Found money

by James Grippando

  “Except he screwed up. He didn’t scramble the tumblers after he closed up the briefcase. It was still set to the combination when I found it. It opened right up.”

  “So, his intent was clear. The execution could use some work.”

  Ryan glanced out the window. “A lot of work. What do we do now?”

  “This hearing is a lost cause, so I don’t want to submit an affidavit from you. Jackson was attacked while you were in Panama, so the only way to oppose Brent’s testimony is to account for every minute of every day while you were there. It makes no sense to pin you down under oath with the FBI snooping around.”

  “So you’re just going to let the judge rule?”

  “I’ll call Jackson and try to negotiate an agreed order for the judge to sign. Something that makes no finding that you actually were responsible for the attack, but nonetheless says you agree not to get within a hundred yards of Jackson or your wife for the duration of the case.”

  “Wonderful. For years Brent has been abusing my sister, and now he’s the key witness who gets a restraining order against me.”

  “The order might not technically protect Brent. Just Liz and her lawyer. But my advice to you is to stay clear of your brother-in-law anyway.”

  “I will,” said Ryan. “Just as soon as I break his friggin’ neck.”

  Jeanette Duffy came home from the beauty shop around two o’clock. It was her regular Saturday ritual. She pulled the car all the way up to the garage, toward the rear of the house. A light rain sprinkled the walkway to the kitchen door. She dug out her keys and took small, quick steps up the stairs, trying to save her hair from the weather. She aimed the key for the lock, then froze. The glass panel on the door was broken. The door was already unlocked.

  Jeanette scurried down the stairs, spurred by fear. She yanked open the car door and jumped inside. Her hand was shaking so badly she could barely insert the key. Finally, she got it in and raced out of the driveway.

  The dirt road was slick from the rain. The car fishtailed in a mud puddle, but she regained control. A hundred yards down the road was the McClennys’ farm, her closest neighbors. She pulled in the driveway and ran to the front door. Mr. McClenny answered.

  “I think I’ve been robbed!” she shouted. “Can I use your phone?”

  McClenny seemed stunned for a half-second. No one ever got robbed around here. “Sure,” he said as she opened the door. “It’s right in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you.” She hurried through the living room and grabbed the phone. She started to dial the police, then stopped. It suddenly occurred to her that this could be another chapter in the feud between Ryan and Brent — a family matter. Maybe Ryan had threatened to burn the money again, and Brent had come looking for it.

  She dug in her purse for the number Ryan had given her — Norm’s house. She dialed nervously. Norm’s wife answered and brought Ryan to the phone. Her composure broke at the sound of her son’s voice. “Ryan,” she said, sniffling. “I think we’ve been robbed.”

  “What?”

  “Our house. I think somebody broke in. The window was broken on the back door.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anybody?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At the McClennys’.”

  “Good. Stay away from the house, Mom. Go stay with Sarah. No, on second thought, Brent’s on his way home. Can you just stay with the McClennys a few hours?”

  “I think so. I’d do the same for them.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave now. I should be there sometime after dark.”

  “Should I call the police?”

  He thought for only a split second. “No,” he said firmly. “Don’t call the police. I’ll be home tonight. I’ll handle it.”

  Amy phoned several times Saturday, only to hear that Marilyn was unavailable. She left messages, but a return call never came. She knew Marilyn was back from Washington, since the local news had photographed her stepping off the airplane at Denver International Airport on Saturday morning. By four o’clock, she could wait no longer. She laid it on the line to Marilyn’s housekeeper.

  “Tell her I’ve been contacted by the FBI,” she said. “I must talk to her.”

  Within twenty minutes, Amy had a call back. Marilyn sounded less concerned than expected. She was actually apologetic.

  “I wasn’t avoiding you, Amy. It’s just that everything’s been a whirlwind since the announcement. I must have received a thousand congratulatory phone calls in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “I’m sorry. I should congratulate you, too. It’s just that my enthusiasm has been overshadowed by the FBI.”

  “It’s nothing to be concerned about,” said Marilyn. “The FBI runs routine checks on all presidential appointees. It’s their job.”

  “I don’t think this is routine.”

  “Trust me. Once the appointment is announced, the FBI moves very quickly on these background investigations.”

  “No, listen to me. I was eating lunch, watching you and the President on television, when the agent came up to me at the restaurant. It wasn’t triggered by your appointment.”

  “Then what did trigger it, Amy?”

  She struggled, dreading what she had to say.

  “He wanted to know about my contact with Ryan Duffy.”

  “Oh, my God. Amy, I told you to stay away from those people. Do you have any idea what kind of scrutiny I’m under right now? Everyone around me is a reflection on my character. Especially someone like you. It’s no secret you and I are close.”

  Amy’s voice tightened. “Just how close are we?”

  “Very close. You know that.”

  “I do, yes. But I’m confused. I was up all night. I couldn’t stop thinking about what you told me yesterday. I flat-out do not understand it. I have to ask: why would a man rape you almost forty-six years ago, and then send me two hundred thousand dollars just before he dies?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Marilyn, are we… related?”

  Stunned silence. Finally she answered. “I told you we can never talk about this. Please don’t try to force me.”

