James Grippando - Found money

Two million dollars.

Both the heat and nerves had him dripping with sweat. Still on his knees, he looked back and forth from the money to the flame as he weighed his decision. It was making him crazy. It was making them all crazy. His father had been dead less than a week. His wife was clawing at his throat for a huge divorce settlement, spurred on by his father’s dying words. His greedy brother-in-law was threatening to beat up his pregnant sister, prompting Ryan to torch the equivalent of a month’s salary. And some mysterious woman claimed his father might have sent her as much as two hundred thousand dollars for no reason at all. The money was evil, no question about it. Burning it was the right thing to do.

He grabbed a stack of bills and held it over the fire. His brain commanded him to drop it, but the hand wouldn’t listen. Or maybe it was the heart. He just couldn’t.

His eyes closed in shame and anguish. He’d never felt the power of money. He’d never felt so weak.

A sudden noise roused him from his thoughts. It had come from outside. He jumped up from his knees and hurried to the window. In the darkness, he saw Brent’s Buick coming up the driveway.

He’s back.

Ryan turned away in panic. The money. He had to hide the money. He grabbed the suitcase and paused for a split second, searching in his mind for a good place to stash it. He heard a car door slam. No time to spare. He stuffed it under the couch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fire still burning. The money should have gone with it — which gave him an idea. He grabbed the newspaper from the couch and pitched it into the fire. It burned immediately, leaving the flaky residue of burned paper. It could pass for burned money. Not many people were crazy enough to know what burned money actually looked like.

Ryan stiffened, thinking through the possibilities. It wasn’t likely that Brent would come back to talk. It wasn’t likely he’d sobered up. He was probably even more drunk, more fired up. He’d be looking for the money. He would have come back only for a showdown. Ryan didn’t own a gun, but his father had. Ryan had inventoried everything in the estate. He knew where everything was, right down to the last two million dollars. Down to the last thirty-eight-caliber bullet.

He sprinted down the hall to the master bedroom. The old Smith & Wesson was in the dresser, top drawer. The bullets were in the strongbox in the closet. Ryan grabbed the revolver first, then the ammunition. He loaded all six chambers and wrapped his hand around the pearl handle, the way his father had taught him. The gun was not a toy, he’d always warned Ryan, it was only for protection. Protection from drunken in-laws who were after the Duffy millions.

Ryan heard footsteps on the front porch, then a key in the front door. He switched off the safety on the revolver and started for the living room.

Gun in hand, he waited by the staircase, watching the front door. He heard keys jingling. He watched the lock turn. He raised the gun, taking aim, ready on the defense. The door opened. Ryan’s finger twitched. His heart pounded. His whole body stiffened, then suddenly relaxed.

“Mom?” he said, seeing her in the doorway.

She sniffed the smoky room. Her face went ashen. “Don’t tell me you really burned it.”

He was tongue-tied with surprise. His mother had always been intuitive, but to infer from the mere smell of smoke that he had burned all the money was downright clairvoyant. He lowered the gun, deciding to play dumb. “Burn what?”

She closed the door and went straight to the fireplace. “The money,” she said harshly. “I was at Sarah’s house and Brent came home all hysterical. Said you’d gone crazy and were burning the money.”

“Is he out there now?” ask Ryan. “I thought I saw his car.”

“Sarah drove me over.” She glanced at the ash in the fireplace. “I can’t believe you did this.”

He discreetly stuffed the gun into his pocket, hiding it from his mother. “What did Brent tell you?”

“He said you burned at least ten thousand dollars in the fireplace. That you threatened to burn it all.”

“That’s true.”

His mother stepped toward him, looked him in the eye. “Have you been drinking?”

“No. Brent’s the drunk. He came in here like a burglar looking for the money.”

Her tone softened. “They’re afraid you’re going to cheat them out of their half.”

“I’m not cheating anyone.”

She looked again at the ashes in the fireplace. “Ryan, you can do what you want with your share of the money. But you don’t have the right to burn your sister’s.”

“Sarah and I had a deal. The money would stay put until we figured out who Dad was blackmailing and why. She wasn’t even supposed to tell Brent. Obviously she did.”

“You had to figure she’d tell her own husband.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s her husband.”

“By that logic, Dad should have told you who he was blackmailing.”

She seemed to shrink before his eyes. “I told you. I don’t know any of the details. I didn’t want to know, and your father didn’t want to tell me.”

Ryan stepped closer and took her hand. “Mom, I came this close to burning two million dollars tonight. Maybe you would agree with that move, maybe you’d disagree. But I deserve to know everything you know before I do something that final.”

She turned away and faced the fireplace. The flickering flames were reflected in her dark, troubled eyes. She answered in a soft, serious voice, never looking up. “I do know more. But I don’t know everything.”

Ryan was beginning to sense why his mother hadn’t cried at the funeral. “Tell me what you know.”

“Your father-” She was struggling for words. “I think I know where you can find the answers you’re looking for.”

“Where?”

“The night before he died, your father gave me a key to a safe deposit box.”

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know. Your father just said that if you had any questions about the money, I should give it to you. I’m sure the blackmail will become clear once you open it.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because even though your father couldn’t say it to your face, he apparently wanted you to know. And I know of no place else to look.”

He searched her eyes, as if scrutinizing her soul. He’d never looked at his mother that way before, never had to watch for signs of deception. He found none. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you for telling me.”

“Don’t thank me. Can’t you see how afraid this makes me? For you, for all of us?”

“What do you want me to do?”

She grimaced, as if in pain. “That’s up to you. You can be like me and just stay away from it. Or you can open the box and deal with whatever comes with it.”

He paused for a moment until their eyes met. “I have to know, Mom.”

“Of course you do,” she said in a voice that faded. “Just don’t tell me about it.”

Panama. Until now, it had meant nothing to Ryan but a famous canal and an infamous dethroned dictator named Noriega. When his mother had told him about the safe deposit box, he’d figured it might be as far away as Denver.

What the hell was Dad doing with a safe deposit box in Panama?

The key and related documentation were in a locked strongbox in the bedroom closet, right where his mother had said they would be. Box 242 at the Banco Nacional in Panama City. There was even a city map. Dad’s passport was in there, too. Ryan didn’t even know he’d owned one. He thumbed through the pages. Most were blank. The passport was like new, stamped only twice. A trip to Panama nineteen years ago and a return to the United States the very next day. Not much of a vacation. It had to be business.