Found Money (16 page)

From his hotel room late Tuesday night, Ryan called his voice mail at the clinic for messages. He had canceled his appointments for the week and routed his patients to the clinic in Lamar. Still, he wanted to make sure there were no emergencies. The first message was definitely nothing to worry about. Ninety-year-old Marjorie Spader wanted to know if she could use her own prescription cough medicine to help her cat dislodge a fur ball. Ryan shook his head. That was the crazy thing about Piedmont Springs. Folks would let a deadly cancer grow inside them for years, completely untreated. But let their cat start hacking on a fur ball and they were immediately on the phone to the doctor.

The fifth message got his attention. It was from Liz.

“Ryan, just calling as a courtesy to let you know that my attorney is planning to take Brent’s deposition. The subpoena was served today, but I didn’t want to start taking depositions of family members without giving you a call first. Take care.”

He cringed.
Courtesy my ass
. She had called to gloat. He hung up and called Norm at home. He was already in bed, half asleep, half watching the late news. He grabbed the cordless phone on the nightstand. “Hello,” he grumbled.

“Sorry to bug you at home,” said Ryan.

He was groggy, forcing himself awake. “Yes, I did go to Boulder and I did copy the stupid yearbooks. It’ll take a couple of days for my investigator to run background checks on all your dad’s classmates.”

“Good. But that’s not why I’m calling. I need to talk to you.”

“Just a sec,” Norm said softly. He rolled out of bed and walked into the big walk-in closet, so as not to disturb his sleeping wife. “What’s up?”

“Liz’s lawyer is going to depose Brent, my brother-in-law.”

“Tonight?” He was being facetious.

“No, wiseguy. But the subpoena has already been served. I have to move fast if I’m going to stop it.”

“What does he know?”

“Not everything, but enough.”

“Walk me through it. Does anybody besides you and your mom know about the safe deposit box, the money?”

“As far as I know, my mom and I are the only ones who know about the safe deposit box at the Banco Nacional. The only one who knows about the three million at the Banco del Istmo is me. But Sarah knows about the two million in the attic. So does Brent.”

“What does Liz know?”

“Hard to say. She had a talk with my dad a few weeks before he died. I don’t remember exactly how she put it, but she claims he made some remark that money would come her way soon.”

Norm took a seat on the clothes hamper behind the closet door. “So that’s their angle.”

“What?”

“They’re trying to say the money was a gift from your dad while he was alive, rather than an inher
itance that passes through the estate after death.”

“What’s the difference? From Liz’s standpoint, I mean.”

“Huge. If it’s an inheritance, it’s what the law calls a special equity. She can’t get her hands on it in the divorce. But if it was a gift made before your father died, that might be a different situation. Especially if she can show that your dad expressly promised it to
her
.”

“Meaning she
can
get it in the divorce?”

“It’s a tough argument. But it’s their only argument.”

Ryan rose from the hotel bed and began to pace. “A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed Liz would reach like this. But I’ll believe anything after the wringer her lawyer ran me through in his office.”

“Who’s her lawyer?”

“Phil Jackson in Denver.”

“Oh, man. That guy’s a shark.”

“You know him?”

“Hell yes. He has his own publicist, for crying out loud. His mug is on the front page of the legal fish wrappers every other day. He’s slick. I think he’s downright dishonest. In fact, it wouldn’t at all surprise me to hear that one of his overly zealous investigators is behind the disappearance of your bag.”

“How could that be?”

“Let’s say Liz knows there’s money in Panama. Maybe your dad told her that much. She tells Jackson. He hires an investigator to watch you, letting you lead him straight to the money. Bingo. He’s hit the mother lode.”

Ryan shook his head. “I don’t know. Liz may have gone off the deep end, but I don’t think she
would ever authorize someone to follow me to Panama and swipe my bag.”

“Jackson could have talked her into it. Or he could have done it without her authorization. He could be just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to show Liz a copy of that three-million-dollar bank book you lost.”

“So what should I do?”

“You need to talk to your divorce lawyer.”

“I fired my divorce lawyer.”

“Then you need to get a new one.”

Ryan was silent.

Norm read his mind. “Uh-uh, no way, no how. I’m a white-collar criminal defense lawyer. I quit that divorce shit years ago. Too nasty for my taste. If I want to get bloody, I take on an occasional murder case. That’s my limit.”

“Who else can I trust with this? Don’t make me go into some stranger’s office and tell them my dad was a blackmailer with two million dollars in his attic and another three in Panama.”

“You’re asking me to go up against one of the toughest divorce lawyers in Denver. I’m rusty, at best.”

Ryan’s voice dropped, more serious. “Norm, I’m calling in the favor.”