  “I just have so many questions.”

  “Sometimes questions are better left unanswered.”

  “Better for you, maybe.”

  “Better for both of us. Don’t make me ask you again, Amy. Do not go down this road. It’s a dead end.”

  “Marilyn, please.”

  “Goodbye, Amy.”

  Amy was about to make one more plea, but the line clicked in her ear. It had caught her off guard. She gripped the phone, staring in disbelief.

  For the first time in her life, Marilyn Gaslow had hung up on her.

  48

  Driving alone at night on Highway 287 was an exercise in monotony. It plunged south through the quiet eastern plains at insufferable stretches, flat as the oceans of darkened cornfields, moving only imperceptibly to the east or west. It was like being stuck on a treadmill. The only scenery was oncoming pavement that reached as far as the headlights. With the brights on you could see the first row of corn just beyond the gravel shoulder, maybe count telephone poles as they rushed by, one after another.

  Brent switched on the squeaky wipers again. It was a little game he played with the misty rain. Tiny drops collected on the windshield one at a time. He’d hold his speed steady at seventy miles per hour and see how far he could go without having to wipe it clean.

  Eleven miles that time. A new world record.

  He cut off the wipers and played with the radio dial. The Denver stations had long since faded. He was almost home. He didn’t need road signs to know it. Where civilization ended, Piedmont Springs began.

  Between static, he found a country music station and cranked up the volume. He glanced at the dial to check the numbers. His eyes were away from the road just an instant — just long enough to hit the piece of lumber in the road at full s
peed.

  The tires popped on the long row of nails. The car swerved out of control. Brent steered left, then right, trying to bring it back. The car slid into the left lane, hit the gravel shoulder and spun completely around. He came to a sudden stop facing back toward Denver.

  He had a death grip on the steering wheel, unable to let go. Finally, he took a deep breath and lowered his arms. He was shaken but unhurt. For a moment, he just sat.

  The rain collected on the windshield. The headlights beamed deep into the cornfield. The plains seemed even darker now that the car wasn’t moving. He switched off the headlights and turned on the emergency flashers. He unlocked the door and stepped outside. Two tires were flat, front and rear on the driver’s side.

  “Damn it,” he said as he kicked the dirt.

  He walked back to the trunk and popped it open. The little light inside was barely sufficient, enhanced only marginally by the intermittent orange flash of the emergency blinkers. He knew he had a spare, one of those mini-wheels that looked like they were from a go-cart. Hopefully Sarah had one of those fix-a-flat spray cans back there, too. He peeled back the carpeting to check, rattling the tire irons, turning things upside down. He was leaning over, inside the trunk from the waist up.

  He didn’t notice the footsteps behind him.

  “Need a hand?”

  Brent started at the voice, hitting his head on the open trunk lid. He turned around quickly. The man was a mere shadow in the darkness a ways down the road, just beyond the reach of the flashing taillights. “Yeah,” he said nervously. “Got a flat. Two of ’em.”

  “What a shame.”

  The tone hardly put him at ease. Brent could barely see in the darkness. At this distance, the blinking orange taillights were actually a hindrance, playing tricks with his eyes. He squinted to focus, but he didn’t see another set of car lights. Come to think of it, he hadn’t even heard him pull up. The man seemed to have come from nowhere.

  Survival instinct took over. He reached for the tire iron inside the trunk.

  In one fluid motion, the stranger’s arm came up, the gun came out. A single shot pierced the night. Brent’s head jerked back. He fell to his knees, then flat on his face. Blood pumped from the hole that was once his right eye, spilling onto the asphalt. It gathered in a pool that drained to the shoulder, then gradually stopped.

  All was quiet, save for the corn leaves rustling in the gentle breeze.

  The gunman lowered his weapon and took a dozen steps forward. He stepped only on the pavement, not on the gravel shoulder, so as not to leave footprints. In the orange blinking lights his huge hands looked prosthetic, covered in the rubber gloves of a surgeon — there would be no fingerprints. He took aim at Brent’s head and squeezed the trigger once more, shattering the back of his skull. The job done, he pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and placed the weapon inside.

  He walked toward the car and stopped at the left front tire. On one knee, he reached up inside the wheel well and yanked out the tiny transmitter he had attached while Brent was on the witness stand. The electronic pulse had allowed him to track the Buick all the way from Denver, telling him when to place the spiked board on the highway.

  He rose and opened the car door. He reached inside and flashed the car lights. On cue, a car pulled onto the highway about fifty yards ahead. It had been parked in a narrow agricultural side road, sufficiently hidden by shoulder-high cornstalks. It raced toward him and stopped alongside the Buick. The passenger door opened. He jumped in.

  The car sped away, back toward Denver, leaving the bloody corpse in the highway. He glanced back at his work, then took the murder weapon from his coat. He admired it in the dim light from the dashboard, leaving it in the plastic bag. A Smith & Wesson revolver with a mother-of-pearl handle. It wasn’t his, but he sure liked the way it had performed.

  Frank Duffy had himself one fine piece.

