Found money

by James Grippando

  “It should work in the short run. Even with your botched break-in, I can’t see Duffy running to the FBI before he and his lawyer have a chance to sort this out.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we reevaluate.”

  She managed a weak, awkward smile. “Sure hope this works.”

  “Yes,” he said coldly. “I know you do.”

  Ryan’s first call was to his mother. She was still at the McClennys’, where he had told her to stay until he returned from Denver. The rain continued to fall as he filled her in on everything from the courtroom disaster to the threatening phone call. By the time he’d finished, he was barely aware that he was completely rain-soaked.

  She seemed shocked by the news of Brent’s death, though not exactly saddened. That pioneer spirit that had been missing since the death of her husband was suddenly back. She was circling the proverbial wagons.

  “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “I haven’t seen the body, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then how do you know that man wasn’t bluffing?”

  “He wouldn’t break into the house and steal Dad’s gun just to bluff. I can drive down Two-eighty-seven and take a look for myself, if that’s what you want.”

  “No, don’t do that.”

  Her tone alarmed him. “Why not?”

  “Because the police could be there already. I don’t think you should talk to them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you have to think this through first. What are you going to tell them?”

  “I was going to tell them I think I’m being framed for a murder I didn’t commit. That way, I’ll just beat Kozelka’s thug to the punch.”

  “Please, don’t do that.”

  “Why not, Mom?”

  “Because if you tell the police you’re being framed, you’ll have to tell them why you’re being framed.”

  “I think it’s about time we just came clean on this.”

  “No.”

  Ryan cringed. “What do you mean, no?”

  “It’s not totally your call anymore, Ryan. I have a say in this.”

  “What are we arguing about, Mom? I’m being framed for murder.”

  “Not yet. They’ve only threatened to frame you. The only way you will be framed is if you tell the FBI what your father did. If you keep your mouth shut, Brent’s just another unsolved murder.”

  His mouth opened, but words didn’t come. He couldn’t believe what his own mother was saying. “Mom, somebody was murdered here.”

  “Not somebody. Brent. I’m sorry, but I’m not shedding any tears over a human slug who took a fist to my own daughter. Brent’s dead. You can’t change that by telling the police you’re being framed. And you can’t tell the police you’re being framed without ruining your father’s good name and reputation. None of that can bring Brent back, even if we wanted him back.”

  “Mom, I’ve already done more than I should to keep this blackmail a secret.”

  “Damn it. It’s not the blackmail I’m worried about. It’s the rape. I can’t have everyone in Prowers County thinking I was married forty-six years to a rapist!”

  Ryan froze. “I thought you didn’t know about the rape. You told me you didn’t know what was in that safe deposit box in Panama. You said you didn’t want to know.”

  Her voice was shaking, but she was no longer shouting. “Of course I knew.”

  “Why did you lie to me before I went down to Panama?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me what you knew?”

  “Ryan, please.”

  “ No,” he said sharply. “You knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was afraid,” she said softly.

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid that you would never understand how I could forgive him. Please, Ryan. Let’s not do it this way. Your sister’s husband has just been murdered. She shouldn’t hear about it through the Piedmont Springs grapevine. I need to go to her. Let me be the one to tell her.”

  “Don’t try to hide behind Sarah.”

  “I’m not hiding. Not anymore. Meet me at her house. Then Sarah, you, and I will discuss this. Like a family.”

  “Or what’s left of it.”

  “Please, son. See me on this.”

  A bitterness swelled from deep within — but he swallowed it. “All right, Mom. I’ll see you there.”

  50

  Ryan took the long way home, down the lonely gravel side roads he’d discovered years ago as a boy on a bicycle. It wasn’t a shortcut by any means. It was a detour that would keep him from coming upon the scene of the crime on Highway 287. He assumed the police would already be there. After the promise to his mother, he didn’t want to be tempted to stop and say something he might regret.

  He drove faster than he should have, kicking up loose gravel that pelted the floorboards. Scattered potholes made the largely one-lane road even more treacherous. A few bumps were so big they brought his chin to his chest. It was a jarring ride at such high speed, almost like off-road. A sane driver would have slowed down. But not Ryan, not tonight. The bumps, the jolts, the disoriented sensation — it was a perfect complement to the jumbled thoughts in his present state of mind.

  In all the confusion, the thought of Brent lying dead on the highway was foremost in his mind. He was no fan of his brother-in-law, especially after his testimony this morning. Still, the very thought of money in the attic leading to murder in the family was unsettling. He wondered what Liz would think. He could only imagine what her lawyer might make of it. Even without the gun and the audiotape Kozelka might use to frame him, Jackson was bound to point the finger at Ryan. Who else had such obvious motive?

  Perhaps he even deserved some blame. Fact was, Brent was dead because Ryan had threatened Kozelka. That made him feel guilty in a way, mostly because of all the times in years past he had wished Brent were gone. Now he was.

  The long dirt road fed into the highway near an old barn and wind-ravaged silo. Ryan steered onto the pavement without slowing down, reaching Sarah’s house in record time. The truck skidded to a stop in the driveway, and Ryan jumped out. The porch light was on, brightening the rain-slicked path to the front door. He didn’t bother to knock. The door was unlocked.