The tone made it clear this was not about wedding days and nipple rings. Three years ago, Ryan had forced him to get a biopsy on a strange-looking mole on his back. But for that, Norm would have died of skin cancer two years ago. Ryan never thought he’d play that card. Then again, he never would have foreseen
this
.

“All right,” Norm said with a sigh. “Let me ease into it. I’ll handle the deposition, see how it goes.”

“Thanks, buddy. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Guess that makes us even.”

“Touché.” Ryan checked the alarm clock beside his bed, ready to set it. “So, what time will my passport be ready tomorrow?”

“Stop by the embassy some time around midmorning. It should be there by then. Call me if you hit any snags.”

“You know I will.”

“Yeah.” Norm chuckled. “You’re becoming my best client.”

“No offense, but aren’t most of your clients in jail?”

They laughed together, then stopped in awkward silence. It suddenly didn’t seem funny anymore. Ryan said good night. But the thought stayed with him after the call had ended.

His best client.
What a dubious distinction.

Phil Jackson rose at 5:00
A.M
., the start of his usual eleven-hour workday. People abhorred his style. Colleagues begrudged his celebrity-like status in the Denver legal community. No one denied he worked hard for his success. He had to. A flashy reputation lured clients through the door. Results paid the rent.

Jackson was showered, dressed, and out the door in forty-five minutes. It was a lonely routine for him, though he rather enjoyed the solitude of an entire neighborhood asleep. The sun wouldn’t rise for a few more minutes. No traffic disturbed the quiet street. Even the morning paper had yet to arrive.

He stepped carefully across the lawn. The brick pavers on the sidewalk were slick with the morning dew, and the path was darker than usual. The decorative lamp outside the garage had apparently burned out.

The transmitter on his key chain activated the garage door opener, raising the middle door of his three-car garage. He felt like the 800 series Mercedes today. The black car, however, was barely visible this morning. The garage was unusually dark. The light inside was burned out, too.

What is this, an epidemic?

He entered the garage and started toward the driver’s side. The alarm chirped as it disengaged by keyless remote. The car lights blinked. He reached for the door. Something rattled behind him. He turned to look. His briefcase went flying with the first blow to the head. He swung wildly in self-defense. Someone had him by the neck. His head snapped forward. His face slammed into the windshield. He was stunned, blinded by the hot rush of blood. Another quick jerk of his head put a crack in the windshield.

His legs buckled, but his attacker held him up. He was pinned against the car, barely able to breathe beneath the man’s weight. The stranger’s hot breath coursed down the back of his neck. His attacker was right on him, as if poised to say something. A ringing filled his ears, but he could hear the rough words, a voice like gravel, undoubtedly disguised.

“It’s family business. Don’t make it yours.”

The lawyer’s head slammed against the windshield one last time. Red rivulets of blood ran down to the wipers. Jackson fell to the cement floor. He could see nothing. He heard only footsteps, faintly, until he heard nothing at all.

The numbness took over as he drifted away.

Ryan slept in his hotel room until noon. He’d been awake all night, having last checked the alarm clock at 6:55
AM
. Rest was something that no longer came easy, not since his father’s death. Each time his busy mind drifted toward sleep, the images came. He would think of his father. Dead, not alive. He could see him in the ground, sleeping peacefully beneath so many tons of earth. Beside him in the coffin was a noticeable void, a hole much deeper than the one in which they’d buried him. It was a vast underground cavern, like the ones he’d shown Ryan long ago in New Mexico, big enough for the secrets he should have taken to the grave.

The phone rang. He was standing at the bathroom sink, dressed only from the waist down, splashing away the soapy remains of his morning shave—though it was actually the afternoon. He dried his face with a towel as he crossed the room and answered on the half-ring.

“Hello.”

“They’re coming for you. Get out of the hotel.”

It was a woman’s voice. It sounded vaguely familiar—like the woman who’d scammed him in the hotel bar. “Who is this?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds, no more. Get out of the hotel.
Now.
”

The line clicked.

Ryan stood frozen. It
was
the same voice, he was sure of it.
Which means this is probably another scam
.

He pulled on a shirt and went to the door. He opened it quickly but carefully, just a crack, not even as far as the chain lock would allow. The door frame blocked his view to the left. To the right, however, he could see all the way down the long corridor, clear to the elevators. About thirty other rooms separated his from the exit. The halls were quiet and empty, save for an unattended maid’s cart. A few doors were open for cleaning. The clang of the elevator bell signaled an arrival. Ryan watched from afar as the doors slid open.

Five men stepped out. Their pace was brisk, purposeful. All were dressed in the beige and brown uniforms of the Panamanian military police.

