Found Money (24 page)

“Let him go,” he said quietly. “Don’t look at him, don’t look at Jackson, and don’t look at your wife. You’re bound to say something you’ll regret. And believe me, they’re taking notes.”

Ryan swallowed his anger and let him pass.

Jackson gathered his papers into his briefcase. Liz was at his side, almost hiding behind her lawyer. He paused on their way out. “Welcome to Family Court, gentlemen.”

It took all his strength, but Ryan said nothing. He just watched as Jackson led the way with Liz in tow. She took his arm as they passed through the swinging double doors in the back of the courtroom. Inertia kept the doors swinging back and forth several times before coming to a halt. On
the third swing, he saw Brent and Jackson shaking hands in the hallway. Liz was there too, smiling. All three were smiling.

It was the Three Musketeers.

“I
really
don’t believe this,” he said softly.

The drive back to Norm’s house seemed to take forever. Ryan rode in the passenger seat, venting. Norm was behind the wheel, just listening. Ryan wasn’t criticizing his friend. He was more critical of the process.

“It’s totally bizarre,” said Ryan. “One minute Judge Novak is threatening to throw Jackson in jail, the next minute he’s throwing us out of court.”

“I see that kind of posturing in criminal court. Judges are always threatening to hold the prosecutors in contempt and throw the case out. It creates the illusion of fairness before they stick it to the defendant. Whenever I hear that nonsense, I know my client is in for a nice long all-expenses-paid trip to Club Fed. I guess the same holds true in Family Court—though at least you’re not in jail.”

“That’s the irony of it. Brent is the one who should be locked up. Instead, he and Jackson are buddies.”

“There’s no doubt in my mind that Brent put Jackson in the hospital. But somehow—probably through his FBI contacts—Jackson must have found out about the three-million-dollar bank account. Big money has a way of healing old wounds. They’ve clearly cut a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Jackson probably gave him two choices. One,
Brent could help Liz get her share of the money. Or two, Jackson could bring the FBI down on Brent’s head and make sure he spends the next three to six years in jail.”

“You think Brent told them about the two million in the attic?”

“It’s possible. Jackson was very careful with his questions. He didn’t get too specific about the amount of the money, where it was kept, whether it was cash or in some other form. When it comes to money, he knows he’s not helping his client by raising a red flag for the FBI or the IRS. He doesn’t want to kill the proverbial goose that lays the golden egg.”

“I can’t believe Liz would be part of this. She never even liked Brent.”

“He’s all she’s got. Look at it from her standpoint, Ryan. You never told her about the money. She had to hear it from her lawyer that your father had three million dollars in a foreign bank account. And she may not like Brent, but she may very well believe his story that you hired someone to beat up Jackson. To top it all off, your father gave
her
the combination to the lock. Don’t you think it’s natural she’d feel a little entitled?”

Ryan shook his head. “That combination just frosts me. I don’t understand what my father was trying to do.”

“What’s to understand? Your old man loved Liz. Honestly, I think he felt sorry for her going way back to when you went away to college and left her behind in Piedmont Springs.”

“Dad was the one who talked me into leaving her. I told you that story, didn’t I? My dad’s very sophisticated hot-wire analogy. Once you’re grounded, never grab another.”

“Maybe he felt guilty for giving you bad advice.”

“Or bad metaphors.”

“Whatever. The bottom line is he wanted you and Liz to stick together. So he told you where the money was, and he gave her the combination. He was forcing you two to work together.”

“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.

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 speed.

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 flash
ing 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.