Found Money (14 page)

Ryan returned to the Banco del Istmo on Tuesday morning. It was only half a block away from the Banco Nacional, where he’d found the records for the three million dollar account in the safe deposit box. Yesterday, he’d made the journey in a state of disbelief, almost in a stupor. Only today did he even notice the logo on the doors, the narrow isthmus of Panama, which explained the bank’s name—literally, the Bank of the Isthmus.

Ryan waited almost an hour in the lobby. He waited alone. Not a single customer came or went. The building was much older than the Banco Nacional, the decor less impressive. No artwork on the walls, no plants to dress up the hallways or offices. No air conditioning, either, at least not the modern kind. Through the open windows seeped traffic noise and exhaust fumes from the busy city streets. A wobbly old paddle fan rattled overhead, as if trying to shake itself free from the ceiling. Ryan got the distinct impression that very few customers did their business in person at the Banco del Istmo.

Ryan went through two cups of coffee while he waited. He could have spoken to several bank officers during that time period, but he wanted to meet with the same vice president he had spoken to yesterday. At 11:15, Humberto Hernandez finally emerged from his office.

“Dr. Duffy?” he said with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I just couldn’t get away from the telephone.”

Ryan rose and shook his hand. “I understand.”

“Please, come back to my office.”

Ryan followed him down the hall into his small cubicle. Hernandez wore a short-sleeved dress shirt with no jacket or tie, very practical in the heat. He had thick black hair that he combed straight back. It glistened with some kind of oil, as if he’d just jumped out of the shower. He stood almost a foot shorter than Ryan but was easily fifty pounds heavier. Tiny remnants of an early lunch of rice, beans, and sausage rested in the center of his cluttered desk.

“Please, have a seat,” he said as he sank into his Naugahyde desk chair.

“Thank you.” Ryan took the only available chair, on the other side of the desk.

“How can I help you today, Doctor?”

“I’d like to follow up on something we were talking about yesterday.”

“Yes, go on.”

“It has to do with the source of the three million dollars that was transferred into my father’s account.”

“I am very sorry, sir. I already explained. That is something I cannot help you with.”

“If I may, I’d like to explain my situation. I think it might make a difference.”

He seemed unmoved. “Go on, please.”

“I’m the executor of my father’s estate. It’s my job to distribute the assets of the estate in accordance with my father’s wishes. I cannot in good faith distribute those assets if I don’t know where they came from.”

“Why not?”

“Because my father was not the kind of man to have three million dollars in a numbered account in the Banco del Istmo.”

“Sir, we run a legitimate bank here. I do not appreciate your suggestion to the contrary.”

“I didn’t mean to insult. I just meant that my father wasn’t the kind of man to have three million dollars in
any
bank.”

“Perhaps you don’t know what kind of man your father was.”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you know my father?”

“No. Did you?”

Ryan narrowed his eyes. “I need to know where this money came from. Period.”

Hernandez leaned forward, his hands atop the desk. He was polite but firm. “As I explained yesterday, the funds were transferred from another numbered account in this bank. Just as your father’s identity was protected by the laws of bank secrecy, that other account holder is entitled to the same protection. I cannot breach that confidentiality just because you walk in and demand to know.”

Ryan glared, then opened the paper bag he’d brought with him. “I have something for you, Mr. Hernandez.”

“Oh? What?”

Ryan reached inside with a handkerchief. Carefully, he removed the bar glass and set it on the desk. “This cocktail glass is from the lounge in the Marriott Hotel.”

He was baffled, unsure of what to say. “Did you get a set of bath towels for me as well?”

“This is not a joke. After I left this bank yester
day, someone followed me to my hotel and robbed me. They took my bag and everything in it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I believe it was an employee of this bank who followed me.”

“That’s ludicrous.”

“I can prove it. The woman who followed me was drinking from this glass. Her fingerprints are still on it.”

“Have you done a fingerprint analysis?”

“Of course not. Not yet.”

“So the analysis could very well prove that the culprit is not one of our employees.”

“Or it could prove that she is. It all comes down to the question of what risk do you want to take.”

“Risk?”

“Yes, risk. If I give this glass to the authorities and there is no match, you’re in the clear. But if there is a match, the legal problems will be the least of your worries. Competition is brutal among international banks these days. This is the kind of misfortune your competitors could seize upon, I’m sure. It couldn’t be good for business if your customers were to hear that a law-abiding American doctor with three million dollars in your bank was stalked by one of your employees and robbed. You’re going to have one huge customer relations problem on your hands. I guarantee it.”

His right eye twitched. “Sir, I admit that the Banco del Istmo does not have a past that is, as you Americans say, squeaky clean. But in recent years we have worked very hard to change that image. I beseech you, do not slander our good name.”

“It’s in your hands. If you’re a hundred percent confident that it wasn’t an employee of this bank who followed me to my hotel, then you can send
me on my merry way to the police. But if there is the slightest doubt in your mind, the glass is there for the taking. Consider it a gift.”

He glanced at the glass, then at Ryan. “Of course, it would make me feel terribly guilty to accept a gift from a friend without giving something of myself in return.”

“You know what I want.”

