around. It was nowhere to be found. Panic gripped him. The bag contained everything. His passport. His plane tickets. Photocopies of everything from the two Panamanian banks.

  “Bartender!” he said urgently. “Have you seen my bag? It was right beside the stool.”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Did somebody pick it up, maybe by accident?”

  “I don’t see nobody.”

  He wheeled around for a look at the woman. Her table was empty. She was gone.

  “Damn it!” He ran from the bar to the lobby, weaving through the crowd, skidding on the marble floors. He nearly knocked over a bellboy laden with baggage. “Have you seen a woman in a tan suit? Black hair?”

  The man just shrugged. “Many peoples, senor. ”

  Ryan was about to try in Spanish, but his mind was racing too fast to translate. He sprinted across the lobby and pushed through the revolving doors at the main entrance. Outside it was dusk. City lights were flickering, a neon welcome for the night life. Cars and taxis clogged the motor entrance to the hotel. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks on both sides of Avenida Balboa. Ryan ran to the curb and looked up the busy street, then down. For blocks in either direction, throngs of shoppers flowed in and out of stores that would remain open well into the evening. Ryan picked out several tan suits in the crowd, but no one stood out. In Panama, that woman’s jet-black hair was hardly a distinguishing feature.

  He clenched his fists in anger, mostly at himself. She was clearly a designed distraction. He’d been robbed. Scammed was more like it. Undoubtedly, the woman had gone in one direction. Her partner had run off in another — with Ryan’s bag.

  He rolled his head back, looking up toward the darkening sky. “You idiot.”

  24

  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 wo
uldn’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?”