James Grippando - Found money

“I see. Seems like you’d want a probate specialist. Who are you using?”

“I was planning on using the same lawyer who drafted Dad’s will. Josh Colburn. Kind of local legal beagle.”

“You mean legal eagle.”

“No. I mean beagle. Not too smart, loyal as a puppy dog. Basically he does everybody in Piedmont Springs. But it’s starting to look like this is way over his head.”

“In what way?”

“I have some real questions about the source of the funds.”

“What kind of questions?”

Ryan hesitated. Suddenly the fact that he knew Norm and Norm had known his father was a hindrance. It had nothing to do with trust. An acute sense of shame kept him from uttering the word “extortion.” He skipped ahead, glossing over it. “My dad had a safe deposit box in Panama.”

“The country of Panama?”

“ Si,” said Ryan.

“That doesn’t mean anything by itself.”

“Norm, cut the politically correct bullshit. We’re not talking about a high-rolling international businessman. We’re talking about a sixty-two-year-old electrician from Piedmont Springs.”

“I see your point.”

“He rented the box almost twenty years ago. Went down on a Tuesday, came back the following day. As far as I can tell from his passport, he never went back.”

“You know what’s in it?”

“Supposedly there are some papers inside that will explain the source of the money.”

Norm shook his head, confused. “You gotta give me a little more information here. When you say money, you talking stocks, bonds, gold doubloons — what is it?”

“Cash. Seven figures.”

His eyes widened. “Congratulations, old buddy. You can afford me.”

“What do you know about Panamanian banks?”

“It all depends. Back in the days of dictatorship, things were different than they are now. Very strict bank secrecy. Frankly, a lot of drug money was laundered through Panamanian banks. Some would say it’s still prevalent to this day, just that it’s no longer sponsored by the government.”

“This is so crazy.”

Norm leaned closer. “I don’t mean to alarm you, amigo. Even though I do mostly criminal work, I’ve done enough probate to know you’re in somewhat of a crack yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the executor of the estate, right? That means you have ethical and legal obligations of your own. For starters, where did the money come from?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Where do you think it came from? Be honest with me.”

Ryan still couldn’t say it — he couldn’t call his father a blackmailer. “I’m afraid it may turn out that Dad wasn’t entitled to this money.”

“All right. Just so we can have an intelligent conversation here, let’s say your old man cheated somebody. I presume he didn’t pay income tax on the money.”

“Definitely not.”

“There’s problem number one. The IRS has absolutely no sense of humor about these things.”

“So I suppose I’ll have to report the money on some kind of estate tax form.”

“Not just that. The probate court requires you to file a schedule of assets. And you have to give legal notice to potential creditors, who then have the right to file a claim against the estate. If your dad did cheat somebody, I suppose the victims would be considered creditors. In the strictest ethical sense, you would be obligated to send them a notice so they could get their money back, if they wanted to make an issue out of it.”

“What if I don’t know who they are?”

“You’re the executor of the estate. It’s your duty to find out. Within the exercise of reasonable diligence, of course.”

The mention of a legal duty only heightened Ryan’s sense of moral responsibility — not to mention his curiosity. “I just can’t believe my dad would be involved in anything… unsavory. I always thought he was such a good person.”

“That’s what we always want to think. We think that about ourselves. Then one day, opportunity knocks. And that’s when we find out. Are we truly honest? Some people are. Some people are hardcore crooks. Those are the extremes. Most of the people I defend are in the middle. They’ve done the right thing all their life, but only because the fear of doing time outweighs the rewards of the crime. For them, morality boils down to simple risk analysis. The thing is, you never know which way those people will turn until the right opportunity comes along.”

“I’m afraid my dad may have flunked the test.”

“It’s not a test, Ryan. At least not the kind you can cram for the night before, like we did in college. It’s a question of what you’re made of. Now, I don’t know where your dad got that kind of money. Maybe it’s totally legitimate. Maybe it’s not. But maybe he still had a damn good reason for doing what he did.”

“I don’t know the complete picture yet.”

“Then you have a couple of choices. You can go down to Panama and open the box. Or you can ignore it. My hunch, however, is that if you go down there, you’re going to find out what your father was made of. Can you handle that?”

“Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “I have to.”

“Okay. That was the easy one. Here’s where it gets complicated.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once you start chasing the money trail, you might well find out what you are made of. So before you hop on an airplane, you need to ask yourself: Can you handle that?”

Ryan looked his friend in the eye. “I brought my passport,” he said flatly. “That question was answered before I got here.”

On Sunday morning Amy called Ryan Duffy again. An elderly-sounding woman answered, his mother. Amy hadn’t realized that the doctor she had found so interesting had formally moved in with his mother, but she quickly cut him some slack. She knew better than anyone what a divorce could do for your living arrangements.

“He’s not here,” said Mrs. Duffy.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“He had to go out of town on business. Can I take a message?”

“I can call again. You think he’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Probably not. He called me from the Denver airport last night and said he’d be away for a few days. Are you a friend of his?”

“Yes, sort of. Thank you for your time, ma’am. I’ll check back later.” She hung up before the next question.

Amy sat on the edge of her bed, her thoughts churning in her head. It was a bit unnerving to hear Jeanette Duffy’s voice, the voice of the widow. It was Jeanette’s Crock-Pot, after all, that had given Amy her first link to the Duffy family. In that light, it seemed interesting now that Ryan had been so quick to dismiss the possibility of his mother’s involvement — his off-the-cuff comment that his father but definitely not his mother would be the type to give away money to strangers. And now the phone call. Evasive, at best.

Amy hurried to the closet and dug out her tennis shoes. If Mrs. Duffy was lying and Ryan was still at home, she had to talk to him. If he was really out of town, this was her chance to talk directly to Jeanette Duffy.

It was time for another visit to Piedmont Springs.

The temperature rose as morning turned to afternoon and the mountains gave way to the eastern plains. Five hours on the highway had brought Amy down from an elevation of 5,400 feet to just over 3,000. The typical July humidity and scattered afternoon thunderclouds marked her entry into Prowers County.

Amy knew the way to the Duffy house from her earlier trip, when she had scouted out the family in advance of her meeting with Ryan. Her second trip to Piedmont Springs in a week had her somewhat concerned about her old truck. So long as she traveled by day, however, she felt safe.