Found money

by James Grippando

  “Hi,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  “Eating lunch. Are you calling just to bug me again?” she asked with a smile.

  He turned the corner in his Lexus, merging into downtown traffic. “Actually, this is a legitimate business call. What do you know about your brother-in-law, Brent Langford?”

  “Total loser. Hasn’t held a decent job as long as I’ve known him. Hasn’t had any job for at least six months. Why?”

  “My private investigator has some interesting intelligence on him. Seems Brent was over in Pueblo shopping for a brand-new Corvette, over fifty thousand dollars’ worth of automobile. Later the same day he was at the Piedmont Springs Bar & Grill, bragging about how he’s coming into some serious money.”

  “That’s interesting. Amazing, actually.”

  “Maybe Frank Duffy wasn’t delirious after all when he promised you all that money.”

  Liz winced, uncomfortable with her lawyer’s characterization. As far as the so-called promise went, she had told Jackson the same story she had told Ryan after the funeral, out on the front porch. “You know, I’m still not sure you’d call it an actual promise. Like I told you, Frank was trying to keep me and Ryan together. He just told me to hang in there, the money would come soon, or something like that.”

  “Liz,” he said in a soft but stern voice. “Remember how important I told you it was that Frank made an explicit oral promise of money to you while he was alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember what I said happens to waffles?”

  She smiled. “They get toasted.”

  “That’s my girl. So knock off the waffle voice, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Now you work on that memory of yours. If you do your part, I’ll do mine.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  He stopped at the traffic light, checking himself in the rearview mirror. “One step at a time. This latest development could seriously raise the stakes in our property settlement negotiations. I was thinking I’d just take ol’ Brent’s deposition. Put him under oath and see if we can get some idea just how much money is out there.”

  Out of respect for Frank, Liz thought before dragging the family into the divorce. But Brent was a Langford, not a Duffy. Hell, if she had asked Frank, Brent wasn’t even a human being, let alone family.

  “Liz, what do you say?”

  “Go for it, counselor. You’ll eat that moron alive.”

  29

  At noon Ryan called Norm from the Panama City Marriott. He had taken a room through tomorrow, until his new passport was ready. The passport, however, wasn’t his first order of business.

  “I got it,” said Ryan, seated on the bed. “I got the scoop on the three million that was transferred to my father’s account at Banco del Istmo.”

  “How’d you pull that off?”

  “All it took was a little persuasion.”

  “Something tells me I’d rather not hear the details.”

  “And I don’t think I want to tell you. At least not on the phone.”

  “What did you find out?” asked Norm.

  “Believe it or not, the money was transferred in three hundred installments of nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars, and then one last installment of three hundred dollars for an even total of three million. It was spread out over a fifteen-year period. The last one was made a little over a year ago.”

  “Sounds like they were trying to avoid some financial reporting requirements.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Ryan.

  “Banks are required to file a CTR — a currency transaction report — for any deposit of ten thousand dollars or more. That raises a red flag for the regulatory authorities. It’s a way of keeping track of the big money flow between banks.”

  “But these transfers weren’t between two different banks. They were internal transactions, from one account holder at Banco del Istmo to another. Why would that attract anyone’s attention?”

  “I’m sure the intra-bank transfer was the last layer of protection in a series of deposits and wire transfers that crossed several national borders. No doubt at least one of the banks along the way did business in the United States, which meant it would have been required to file a CTR for deposits of ten thousand or more. The final internal transfers at Banco del Istmo were each less than ten thousand dollars because they mirrored the amount of the inter-bank transfers.”

  “That makes sense, I guess. It also explains why the name on the account at Banco del Istmo doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

  “Who is it?” asked Norm.

  “It’s a foreign corporation registered in the Cayman Islands. Jablon Enterprises, Ltd. I don’t have a clue who that could be.”

  “Quite possibly, you never will. No doubt it’s just a shell corporation.”

  “But even if it’s a shell, aren’t they required to have real human beings as officers and directors? Somewhere that has to be a matter of public record, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but the only place those records would be is in the Cayman Islands.”

  “Then that’s where I need to go.”

  “You’ll need a passport first. You should be able to pick it up at the embassy tomorrow morning.”

  Ryan grimaced. “I hate to lose a day just waiting around.”

  “Frankly, I hate to see you go. You’ve already been robbed, Ryan. And that was just for checking on your father’s account. If you start snooping around the Cayman Islands for the names behind this shell corporation, they may not be so polite the next time around.”

  “I can be discreet.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “Can you do me a favor?”

  “What, notify your next of kin?”

  “Don’t be a wiseass. I need your help sorting this out. I’ve been thinking about this rape conviction. The fact that those documents were in the safe deposit box with the other bank records makes it clear that the extortion is somehow connected to the rape, agreed?”

  “I don’t think it was purely coincidence that those records were in the same box, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “Exactly. Now, if you think about it, there are a limited number of people on this planet who can afford to pay five million dollars in extortion money.”