  “Mom?” he said as he entered the living room.

  “In here.” The reply had come from the kitchen.

  Ryan hurried inside. His mother was seated at the kitchen table. Sarah was a lump in the chair right beside her, leaning on her like a grieving widow. Ryan saw sadness in his sister’s eyes. Slowly, it turned to rage.

  “Oh, Ryan,” she said with contempt. “How could you?”

  “How could I what?”

  “I’m giving birth next month. How could you do this to my husband?”

  “I didn’t do anything to Brent.” He looked at his mother, pleading. “Mom, tell her.”

  “I did,” said his mother.

  Sarah scoffed. “Framed? Right. I don’t believe it for one second. Brent told me everything before he went to court this morning. He was afraid you might retaliate. But neither one of us ever imagined this.”

  “Look, I don’t know what Brent told you, but-”

  “He told me that you called him from Panama and asked him to beat up Liz’s lawyer. He wouldn’t do it, so you hired some thug.”

  “He said the same thing in court. It’s a lie.”

  “Did you hire the same guy to kill my husband, Ryan? Or did you do this job yourself?”

  “Sarah, I had nothing to do with Brent’s murder.”

  “It all goes back to that night Brent asked you for some money at Mom’s house. You went berserk and started burning it. You almost killed him then. Mom says you even had Dad’s gun that night. You tried to hide it when she walked in, but she saw it. You were gunning for Brent!”

  “I didn’t kill Brent, so just shut the hell up!”

  Sarah leaned into her mother, crying. Jeanette p
ulled her daughter close to console her, then looked at Ryan. “We all need to just calm down before we say things we don’t mean. Let’s get a good night’s sleep and talk about this in the morning.”

  “No!” shouted Ryan. “You told me on the phone we would discuss this as a family. Well, the family’s all here. Don’t avoid this, Mom. We have to talk — tonight.”

  “Now isn’t the time.”

  Ryan nearly exploded, but a knock on the front door checked his anger. The three of them glanced at one another, as if to ask who it might be.

  “Are you expecting someone?” asked Ryan.

  Both women shook their heads.

  “Answer it, Ryan. Your sister is in no condition.”

  He sighed with exasperation, his feet pounding the floor as he left the kitchen. He yanked hard on the door, harder than necessary. It startled their visitor.

  “Hello, Ryan,” the man said timidly.

  It was Josh Colburn, the old lawyer who had prepared his father’s will. Ryan hadn’t seen him since the funeral. He was wearing a bright yellow bowling shirt that bore the logo of the local hardware store. “Mr. Colburn,” he said with surprise.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was over at the bowling alley. Word is out about Brent. Poor fellow. I drove by your mother’s house first, but there was nobody there. So I came here as quickly as I could.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” he said, bewildered.

  “But what’s the hurry?”

  “Well, I needed to talk to you. I’m having a little trouble interpreting your father’s instructions.”

  “My father? What are you talking about?”

  He leaned forward and whispered, as if sharing a matter of national security. “I have the envelope.”

  “Mr. Colburn, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The envelope. Frank told me to send it straight to the Denver Post if anyone in the Duffy family was ever harmed.”

  A chill went down Ryan’s spine. It was just like Norm had said. In any viable extortion scheme there had to be a safety valve — an unidentified third person who would automatically disclose the secret in the event the blackmailer or his family were ever killed. It was a way to ensure payment and prevent retaliation.

  “Did you send it to the Post yet?” asked Ryan.

  “No. You see, that’s where I’m confused. I know how your father felt about Brent. He hated him more than you did. To be honest with you, I’m not sure if Brent is considered part of the Duffy family.”

  “Where’s the envelope now?”

  “Back in my law office. I keep it locked in the safe. Frank told me never to carry it on my person.”

  Ryan stepped outside, put a friendly arm around the old man’s shoulder, and started down the porch. “Let’s you and I talk about that,” said Ryan. “On the way to your office.”

  The telephone rang after midnight. Amy was stretched across the couch in the living room, watching an old Audrey Hepburn flick. She snatched the cordless receiver from the cocktail table before the piercing ring could wake Taylor or her grandmother.

  “Hello.”

  “Amy, this is Ryan Duffy.”

  She nearly jackknifed on the couch, spilling her steamy bag of microwave popcorn. “How did you get my number?”

  “I found an old letter written by a woman named Debby Parkens.”

  She rose, stunned. “That’s my mother.”

  “I figured. It was postmarked in Boulder. I dialed directory assistance on a hunch. There’s only one Amy Parkens.”

  She suddenly regretted ever having told him her real first name. “What do you want?”

  “I had to call you. Amy, my father didn’t rape your mother.”

  “I know he didn’t. He raped-” She stopped herself. She didn’t want to drag Marilyn’s name into this. “Just stop harassing me. Don’t ever call me again.”

  “No, wait. I know why my father sent you the money.”

  She fought the urge to hang up. That was one question she definitely wanted answered. “Why?”

