Found money

by James Grippando

  “There must be another way to tackle this. When was the rape supposed to have happened?”

  “Before Mom and Dad ever met. Sometime when she was a teenager, Ryan said.”

  “Then that’s where you need to look. Go back in time. Check with people your mother might have confided in. Her classmates, her girlfriends.”

  The word hung in the air, as if the mere mention of “girlfriends” had struck the same chord in both of them.

  Gram asked, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Her eyes brightened. “Only if you’re thinking of Marilyn Gaslow.”

  40

  Ryan sat in silence amidst a seventy-inch television screen and surround-sound speakers that stood four feet tall. With all the electronic toys turned off, the media room was the ideal place in Norm’s huge house for a confidential conversation. It was soundproof with no windows, putting even the most paranoid at ease. In here, Norm had heard some of the most acoustically perfect confessions in the history of American criminal defense law — including one from Ryan eight years ago.

  Tonight, however, Ryan had only Amy on his mind.

  “Want a beer?” asked Norm.

  Ryan was sitting on the couch, still shell-shocked from the full-blown explosion at the Halfway Cafe. “Huh?”

  Norm took that as a yes and grabbed two from the minibar. He handed Ryan an open Coors and sat in the leather recliner facing the blank television screen. “Let’s hear it. Tell me what the mysterious Amy had to say.”

  Ryan peeled the label on his bottle. “Not a whole lot. She was just… angry is the only way to describe it. Which is understandable. She thinks my father raped her mother.”

  “So, let me get this straight. She knew her mother had been raped, but she didn’t know your father had done it?”

  “No. I don’t think she knew anything about a rape at all. I implied that my father might have raped someone she knew. She inferred it was her mother. It was the age similarity, I guess. Her mom is dead, but she would have been about the same age as my father. When I asked if her mother ever lived in Boulder, she wouldn’t say. But I got the impression the answer was yes.”

  “Too bad we don’t know Amy’s last name. We could check those old yearbooks from Boulder High School, see if your father and her mother were classmates.”

  “Amy’s name isn’t the key. We need to know her mother’s maiden name.” Ryan sipped his beer, thinking. “You know, it might be worth a look at those yearbooks anyway. It’s a long shot, but maybe Amy looks like her mother. I might be able to pick her out.”

  “You’re right. That is a long shot.”

  “You got a better idea?”

  Norm shrugged. “We can check them out tomorrow. The copies I made are photo-quality, so I don’t see any burning need to drive all the way to Boulder to check the originals.”

  “I’d like to do it tonight. You want to go downtown?”

  “They’re not in the office. My investigator has them. He’s still working on that background search of your father’s classmates, looking for the kid who grew up rich enough to pay five million dollars in extortion.”

  “Call him. Maybe he can bring them by here. If I’m going to look for a woman who looks like Amy, I’d really like to do this tonight, while Amy’s face is fresh in my mind.”

  Norm checked his watch. Not quite nine-thirty. “I guess it’s not too late to ask. He lives just a few minutes away from here.”

  Ryan only half listened as Norm placed the call. He leaned back on the couch and waited. He noticed his reflection on the dark television screen. It was barely perceptible. Norm’s was even fainter, standing in the background and talking on the phone. It was a blurry image, yet in some ways it seemed clear. It was like watching himself from another time — deja vu on the big screen, taking him back to the last time he had sought advice from his friend Norm. It didn’t feel like eight years ago. Ryan was a resident at Denver General. A prominent professional athlete had checked into the hospital for surgery. Turned out he was HIV-positive. Back then, infected athletes worried about being banned from the playing field. His illness was a well-guarded secret. He’d told Ryan, as his doctor, to make sure it stayed a secret. He forbade Ryan to tell anyone — even the unsuspecting wife.

  “All set,” said Norm. “My investigator will be here with the yearbooks in ten minutes.”

  Ryan was still staring at the dark screen, not really focusing.

  Norm snapped his fingers. “Hello, Earth to Ryan.”

  He looked up, smiled with embarrassment. “Sorry. Spaced out for a second there.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  He sighed, not sure he wanted to tell. “Little time warp. I was just thinking about that time I came here ten years ago. Back during my residency.”

  “Ah, yes. The night you began your descent into Purgatory Springs.”

  “You mean Piedmont Springs.”

  “No, I mean purgatory. That’s what it is for you, isn’t it? You work for hardly any pay, do good deeds for the needy little people of the world, earn your place back in heaven. Sounds like purgatory to me.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s not. You and Liz were on the verge of having it made. Then poof, you walk away from it and go back to Piedmont Springs. I said it before, and I’ll say it again. It’s not your fault that guy’s wife ended up with AIDS. The law prohibited you from telling anyone that your patient was HIV-positive.”

  “Yeah,” he said with sarcasm. “I sure played that one right by the book.”

  “I don’t know how else you could have played it. You had a duty to your patient.”

  Ryan shook his head, exasperated. “Just like I have a duty to my dad, right? A duty of loyalty. I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut and tell no one his dirty little secrets, even the people who have the right to know.”