Ryan closed the door, nearly fell against it.
Son of a bitch.

His mind raced with possibilities. It had to be a setup orchestrated by the very same woman who had teamed up to steal his bag. She’d called them herself. But why would she have called to warn him? Maybe the banker at Banco del Istmo had called them. This was his payback for the way Ryan had bullied him into violating Panamanian bank secrecy. Ryan just didn’t know. And he didn’t intend to hang around and find out.

He double-checked the lock on the door and raced across the room. His garment bag was already packed and on the bed, but baggage would slow him, and it wasn’t worth saving. He grabbed only his smaller bag and ran to the window. He was on the second floor, in one of the cheaper rooms that faced the alley. For once he was glad to
have the room without a view. He paused to think twice. He could stay put and try to explain. But with no passport and three million dollars in a numbered bank account, he wasn’t looking forward to a police interrogation. The dictatorship was gone, but Panama was still the third world.

Boot steps rumbled in the hall, like a charging cavalry. No time to think. He opened the window and climbed out on the ledge.

It was a narrow alley, barely wide enough for compact cars. Ryan’s room faced a seafood restaurant. Garbage lined both sides, some of it in big overflowing bins, most just scattered in the gutter. The odor suggested that it had been there for some time. He wasn’t sure what to do. He could jump straight to the pavement and risk breaking an ankle. Or he could let the trash break the fall and risk smelling like week-old mahimahi.

A hard knock on the door announced their arrival.
“La policía! Abre la puerta!
”

Ryan paused. If he jumped, there was no turning back.
If I stay…

The knock was suddenly a thud—then a crash. The door burst open just a crack, caught by the chain. They were breaking down the door.

Staying is not an option
.

He took a deep breath and jumped from the ledge, flying, amazed at how long it took to fall just three stories. His feet skidded on the pavement. Momentum sent him rolling across the alley between the trash piles. He kept his bag close to protect the breakables inside. From the ground, he looked up toward his room.

The police were at the window, shouting something in Spanish.

Ryan sprang to his feet and ran up the alley,
weaving between trash bins and a few makeshift bungalows for the homeless. His knee was throbbing from the fall, but it didn’t slow him down. At a dead run it was difficult to see in the shadows. He kept his eye on the daylight just ahead, where the alley fed into a busy thoroughfare. He heard shouting behind him. The police. A burst of adrenaline quickened his pace. Finally he reached the street, clutching his bag like a football.

The sidewalk was a two-way stream of pedestrians, nearly shoulder to shoulder. It was impossible to run. Better
not
to run, thought Ryan.
Just blend with the crowd
.

A shrill whistle cut through the usual city noises. Ryan glanced over his shoulder. It was a police whistle. They were coming from the alley.

His eyes darted, searching for an escape. He was itching to turn and see if they were closing in. He couldn’t run without giving himself away. But maybe they had a bead on him. His only chance might be an all-out run for it.

Ryan spotted a cab pulling up at the corner. He nearly broke into a run. The moment the previous passenger stepped out, Ryan jumped in the backseat and slammed the door behind him.

“
El embassy de los Estados Unidos
,” he said in bad Spanish. He dug all of his money from his bag and showed it to the driver. “
Pronto, por favor
.”

The cabby hit the gas so hard it threw Ryan against the backseat. Ryan looked out the rear window. The police were in the street, shouting at each other. One of them pointed at the taxi as it sped away.

Ryan glanced ahead through the windshield. The American embassy was just a few blocks away. That was his best bet. The local police had no jurisdic
tion there. If he’d done something wrong, he’d face the music in his own country. He just didn’t want to spend the night—or longer—in a Panamanian jail.

Sirens blared behind them. The police were in pursuit.

“Hurry, please!” said Ryan.

The cab screeched to a halt. The driver was shouting in rapid-fire Spanish. Ryan couldn’t understand the words, but the point was clear. He wanted no part of a police chase. Ryan tossed him some money for the ride and jumped out at the curb.

The embassy was just a half-block ahead, between Thirty-eighth and Thirty-ninth streets on busy Avenida Balboa. The main building, which housed the ambassador, faced the blue-green Bay of Panama. Ryan was fairly certain that his new passport was waiting in the administrative offices a few blocks away, but right now he had other priorities. He slung his bag over his shoulder and sprinted up the avenue, toward a large circular intersection. Traffic fed in from five different directions, then wound around a small park in the center. By car, the police would have to go the long way around the perimeter. Ryan was better off on foot. He cut across the diameter, running straight through the park. Just six lanes of traffic separated him from U.S. soil. The police car was nearly on two wheels as it raced around the circle, weaving in and out of cars. Ryan dodged a few cars as he cut across the street. An old Chevy swerved and slammed on its brakes, nearly flattening him. Ryan leaped to the sidewalk and never stopped. The police car screeched to a halt in front of the embassy. Ryan kept going. The police jumped out and ran across the sidewalk, then stopped at the
gated entrance to the embassy grounds—the end of their jurisdiction. He glanced back, relieved to see they had given up.