“I told you. It’s against the law.”

“I’ve never been a big fan of laws that allow criminals to shield themselves behind banks. This is not negotiable.”

Hernandez seemed in agony, like a man with a gun to his head. Suddenly he swiveled in his chair, faced his computer and typed in the account number. “I have here the entire transaction history for your father’s account. It shows every deposit, every withdrawal. Including internal transfers from other account holders at the bank.”

Ryan couldn’t see the screen from his chair. As he rose to take a look, Hernandez said, “Stay right where you are.”

Ryan retreated to his chair, confused.

Hernandez said, “As I explained, I cannot give you this information. That would be a crime. That is my final word on the matter.” He rose, then continued, “Now, I’m going to take this glass, go to the snack room, and get myself a cool drink of water. I will be back in exactly five minutes. You can remain here while I’m gone, if you wish. Whatever you do, do not look at that computer screen. I repeat: Do
not
look at that screen.”

The banker had cleared his conscience. He took the glass and quietly left the room. The door closed behind him.

Ryan remained in his chair, staring at the back
of the computer monitor. It chilled him to think the answer was right around the desk, flashing on the screen. Yet to learn who had paid the blackmail, he would have to break the law of bank secrecy. It wasn’t an American law. It wasn’t even a law he much respected, having seen it abused by drug lords and tax evaders. Breaking
any
law, however, was a dangerous road. The first step had a way of leading to the second.

He paused to weigh his alternatives. He could walk away, perhaps never to know who his father had blackmailed. Or he could step around and have a look.

He waited only another moment. Then he took that first step.

Amy drove to Denver on faith. She didn’t actually have an appointment with Marilyn Gaslow, but she was confident she would see her. Few people had a full appreciation of the personal history between Amy and the firm’s most influential partner.

The main offices for Bailey, Gaslow & Heinz were on five contiguous floors some forty stories above downtown Denver. Theoretically, the Denver headquarters and six branch offices operated as one fully integrated law firm. Amy made sure that was the case with state-of-the-art computer links between cities. Still, there was no technological or other way to transport completely the high-charged atmosphere of the main office to its satellites. Each visit to Denver reminded Amy that it wasn’t the satellites in Boulder or Colorado Springs that made this Rocky Mountain law firm comparable to the finest firms in New York or Los Angeles.

Amy approached the secretarial station outside Marilyn’s office with some trepidation. Her secretary was a notorious snob who protected Marilyn like royalty.

“Good morning,” said Amy. “Is Marilyn here?”

The secretary raised an eyebrow, as if Amy’s use of the first name was utter insubordination. “She’s here, yes. But she’s not available.”

“Is she with someone?”

“No. She’s simply unavailable.”

“When will she be available?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

She almost glared at Amy, invoking her most snotty tone. “Whether a client calls. Whether her partners need her. Whether Jupiter aligns with Mars.”

“Please tell her Amy Parkens is here, that it’s personal, and that it’s very important.”

She didn’t budge.

Amy met her stare. “If she gets angry, you can personally type my letter of resignation.”

Smugly, she buzzed Marilyn on the intercom and delivered the message exactly the way Amy had worded it. A look of surprise washed over her face. She hung up and muttered, “Ms. Gaslow will see you now.”

Amy smirked.
Never underestimate the power of an astronomer to align the planets.

Marilyn Gaslow had an impressive corner office on the forty-second floor with breathtaking views of both the mountains and the plains. The furnishings were French antiques. Museum-quality artwork decorated one wall. Another was covered with plaques and awards she had accumulated over the years, marking a lifetime of achievement that included everything from first woman president of the American Bar Association to a four-year stint as chairwoman of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission. Scattered among the wall of glory were photographs of Marilyn with every president since Gerald Ford, each signed and inscribed with a warm personal message. Behind her desk was a more personal touch—a
framed but faded old snapshot of two smiling teenage girls. It was Marilyn and Amy’s mother.

“So good to see you, Amy.” She rose and gave her a motherly hug.

In some ways, Marilyn was like a mother, at least when they were together. Marilyn had been her mother’s closest friend at one time and, in her own way, had taken an interest in Amy’s well-being after the suicide. Whenever Amy wasn’t right before her eyes, however, Marilyn was simply too busy to notice that she lived from paycheck to paycheck in a tiny apartment with her daughter and grandmother. Marilyn was a career woman to the exclusion of
any
personal life. Her only marriage had ended in divorce twenty years ago, and she had no children of her own.

Amy gave her the latest on Taylor as they settled into their chairs. Amy sat on the couch. Marilyn took the Louis XVI armchair. Marilyn was pleasant but clearly pressed for time.

“So what’s this personal and important matter you’ve come here to talk about?”

“Our apartment was broken into yesterday. The place was completely wrecked.”

“My God, that’s terrible. Do you need a place to stay?”

“We’re okay. Fortunately we had rental insurance. We’ll just have to impose on the neighbors until the place gets cleaned up.”

Marilyn reached for the telephone. “I know the chief of police in Boulder. Let me give him a call, make sure there are more patrol cars in the area.”

“Marilyn, that’s not necessary. I just wanted your advice.”

“On what?”