  “I don’t think the two situations are quite the same. But even if they were, you went the other way this time. You told Amy about the rape.”

  “Exactly. Last time I followed my technical duty right down the line. Which turned out to be a death sentence for an innocent woman. So this time I crossed the line. I put the victim ahead of my sense of duty. And it blows up in my face. Amy seemed totally shocked to find out her mother had been raped. Her mother obviously had never told her. Presumably, that was the way her mother wanted it. What right did I have to step in and upset her mother’s wishes?”

  “These are tough dilemmas, Ryan. Both situations. Very tough.”

  “And I made the wrong decision both times.”

  “So what are you going to do now? Pack up your clinic in Purgatory Springs and move to Siberia?”

  Ryan glared. “You think this is a joke?”

  “No. You’re being too hard on yourself. You’re dealing in areas where there are no right answers. I take that back,” he said, raising a finger for a case in point. “There was one option that would have been clearly the wrong decision. Ten years ago, you could have blackmailed that jock after you learned he was HIV-positive.”

  “That wasn’t an option,” he said, scowling.

  “Your father might have considered it.”

  “Go to hell, Norm.”

  “Sorry. Let’s just forget I said that, okay?”

  “No, let’s not forget it. If you think my old man was a scumbag, just come out and say it.”

  “I’m not passing judgment. I suppose sometimes even blackmailers have their reasons.”

  “But you can never justify rape.”

  He could see the pain in Ryan’s face. “No, you can’t.”

  “That’s why I had to tell Amy — or at least try to tell her. It seemed like the right thing at the time. Now when I see the agony this must be causing her, I’m not so sure. Maybe she was better off not knowing.”

  “Do yourself a favor, Ryan. Put it behind you. Telling Amy about the rape wasn’t the hard decision anyway. You’ll get a second chance to think this through and do the r
ight thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We still have to meet with the FBI. The tough question is, do you tell them.”

  Ryan looked away, shaking his head. “Another one, huh?”

  “Another one what?”

  He answered in a hollow voice. “Another situation where there’s no right answer.”

  41

  Amy called Marilyn Gaslow at her home in Denver, but her housekeeper said she was out of town through Monday. Fortunately, Amy was on the standing short list of people who could reach Marilyn anywhere in case of a true emergency. It was a privilege Amy had never invoked — until tonight.

  “Miss Marilyn is staying at the Mayflower Hotel in Washington,” said her housekeeper.

  Amy got the number, thanked her, and dialed the Mayflower. The hotel operator put her through to the room.

  Marilyn’s seventh-floor suite was furnished with handsome early-American reproductions. The shirt-stripe wallpaper was Laura Ashley. A tasteful fox hunt photograph hung over the desk. Marilyn was alone in the king-size bed, clad in her favorite chenille robe, sitting up against the headboard with her feet propped up on a pillow. It was after midnight in Washington, but she was still awake and reading as the phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Marilyn, do you have a minute?”

  “Amy?” she said, the familiar voice registering.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “There’s something very important I have to ask you. I wanted to do it in person, but it really can’t wait. At least, I can’t wait. Is now a good time?”

  Two black-binder notebooks lay on the bed beside her. Another was in her lap. “Amy, I don’t mean to be difficult, but I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow. I’m still preparing, and I have to get some sleep.”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot you were two hours ahead of me.”

  “It’s okay.” She pushed the notebook aside. “Go ahead. What do want to ask me?”

  “There’s something I need to know about Mom.”

  The silence was suddenly palpable. Marilyn scooted to the edge of the bed, sitting erect. “Okay. What is it?”

  “I met a man for coffee tonight. I think his father knew my mother.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Ryan Duffy. His father was Frank Duffy. It’s the same Duffys I was telling you about before — the ones who gave me the money that was stolen from my apartment.”

  “I told you to let that go.”

  “I know. But I couldn’t. And now look what I found out.”

  “Amy, please. Just listen to me, okay? Stay away from Ryan Duffy. Stay away from the whole Duffy family.”

  “You know them?”

  “Just stay away from them.”

  Amy’s voice shook. “So… it’s true?”

  “What’s true?”

  “Frank Duffy raped my mother.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I think Ryan was trying to tell me. His father raped my mother.”

  “Frank Duffy didn’t rape your mother.”

  “How do you know? Did you know Frank Duffy? Tell me if you did.”

  “Yes. I knew him when I was in high school.”

  “You went to high school together?”

  “No. He went to Boulder High, I went to Fairview.”

  “But you met him?”

  “Yeah. You could say that.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before? You just sat there and pretended you didn’t know him.”

  “I–I just couldn’t.”

  “Because he raped my mother. And Mom didn’t want me to know. That’s why.”

  “Amy, I told you. Frank Duffy didn’t rape your mother.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Your mother and I were best friends. We told each other everything.”

  “Mom never told you she was raped?”

  “Never.”

  “That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

  “Amy, I know it didn’t happen.”

  “How could you possibly know for sure?”

  “Trust me. I know.”

  “Marilyn, don’t be coy with me. If this man raped my mother, I have a right to know.”

  “He didn’t.”

