James Grippando - Found money

“I can’t really say.”

“Do you have any idea who would do it?”

“No.”

He looked at Amy. “You told me you were divorced, right?”

“That’s right.”

“What kind of relationship do you have with your ex-husband?”

“We’re civil.”

He paused, taking mental note of the word choice. “Would he know who they are?”

“Why are you harping on that? My grandmother told you it was just a figure of speech.”

“To be blunt, miss, I don’t think you’ve been telling me everything there is to tell.”

Gram stepped forward and said sharply, “Are you calling my granddaughter a liar?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time a woman lied to keep the father of her child from going to jail.”

“My ex-husband would never do something like this.”

The detective nodded, though not in agreement. “Let me explain where I’m coming from. I’ve been a cop for almost twenty-five years. This is one of those crime scenes that you don’t have to be a genius to analyze. Doesn’t look like your typical burglary. This has the flavor of personal anger to it. Like someone trying to get even with you for something. Trying to scare you.”

Amy bristled at his insight, but she said nothing.

“In fact,” he continued, “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find out that burglary isn’t the motive at all.”

“I told you exactly what happened. I came home, the place was a wreck. I don’t know why they did it.”

“There they go again,” he said, smirking.

Gram glared. “Stop harassing us.”

“It’s all right,” said Amy. “I can see where this might look a little… unusual.”

The detective handed her his business card. “I’m gonna take a look around. Why don’t you give yourself a little time to calm down, get over the initial shock. Then give me a call. I have a few more questions.”

“I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”

“Good. Because I’d really like to put this burglary thing to bed. Once the crime scene is cleared, I’d like you to take stock of your things. Tell me if anything’s missing. Anything at all.”

Gram looked confused. “What do you mean, tell you if anything is missing? Of course something is-”

A glance from Amy stopped her cold — subtle but effective.

“You were saying?” said the detective.

Gram hesitated. “I was saying, uh, just look at the place. Something’s bound to be missing.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “You let me know. You got my card.” He raised an eyebrow, then walked away.

Gram pulled Amy aside, speaking softly as they walked alone down the hallway, away from the crime scene. “You obviously didn’t tell him about the stolen money.”

“Not yet. I was about to, but I froze up.”

“He is a jerk.”

“It’s more than that. For all the reasons I thought we should have told the police at the very beginning, I was afraid it might get us into even more trouble to admit we’ve been hanging on to it, essentially hiding it from the IRS and everybody else. I felt like I needed some advice first. Some professional advice.”

“From who?”

“There’s only one lawyer I would trust with something like this. That’s Marilyn Gaslow.”

“You sure you want someone in the law firm to know about this?”

She stopped and looked Gram in the eye. “It’s not just someone. It’s Marilyn.”

From a comfortable hotel suite, she watched as Panama City came alive at nightfall. Steam from a hot shower still hovered in the room. A bath towel wrapped her shapely young body. Her wet hair was wrapped in a smaller towel, turban style. A long black wig lay atop the dresser. Ryan Duffy’s leather bag lay open on the bed. She reclined on the pillow beside it as she spoke into the telephone. Her voice had more of an edge than the soft, coy bar talk she had used with Ryan.

“I got his bag. For a hundred bucks the bartender ran a little diversion scam with me.”

“I told you not to involve anyone else.”

“He’s not involved. I’m sure he’s played this same game with half the hookers in Panama City. He just grabbed the bag when Duffy had his mind on other things, so to speak.”

“What’s in it?”

“Bank records, some other papers. Nothing you didn’t already tell me about.” She braced the phone with her neck and shoulder, then zipped the bag closed.

“Did you talk to Duffy?”

“Yeah. But he didn’t bite. Never went beyond some brief bar banter.”

“You losing your edge or something?”

She checked herself in the mirror, then answered in an affected, throaty voice. “What do you think?”

“Guy must be a homo.”

She laughed lightly. “So, what happened in Boulder?”

“I think I got the point across.”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“Come on. I hate working in the dark.”

“Really? And all this time I thought you were leaving the light on for my benefit.”

“Cute. But a crack like that’s going to cost you, asshole. When you are least prepared to pay. Unless you make amends.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Tell me what happened in Boulder.”

“You’re being too nosy for your own good.”

“Maybe. But if I’m going to do my part of the job right, I need to see the big picture.”

“All right, all right. Your instincts were dead on. That happy hour with Amy Parkens you observed at the Green Parrot back in Denver evidently wasn’t just a casual meeting between friends. I found two hundred grand in her apartment. Cash.”

“Whoa. I guess Saint Amy has broken her vow of poverty.”

He asked, “Are you sure you didn’t see Duffy give her anything at that restaurant?”

“I’m sure. I tailed him the whole day, just like you told me. Never took my eyes off him.”

“Somebody must have given it to her before the old man died. I don’t see where the hell else she could have gotten that kind of cash.”

“So, what does all this mean? You want me to keep tailing him?”

“Definitely. But from here on out, you need to be extra careful. With me hitting Parkens and you hitting Duffy at the exact same time, I’m sure we took them both by surprise. But they’re on guard now. I want you to act under the assumption that the two families are sharing both wealth and information.”

“And risk,” she said coolly.

“That too.”

She rose and stepped to the window. The busy streets below were an endless string of lights.

“What do you want me to do next?”

“Just stay there until Duffy leaves, keep an eye on him. And keep that buffoon out of trouble. I want to deal with him when he gets back. So make sure he gets back.”

“Got it.” She was about to hang up, then caught herself. “Oh, one other thing.”

“What?”

“I do leave the lights on for your benefit,” she said, then hung up the phone.

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.