  “If I tell you on the phone, you’ll think I’m making this up. Meet with me, please.”

  “I’m not getting anywhere near you. Just tell me now.”

  “Amy, you have to see the letter. I don’t want to share it with you or anyone else until I’m sure it’s genuine. You’re the only one who can verify it. Bring something that will help you identify your mother’s handwriting. But please meet with me. As soon as possible.”

  She paused to think. He now knew where she lived. If she refused to meet him, he’d probably show up at her front door, which would give her one more thing to explain to the FBI. “All right. Come to Boulder. But we can’t meet at my apartment.”

  “Unfortunately, Boulder won’t work. I can’t leave Piedmont Springs right now. I have some serious family issues I have to deal with.”

  “What kind of joke is this?”

  “I just can’t go anywhere right now. There’s been a… another death in the family.”

  “I’m sorry. But do you really expect me to come all the way down to Piedmont Springs again?”

  “Only if you want to find out why your mother would write to my father just two weeks before she died.”

  Chills ran down her spine. That was all she needed to hear. “I’ll be there in the morning,” she said, then hung up the phone.

  51

  A firm knock on the door landed just after dawn. Sarah lay on her side in the fetal position, trying to relieve the stabbing back pain that came with her pregnancy. Her bleary eyes focused on the orange liquid crystals on the alarm clock beside her bed. 6:22 A.M. She rolled out of bed, slipped on her robe, and started downstairs.

  The night had taken its toll. She had slept little, wept often. The tears were not those typical of grief. They were laden with self-pity and apprehension about her future. She thought about the long term, but it was the short term that created the most anxiety. Her mother had run interference for her last night, telling the police that Sarah was an emotional wreck and couldn’t talk to them. Very soon, however, she would have to talk to the homicide detectives. They’d surely ask her if she was aware of any reason why someone might want to kill her husband. One question had kept her awake most of the night: What would she tell them about her father’s money?

  The knocking continued.

  “Coming,” she said, shuffling to the front door. She instantly regretted having said a word. It took away the option to peek out the window, see who it was, and pretend not to be home. She pulled back the curtain for a discreet peek anyway.

  The man standing on the porch was facing the driveway, his back to the house. His profile was unfamiliar to her. He seemed handsome and was dressed casually but smartly. The wristwatch looked to be the expensive kind. Inasmuch as she didn’t feel ready to talk to police, she was certain that no one at the sheriff’s department could afford a Rolex. She unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.

  “Mrs. Langford,” he said in a soft, sympathetic tone. “I’m Phil Jackson.”

  She knew the name but was unsure of her feelings. “You’re Liz’s lawyer.”

  “That’s right. I’m very sorry about your husband. I know this is a very difficult time for you, but it’s very important that we talk.”

  “What about?”

  “May I come in, please?”

  “No.”

  He took a half-step back. “Mrs. Langford, I can understand how you might have some unresolved feelings about me. But the sooner you recognize I’m on your side, the sooner we can get to the bottom of what happened to Brent.”

  “I know what happened to Brent. He got himself in the middle of something he should never have gotten involved in. And he got himself killed.”

  “But he did it for you. And your baby.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “It’s true. After Brent testified in court yesterday morning, he and I had a nice talk. One of the last things he s
aid to me was that he knew he hadn’t been a very good husband to you over the years. He always thought you deserved better.”

  Her eyes clouded with emotion. She was suddenly less defensive. “He really said that?”

  “Yes, he most certainly did. He knew he hadn’t provided for you. He regretted that, terribly. His testimony in court yesterday was his way of making it up to you.”

  “It sounded to me like he was just trying to hurt Ryan.”

  “No. The goal wasn’t to hurt Ryan. The goal was to protect you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me be up front with you. I know all about the three million dollars in the Banco del Istmo in Panama City. A law enforcement source verified that for me. Brent knew about it, too, obviously. His biggest fear was that Ryan — Mr. Goody Two-shoes — was going to screw things up and lose the money for the whole family.”

  “That’s always been my fear, too.”

  “It’s a reasonable fear. Your needs are different than your brother’s. He’s a doctor who can make a ton of money on his own, if he so chooses. But just like you, Liz needs and deserves the money. So when Brent came forward to help Liz, he was really looking out for you. By the same token, whatever I do for Liz also helps you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What can you do for me?”

  “I can help you make sure that Brent didn’t die in vain.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means I intend to honor the agreement Brent and I reached. So long as his widow will help me reach the same objectives.”

  “I need specifics.”

  “Very simple,” said Jackson. “There’s three million dollars in the bank. According to Brent, you and Ryan were going to divide it fifty-fifty. Liz was supposed to get nothing.”

  Sarah blinked. The way he said it made it sound like they really were cheating Liz.

  Jackson continued, “So here’s the deal. You keep your share of the inheritance. And as an added incentive to make sure Liz gets her fair share, you get twenty percent of whatever you help Liz take from Ryan.”

  “Mr. Jackson, this is my brother we’re talking about.”

  He stepped closer, pointing out the purple bruises beneath his facial makeup. “Your brother hired someone to beat the crap out of me. And he may have gotten your husband killed.”