  49

  Ryan’s pager chirped just north of Eads, about an hour from home. He kept one eye on the lonely highway as he checked the number on his belt. He didn’t recognize it. A Saturday evening page usually meant someone was awfully sick. Something told him, however, that this was no medical emergency.

  He stopped at a gas station, went straight to a pay phone, and dialed the number. The rain seemed to fall harder with each push of the button. He moved closer to the phone, beneath the small overhang. It wasn’t much shelter. Thankfully, it took only one ring to get an answer.

  “Brent’s dead.”

  The pattering rain made it hard to hear. “ What did you say?”

  “Your brother-in-law’s dead. Shot twice in the head. His body’s laying on Highway 287, about a half-hour from your house.”

  Ryan recognized the voice. It was that security guy at K &G. “You killed him.”

  “No. You killed him. With your father’s gun.”

  He immediately thought of the break-in at his mother’s house. “You broke in and stole the gun.”

  “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Like the police are going to buy that one.”

  “How’d you find it? How did you even know my father had a gun?”

  “Registration records. And let’s face it. Isn’t the top drawer in the master bedroom the first place you’d look?”

  “You bastards. You won’t get away with this.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Listen to this.”

  There was a click on the line, followed by Ryan’s own voice. It was a tape recording of his conversation with Norm after the hearing. Ryan listened in stunned silence as Norm’s words were played back to him. “My advice to you is to stay clear of your brother-in-law.” He braced himself for his own reply: “I will. Just as soon as I break his friggin’ neck.”

  The recording was over. Ryan closed his eyes in disbelief. “You bugged Norm’s truck.”

  “Not me. It probably was that bum who bumped into you outside the courthouse. Must have dropped something in your coat pocket. We heard the whole courtroom disaster — and everything since.”

  Ryan reached frantically into his coat pockets, left, then right. A tiny microphone was buried at the bottom. He pulled it out and crushed it, erupting with anger. “Stop this! What do you people want from me!”

  The reply was smug, unemotional. “Stay away from the FBI. And forget you ever heard of Joe Kozelka.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or the police are going to find this gun. They’re going to hear this tape. And they’re going to come knocking on your door.”

  Ryan had no chance to speak. The line clicked, followed by the dial tone. He put the phone in the cradle but didn’t let go. The rain started to blow, soaking his hair and face. He didn’t know who to call first. Sarah. His mom. Norm. As he lifted the phone, he was certain of just one thing.

  Definitely not the FBI.

  Nathan Rusch hung up the pay phone and started back to the car. As an added precaution, he was taking the long way back to Denver, west to Pueblo and up I-25. He’d driven as far as Rocky Ford, the self-proclaimed melon capitol of the world. Banners and painted signs along the road heralded the upcoming Arkansas Valley Fair, held every August when the melons were in season. All the water-melon hoopla reminded Rusch of those old David Letterman shows where the host would drop big twenty-pounders off buildings in Manhattan, splattering them on the pavement. The result was not unlike Brent’s head on the highway.

  Melonhead Langford. Twenty years in the business, he gave all his jobs a name. He especially liked this one.

  The parking lot outside Denny’s restaurant was nearly full. Melons might have been the local claim to fame, but the Grand Slam breakfast was apparently a Saturday-evening hit. He crossed several rows of parked cars, then stopped alongside a white Taurus. The driver’s window slid down. His partner was behind the wheel. She wore neither the black nor the blond wig tonight. She was her natural brunette.

  “Did you reach him?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” She slid across the
bench seat to the passenger side. Rusch opened the door and got behind the wheel.

  “I guess we’re a pretty good team, huh?”

  He started the engine, showing not a hint of friendly agreement as he steered out of the parking lot. “You fucked up again, Sheila.”

  “No way. I did everything I was supposed to do.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be such an obvious break-in. The whole key to the frame-up is that Duffy used his father’s gun. If it looks like somebody broke into the house and stole it before Brent got whacked, we got nothing.”

  “The house was locked. What was I supposed to do? I thought I did a damn good job of finding the gun as quickly as I did.”

  “It wasn’t that brilliant, Sheila. Nine out of ten people keep their handgun in a bedroom dresser drawer.”

  She glanced out the window. “You never give me credit.”

  “Credit for what? You go to Panama, you leave your damn fingerprints all over a cocktail glass. You go to Duffy’s house, you break in like an amateur.” He shook his head, grumbling. “I must have been crazy to think I could promote you from bedroom detail.”

  She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. “We all have our own strengths,” she said as she ran her fingertips along the inside of his thigh. “And we all have our weaknesses.”

  He knocked her hand away. “That’s not going to work this time. I can only carry you so far. Kozelka doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

  “What are you telling me, Nathan?”

  He glanced her way, then back at the road. “Mr. Kozelka was very concerned that Duffy would take that cocktail glass to the FBI and implicate you. He was even more concerned that you might turn around and drop the name Kozelka. Now, there were two ways for me to make sure that didn’t happen. One was to make it impossible for Duffy to meet with the FBI. The other… well, I think you understand the other.”

  She glanced nervously at his hands on the steering wheel, as if suddenly aware of how huge they were. “Under the circumstances, I wish the frame-up were a little tighter.”