  Her voice turned shrill, the way only family would shout at one another. “You’re lying! Why are you lying to me?”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Then how do you know he didn’t rape her?”

  “Because…”

  “Because why? ”

  “Because he raped me, Amy. Frank Duffy didn’t rape your mother. He raped me.”

  Amy’s hand shook as she gripped the phone. “Oh, my God. Marilyn, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I hope-”

  “Forget it. Just forget all about it. It was a long time ago. I’ve put it behind me. And that’s where I want it to stay. Promise me, Amy. We will never talk about this again. To anyone.”

  “But-”

  “Amy,” she said sternly. “ Never again. I don’t need this back in my life. Not now. Especially not now. Do you understand?”

  Amy swallowed the lump in her throat. “Marilyn,” she said weakly, “I only wish I understood.”

  42

  Ryan stayed in the media room all night, studying the old yearbooks of Boulder High School. Norm had said the copies were photo quality, which didn’t say much for the quality of the original photos. Eight hundred grainy black-and-white mug shots were enough to make anyone’s eyes blurry. Even after a pot of coffee, it was difficult to stay focused. He’d never seen so many kids wearing glasses — ugly eyeglasses at that. A lot of people said television or the airplane was the greatest invention of the twentieth century. Some of these geeks made a pretty compelling case for contact lenses.

  After a few hours, Ryan had developed a system. He would check the eyes first. Amy had bright, almond-shaped eyes. Then the bone structure. Amy’s face was heart-shaped, the makings of a natural beauty. From there, the task got more difficult. Most of the girls in the yearbook were smiling. It made him think of his first meeting with Amy, how pretty her smile had been. He imagined her mother’s was much the same.

  Though neither Duffy had given them much to smile about.

  By 5:00 A.M., Ryan had lost track of the number of times he’d been through the photographs. He’d studied so many faces he was beginning to forget what Amy actually looked like. He’d narrowed it down to about thirty possibilities, but he didn’t feel confident that any of them were actually Amy’s mother. He was about to close the book when something caught his eye. It was a name, not a face. A boy, not a girl.

  Joseph Kozelka.

  It was an unusual name, Kozelka. Yet it was familiar to him. After a moment, he placed it. There was an entire hospital wing in Denver that bore the same name — the Kozelka Cardiology Center. Ryan had seen the plaque in the lobby years ago, during his residency.

  He looked carefully at the photograph. A nice-looking kid. Well dressed, one of the few wearing a coat and tie that actually seemed to fit him. How many Kozelkas could there possibly be in Colorado? If this kid was related, he was one rich son of a bitch. Rich enough to pay millions in extortion.

  Ryan nearly leaped from the sofa and hurried out the door. The elevator was right outside the media room, but it was way too slow. Ryan hurried up the dark stairwell and tapped lightly on the door to Norm’s master suite.

  The door remained closed, but he could hear Rebecca’s sleepy voice from inside. It was muffled, as if she were calling from beneath the covers. “Tommy, please go back to sleep. You’re getting too old for this.”

  Ryan whispered, more out of embarrassment than anything else. “Uh, Rebecca. Sorry. It’s Ryan. I have to talk to Norm.”

  He waited. Inside, there was mild grumbling, then footsteps. The door opened about six inches. Norm was wearing a robe. That long strand of hair that covered the ever-growing bald spot was standing on end. His face was covered with stubble. “What the hell time is
it?” he asked, yawning.

  “Early. Sorry. I think I might have found someone at Boulder High who was actually rich enough to pay my dad the extortion money. Can we get on your computer?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. This could be the break I’ve been waiting for.”

  Norm rubbed the sleep from his eye, slowly coming to life. “All right,” he said as he stepped into the hall. “This way.”

  Norm led him down the hall to the upstairs office. A computer terminal rested atop a small built-in desk that was covered with bills and magazines. Ryan spoke as it booted up.

  “His name’s Joseph Kozelka. Unusual name. I’m hoping we can pull up something on the Internet about him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I’m thinking he has to be related to the family who established the Kozelka Cardiology Center in Denver. They gave millions of dollars for construction and operation — tens of millions.”

  The screen brightened and Norm logged on. He went directly to an Internet search engine. “How do you spell his name?”

  Ryan leaned forward and typed it in, then hit Enter. They waited as the computer searched databases all over the world for any information on Joseph Kozelka. It seemed to be taking forever.

  Norm said, “It’s conceivable we’ll get goose eggs.”

  “I know. But if this guy has the kind of money I think he has, his name is bound to be out there at least a few times.”

  The screen flashed the results. Both Ryan and Norm did a double take. The computer-generated message read: “Your search has found 4,123 documents.”

  “Holy shit,” said Ryan.

  Norm scrolled down the abstracts of materials that mentioned Joseph Kozelka. Many of them were in Spanish. “Looks like he lived outside the States for a while.”

  “He wasn’t just living there. Looks like he was head of the entire Central and South American operations for some company — K &G Enterprises. I never heard of them.”

  “Me neither. But if they do a lot of business south of the border, that might explain the Panamanian bank.”

  Ryan took the mouse from Norm and scrolled down himself, scanning the next group of entries.