“The burglars took some money.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars. Cash. It was in the freezer.”

She did a double take. “What were you doing with that kind of money in the freezer?”

“It’s a long story.” Over the next few minutes, Amy summed it up. The Crock-Pot box from the anonymous source. The meeting with Ryan Duffy. The meeting with Sarah and the breakdown in Kit Carson. Finally, the demolished apartment and stolen money. It was difficult at first, but then the words began to flow. Gram was great, but it was nice to have someone like Marilyn on your side.

Marilyn leaned back in the armchair, seemingly overwhelmed. “So right now, the police know nothing about the money?”

“Nothing,” said Amy. “I’m not sure what to tell them. That’s why I’m here. I wanted your advice.”

“For starters, don’t put large sums of cash in the freezer. But as they say, that bit of advice is a day late and two hundred thousand dollars short.”

“That was Gram’s idea.”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s just talk this out. You say you got the money in a Crock-Pot box. You don’t know who sent it. You think it was a guy named Frank Duffy, whom you have never met. You have no idea why he’d give you the time of day, let alone two hundred thousand dollars. He was a middleclass family man, no outward signs of wealth. He sent it to you right before he died.”

“That’s right.”

“Your first problem is obvious. It doesn’t pass the time-honored ‘
What in the hell have you been smoking?
’ test.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“
I
believe you. Barely. And that’s only because I know you.”

“Why would I make something like this up?”

“Who knows? Sympathy? Desperate single mother goes on the evening news, says her house was ransacked and the burglars made off with two hundred thousand dollars in cash. Before you know it, people are mailing in checks to the television studio to replace the stolen money. I’m not saying it could work. But a skeptic might say that’s your angle.”

“You know that’s not me.”

“Of course. But we have to worry about the way others might perceive this.”

“I’m not worried about perceptions.”

“Well, I surely am. And you should be, too. You are a valued employee of this law firm. Everything you do is a reflection on the institution. How old did you say Mr. Duffy was?”

“Sixty-two.”

“Great. A dying, married old man gives two hundred thousand dollars in cash to a stunning twenty-eight-year-old woman. And she has no explanation for it. To put it bluntly, do you really want people calling you a whore, Amy?”

“Marilyn!”

“I’m not making accusations. Just playing out the possible ramifications. Perceptions aside, you’ve got even bigger problems. The basic question is, who is this Frank Duffy character? For all you know, he or his son or someone else in that family was a scumbag drug dealer. Why would you want to report missing money that could link you to somebody like that?”

“Because I have nothing to hide.”

“Like I said, no one’s going to believe you got
that much money for doing absolutely nothing. You could have the Boulder police and maybe even the FBI watching you for the rest of your life. And remember, you don’t have to be
convicted
of a crime to be denied admission to the Colorado Bar. If you raise enough questions about your character, you could end up spending three years in law school and never become a lawyer.”

“You really think that could happen?”

“Possibly. One thing’s for sure. You’ll have big problems right here in this office. I went to bat for you to get the firm to underwrite your tuition so you could start law school this fall. How are you going to explain to the partnership that while you were claiming poor-mouth, you actually had a spare two hundred thousand dollars laying around the apartment?”

“It was recent.”

“Sure. And if it hadn’t been stolen, would you have ever bothered to tell the firm?”

Amy paused. She could have said law school would have lost out to astronomy if the money hadn’t been stolen—but now didn’t seem like the time. “I see your point.”

Marilyn checked her watch. “I’m sorry to cut this short. I have to run to a luncheon. I’ll think more about this later, but my gut reaction is pretty solid.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

“Above all, keep perspective. At this stage in your life, two hundred thousand dollars sounds like all the money in the world. Ten years from now, you’ll be a partner in this law firm and it won’t even be a down payment on a house. And no matter what you do now, you’ll never recover the cash. It might as well have burned. You have a won derful future ahead of you. There’s just no point in mak
ing yourself a lightning rod for trouble.”

Marilyn leaned forward and touched Amy’s hand, looking her in the eye. “Listen to me, Amy. It was found money. Now it’s lost. Forget about it. And you and I will forget we ever had this conversation.”

Amy had no time to respond. Marilyn was on her feet, phone in hand, speaking to her secretary. Amy rose and started for the door.

Marilyn covered the mouthpiece. “Give my love to Taylor,” she blurted across the room, then returned to her phone conversation. Amy forced a smile and let herself out. That was Marilyn. Already on to the next client, the next set of multi-million-dollar problems.

While Amy battled the little problems of her own.

Liz Duffy went to lunch at Spencer’s, a quick place for salads on the 16th Street Mall. She sat alone at a table for two. A newcomer to Denver, she was still trying to meet new friends and build a new life without Ryan. She was picking at a grilled chicken Caesar and starting chapter two of a dog-eared paperback when her cell phone rang.

It startled her at first. She had never owned a cell phone before. Her lawyer had gotten it for her. Jackson had said it was for emergencies, just in case he needed to reach her. So far, he’d used it only to call and say hello—at least twice a day. Liz was flattered by all the personal attention. Jackson had a lot going for him. Brains. Looks. Money. Lots of money.

“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.”