  “It’s a big world out there, Ryan.”

  “Not that big. Especially when you consider that whoever that person is, somewhere along the line he had to come into contact with my father. More than likely it dates back to the rape.”

  “That’s logical.”

  “Agreed. So the only sensible thing we can do is reconstruct that period of my father’s life — when Frank Duffy was sixteen. Let’s go back in time and look at the people my father knew back then. And let’s find out where they ended up. Specifically, let’s see if any of them turned out to be the kind of person who could afford to pay five million dollars in blackmail.”

  “How do you suggest we go back forty-five years?”

  “School is probably the best way. I called the school superintendent’s office this morning. Unfortunately, they don’t have any class lists going back that far. The only way to figure out who was in my dad’s class is to look at the actual yearbooks.”

  “Did your dad have one?”

  “I went through all his possessions after he died. I didn’t see one. I have a feeling that was a time in his life he preferred to erase. But they keep them at the high school, in the records department.”

  Norm paused. “So you want me to drive all the friggin’ way down to Piedmont Springs to look at forty-five-year-old yearbooks?”

  “It’s easier than that. My mom’s family goes back five generations in Prowers County. But my dad didn’t move there until after the rape — probably in shame, which explains why he was never really happy there. I can remember when I was a kid. The best reason he could give me for staying in Piedmont Springs was because my mom’s side of the family had roots there. I guess he felt li
ke he was living in exile.”

  “So where did he go to high school? Until he was sixteen, I mean?”

  “Dad grew up in Boulder. He would have been a student at Boulder High School when the rape took place.”

  “So you want me to go to Boulder?”

  “It’s less than an hour’s drive for you, Norm.”

  “All right, I can do it this week.”

  “I’d like you to go today. Just copy the books and get your investigator to check these people out. There can’t be that many of my dad’s classmates who ended up being millionaires.”

  Norm checked the appointment calendar on his desk and made a face. “Shit. Okay. I’ll juggle things around and do my best to get over there this afternoon. If it’s that important to you.”

  “Thanks,” said Ryan. “It’s really that important.”

  Brent Langford was stretched out on the couch in the living room, wearing only gym shorts. Even half-naked he was overheated, his body glistening with sweat. The hottest point of the afternoon had passed hours ago, yet it only seemed to be getting hotter inside the house. The old window-unit air conditioner had been busted since last summer, still no money to fix it. A fan turned lazily in the open window, sucking in hot air from the plains. It had been the summer’s stickiest day so far. So hot, Brent hadn’t ventured outside all day. He had spent most of the day right on the couch, flipping through the brochures for the new Corvette.

  A convertible, he thought, smiling to himself. Gonna get me a convertible. And that blonde in the bikini to boot.

  A knock at the front door disturbed his fantasy. Brent didn’t move. He just turned the page, undecided between the yellow or the red one.

  A second knock, louder this time.

  He grabbed the remote control and lowered the volume on the television. “Sarah!” he shouted. “Answer the door already!”

  Half a minute later, Sarah crossed the room. The heat had her almost immobilized. Her obstetrician had told her to stay home from work today and elevate her ankles. It had struck Sarah as funny in a twisted way. She hadn’t had any ankles since about the seventh month.

  She breathed extra-heavy as she passed Brent on the couch, exaggerating just a little to make him feel guilty. He didn’t notice.

  The front door was already open. She spoke through the screen door to the stranger on the porch. “Can I help you?”

  He nodded respectfully. “Afternoon, ma’am. Is this here your permanent residence?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced at her pregnant belly. “And I presume you’re over fifteen years of age.”

  She scoffed. “Yeah.”

  He pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket. “I have something here for you from the Prowers County Sheriff.”

  Sarah opened the screen door and took it.

  “What-” she started to ask. But the man ran away the second she touched it, as if there were a bomb inside. She watched as he jumped into his car and sped down the road.

  Brent called from the living room. “Who is it, Sarah?”

  She was reading from a document as she walked from the foyer to the living room. “I don’t know who that was. But he just left us a subpoena.”

  “A subpoena?”

  “Yeah. It’s from Ryan’s divorce case. Looks like it’s from Liz’s lawyer. Issued to Brent Langford. You are hereby commanded to appear for deposition-”

  “Deposition!” He jumped up and snatched the subpoena from her hand. He stared at it for a moment, then threw it on the couch. “Damn, I don’t want to give no deposition. What did you take that thing for?”

  “I didn’t know what it was.”

  “Well, dumbshit, did you even think to ask?”

  “He said it was from the sheriff.”

  “If he had said it was from the president, would you believe him? Don’t answer that. You probably fucking would.”

  Sarah took a step back, wary of his tone. “Just calm down, okay? It’s no big deal. I’ll talk to Ryan and find out what this is all about.”

  “It’s about money, you idiot. It’s all about Liz trying to get her hands on my money. Why didn’t you just slam the door in that guy’s face? Just slammed it!” He went to the door and slammed it so hard the windows rattled. “That’s all you fucking had to do!”