A security guard stopped him at the outside gate. Ryan was so winded he could barely speak. “I’m an American citizen. My passport was stolen. I need help.”

“Come with me,” he said.

The guard escorted him onto the compound, where a U.S. Marine met him at the entrance to the main building. Outside the embassy were privately hired guards; inside, the Marines took over. Ryan felt relief at the sight of the American flag in the lobby. Even the picture of the president he hadn’t voted for made him feel at home.

“Thank you so much,” he said.

The young Marine was as stiff as his starched and pressed uniform. He wore a tan shirt and dark blue pants with a red stripe down the side. A pistol and metal handcuffs were on his belt. He drew neither, but he did little else to put Ryan at ease. They passed the elevators and the entrance to the ground-floor offices. The directory on the wall listed everything from the ambassador and the legal attaché to the Coast Guard and Drug Enforcement Agency. Ryan wasn’t sure where they were headed. He just followed. They stopped at a set of double wood doors at the end of the hall. The Marine opened the door on the right.

“Please, step inside, sir.”

Ryan went in. The Marine posted himself outside and closed the door behind him. The room was sparsely furnished, just a rectangular table and chairs. A fluorescent light hummed overhead. Two men rose from the chairs on the opposite side of the table. One looked young and Hispanic. The
other was more WASP-ish and mature. They were dressed alike in white shirts and dark blue blazers. Both were stone-faced as they looked at Ryan.

“Dr. Duffy?” the older one said. His voice almost echoed off the cold bare walls.

“Yes.”

The man reached inside his pocket and flashed his credentials. “Agent Forsyth. FBI. Agent Enriquez and I would like to ask you some questions. Just take a few minutes. Could you have a seat, please.”

Ryan remained standing, shifting nervously. “I’m just down here on business, you know. Somebody stole my bag.”

“What’s that on your shoulder?”

“Oh, this? I bought it here in the city. At the hotel, actually. As a replacement.”

He seemed skeptical. “Did you report the theft to the Panamanian police?”

“No, I didn’t. I, uh, just didn’t get around to it.”

“Why were you running from the police?”

“What do you mean?”

His gaze tightened. “You heard me.”

“Look, this whole thing is getting way out of hand. My passport was stolen. I just wanted to get back to my own country as quickly as possible. Why would a guy who has anything to hide run straight to the U.S. embassy? If you think I was running from the police, that’s your perception. But I have no idea why the police would be following me.”

“We asked them to pick you up,” said Forsyth.

“That’s why they were following you.”

Ryan looked confused. “The FBI
asked
them?”

He nodded. “It’s not unusual for the FBI to ask the local police to pick up a subject.”

“A suspect? Suspect of what?”

“I said subject, not suspect. You’re not a suspect. Please, sit. We’d like to talk to you.”

Ryan had watched enough cop shows on television to know there was something magic about the term “suspect.” At the very least, a suspect had to be advised of his legal rights—which was probably why they weren’t calling him one. At least not yet.

“What do you want to know?” asked Ryan.

“For starters, let’s talk about the three-million-dollar account at the Banco del Istmo.” Forsyth leaned forward, watching Ryan carefully. “You must have really pissed off that bank officer you were dealing with. These days it’s a little easier to pierce bank secrecy than it used to be under the dictatorship. But even so, this is the first time we’ve ever gotten the cooperation of the Banco del Istmo. They sent all the records straight to the financial intelligence unit here in Panama, which sent them to us.” He picked up a file from the table before him, apparently reading from something.

“Three hundred transfers in the amount of nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars. A rather unimaginative way to circumvent the ten-thousand-dollar currency transaction reporting requirements, if I do say so myself.”

Ryan blinked, saying nothing.

Forsyth continued to read from his file. “According to the bank officer, you told him—quote—‘My father was not the kind of man to have three million dollars in a numbered account in the Banco del Istmo. My father wasn’t the kind of man to have three million dollars in
any
bank.’ End quote.” He looked up from the file. With a quick glance, he directed Ryan to the empty chair at the table. “Have a seat, Dr. Duffy. I’d really like to give you an opportunity to explain that statement.”

Ryan started to sweat. Part of him felt the need to say something. Part of him felt the urge to get the hell out of there. He didn’t know his rights, but he knew someone who did.

“I’ll be happy to talk to you,” he said. “After I talk to my lawyer.”