James Grippando - Found money

Amy approached the secretarial station outside Marilyn’s office with some trepidation. Her secretary was a notorious snob who protected Marilyn like royalty.

“Good morning,” said Amy. “Is Marilyn here?”

The secretary raised an eyebrow, as if Amy’s use of the first name was utter insubordination. “She’s here, yes. But she’s not available.”

“Is she with someone?”

“No. She’s simply unavailable.”

“When will she be available?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

She almost glared at Amy, invoking her most snotty tone. “Whether a client calls. Whether her partners need her. Whether Jupiter aligns with Mars.”

“Please tell her Amy Parkens is here, that it’s personal, and that it’s very important.”

She didn’t budge.

Amy met her stare. “If she gets angry, you can personally type my letter of resignation.”

Smugly, she buzzed Marilyn on the intercom and delivered the message exactly the way Amy had worded it. A look of surprise washed over her face. She hung up and muttered, “Ms. Gaslow will see you now.”

Amy smirked. Never underestimate the power of an astronomer to align the planets.

Marilyn Gaslow had an impressive corner office on the forty-second floor with breathtaking views of both the mountains and the plains. The furnishings were French antiques. Museum-quality artwork decorated one wall. Another was covered with plaques and awards she had accumulated over the years, marking a lifetime of achievement that included everything from first woman president of the American Bar Association to a four-year stint as chairwoman of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission. Scattered among the wall of glory were photographs of Marilyn with every president since Gerald Ford, each signed and inscribed with a warm personal message. Behind her desk was a more personal touch — a framed but faded old snapshot of two smiling teenage girls. It was Marilyn and Amy’s mother.

“So good to see you, Amy.” She rose and gave her a motherly hug.

In some ways, Marilyn was like a mother, at least when they were together. Marilyn had been her mother’s closest friend at one time and, in her own way, had taken an interest in Amy’s well-being after the suicide. Whenever Amy wasn’t right before her eyes, however, Marilyn was simply too busy to notice that she lived from paycheck to paycheck in a tiny apartment with her daughter and grandmother. Marilyn was a career woman to the exclusion of any personal life. Her only marriage had ended in divorce twenty years ago, and she had no children of her own.

Amy gave her the latest on Taylor as they settled into their chairs. Amy sat on the couch. Marilyn took the Louis XVI armchair. Marilyn was pleasant but clearly pressed for time.

“So what’s this personal and important matter you’ve come here to talk about?”

“Our apartment was broken into yesterday. The place was completely wrecked.”

“My God, that’s terrible. Do you need a place to stay?”

“We’re okay. Fortunately we had rental insurance. We’ll just have to impose on the neighbors until the place gets cleaned up.”

Marilyn reached for the telephone. “I know the chief of police in Boulder. Let me give him a call, make sure there are more patrol cars in the area.”

“Marilyn, that’s not necessary. I just wanted your advice.”

“On what?”

“The burglars took some money.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars. Cash. It was in the freezer.”

She did a double take. “What were you doing with that kind of money in the freezer?”

“It’s a long story.” Over the next few minutes, Amy summed it up. The Crock-Pot box from the anonymous source. The meeting with Ryan Duffy. The meeting with Sarah and the breakdown in Kit Carson. Finally, the demolished apartment and stolen money. It was difficult at first, but then the words began to flow. Gram was great, but it was nice to have someone like Marilyn on your side.

Marilyn leaned back in the armchair, seemingly overwhelmed. “So right now, the police know nothing about the money?”

“Nothing,” said Amy. “I’m not sure what to tell them. That’s why I’m here. I wanted your advice.”

“For starters, don’t put large sums of cash in the freezer. But as they say, that bit of advice is a day late and two hundred thousand dollars short.”

“That was Gram’s idea.”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s just talk this out. You say you got the money in a Crock-Pot box. You don’t know who sent it. You think it was a guy named Frank Duffy, whom you have never met. You have no idea why he’d give you the time of day, let alone two hundred thousand dollars. He was a middleclass family man, no outward signs of wealth. He sent it to you right before he died.”

“That’s right.”

“Your first problem is obvious. It doesn’t pass the time-honored ‘ What in the hell have you been smoking? ’ test.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“ I believe you. Barely. And that’s only because I know you.”

“Why would I make something like this up?”

“Who knows? Sympathy? Desperate single mother goes on the evening news, says her house was ransacked and the burglars made off with two hundred thousand dollars in cash. Before you know it, people are mailing in checks to the television studio to replace the stolen money. I’m not saying it could work. But a skeptic might say that’s your angle.”

“You know that’s not me.”

“Of course. But we have to worry about the way others might perceive this.”

“I’m not worried about perceptions.”

“Well, I surely am. And you should be, too. You are a valued employee of this law firm. Everything you do is a reflection on the institution. How old did you say Mr. Duffy was?”

“Sixty-two.”

“Great. A dying, married old man gives two hundred thousand dollars in cash to a stunning twenty-eight-year-old woman. And she has no explanation for it. To put it bluntly, do you really want people calling you a whore, Amy?”

“Marilyn!”

“I’m not making accusations. Just playing out the possible ramifications. Perceptions aside, you’ve got even bigger problems. The basic question is, who is this Frank Duffy character? For all you know, he or his son or someone else in that family was a scumbag drug dealer. Why would you want to report missing money that could link you to somebody like that?”

“Because I have nothing to hide.”

“Like I said, no one’s going to believe you got that much money for doing absolutely nothing. You could have the Boulder police and maybe even the FBI watching you for the rest of your life. And remember, you don’t have to be convicted of a crime to be denied admission to the Colorado Bar. If you raise enough questions about your character, you could end up spending three years in law school and never become a lawyer.”

“You really think that could happen?”

“Possibly. One thing’s for sure. You’ll have big problems right here in this office. I went to bat for you to get the firm to underwrite your tuition so you could start law school this fall. How are you going to explain to the partnership that while you were claiming poor-mouth, you actually had a spare two hundred thousand dollars laying around the apartment?”

“It was recent.”

“Sure. And if it hadn’t been stolen, would you have ever bothered to tell the firm?”

Amy paused. She could have said law school would have lost out to astronomy if the money hadn’t been stolen — but now didn’t seem like the time. “I see your point.”

Marilyn checked her watch. “I’m sorry to cut this short. I have to run to a luncheon. I’ll think more about this later, but my gut reaction is pretty solid.”