  “How was I to know?” she said timidly.

  “Common sense, that’s how. If you had any.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. It was a cumulative emotion. Anger. Frustration. Fear at the thought of Brent as the father of her child.

  “Oh, stop your sniveling, woman.”

  “Maybe — maybe I can get Ryan to cancel the deposition.”

  “Just stay the hell out of it. You screwed things up enough already.” He went back to the couch, moving the car brochures aside with care. “I’ll handle this myself. This is one deposition they ain’t never gonna forget.”

  30

  It was getting late on Colorado’s Front Range. Clouds drifted across the night sky in long, tattered strands, as if shredded by the mountaintops on their journey toward Boulder.

  Amy watched in silence from the balcony off her bedroom. She was alone for the night. Gram and Taylor were staying with a neighbor for a few days, until they could replace the sliced-up mattresses and other busted furnishings. Amy had been cleaning up their ravaged apartment all afternoon, working into the evening. Little was salvageable. The insurance adjuster had come and gone hours ago. The check would come in a few days, he’d promised, though it wouldn’t help much. Most of the furniture was much more than ten years old and had almost zero depreciated value. For what it was worth, the adjuster seemed to agree with the detective’s assessment. This was no simple burglary. Someone had wanted to send her a message.

  The question was, what was the message?

  All her life, Amy had been exceptional at solving problems of any kind, from calculus to crosswords. Ever since she’d opened the box of money, however, she’d felt completely clueless. She hated that helpless feeling, that inability to figure things out. She’d felt that way only once before in her life. Many years ago.

  Right after her mother died.

  “Amy, you okay here tonight?” It was Gram.

  Amy was leaning on the balcony rail. She glanced over her shoulder, back into the bedroom through the sliding glass door. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. Taylor asleep?”

  Gram joined her on the balcony. “Like a log. I just wanted to come up and see how you were doing, check on things.”

  “Not much to check on, is there?”

  “Aww, forget it. I’ve been meaning to get rid of a lot of all this old junk anyway. We’ll be fine.”

  Amy smiled with her eyes. “What is that you used to tell me? Our guardian angel owes us one?”

  Gram smiled back. “It’s been a long time since I said that. That’s quite a memory you have there.”

  “I don’t forget much. Just certain things.”

  Gram looked at her with concern, as if she sensed what her granddaughter had been thinking. “Amy, darling. When something bad happens, it’s natural to think back on the past, to other sadness.”

  She nodded, looking up to the sky. “I can see Vega.”

  “Where?”

  “Right overhead. It’s the brightest star in the constellation of Lyra. See it?” she said, pointing.

  “It forms a harp, or lyre, with those four other faint stars that are positioned like a parallelogram.”

  “Yeah,” Gram said, smiling. “I do see it.”

  “That’s the constellation I was looking at the night Mom died.”

  Gram’s smile faded. She lowered her eyes.

  Amy said, “I have a very spotty memory of that night. Certain things are clear. Other things are fuzzy. Some things I can’t remember at all. I remember the noise, the sound of the gunshot. I remember waiting in my room, pitch dark. Going up in the attic, then down the hall and into Mom’s room.” She drew a deep breath. “And I remember the hand hanging ov
er the side of the bed.”

  They stood in silence at the rail. Finally Gram spoke. “We found you in your room. I found you. You were curled into a tight little ball, shivering. In shock, I think. You were on that padded ledge of the bay window. Right by your telescope.”

  “I don’t remember any of that.”

  “That’s normal. It’s probably best.”

  “No,” she said sharply. “It drives me nuts. I can’t figure it out. I’ll never figure it out if I can’t remember what happened.”

  “What happened was tragic. You don’t need to go back there.”

  “Do you really think she killed herself?”

  Gram made a face, as if the question surprised her. “Yes. No one’s ever questioned that.”

  “I’ve always questioned it.”

  “You were eight, Amy. Suicide wasn’t something you could accept.”

  “No, it’s more than that. Think about it. Why would Mom shoot herself in the head while I was in the house?”

  “That’s why she tied that rope to your door, I suppose. I think the police were right about that. She didn’t want you to come out and find the body.”

  “That doesn’t hold up, Gram. Mom had caught me playing in the attic just a few months before that. She was completely aware that I knew how to get out of my room with the door shut. She knew about the ceiling panel in my closet.”

  “Maybe she forgot. She was obviously in a very tortured state.”

  “But she wasn’t suicidal.”

  “That’s a pretty tough judgment for an eight-year-old girl to make.”

  “Not really. I remember the conversation Mom and I had before she died. I asked her to read me a story. She said she was too tired. But she promised to read me one the next night. She promised it would be the best story I ever heard.”

  “Who knows what was going through her mind?”

  “That just doesn’t sound like something a woman would say to her daughter an hour before she kills herself. She never even said goodbye, Gram.”