James Grippando - Found money

“What does Liz know?”

“Hard to say. She had a talk with my dad a few weeks before he died. I don’t remember exactly how she put it, but she claims he made some remark that money would come her way soon.”

Norm took a seat on the clothes hamper behind the closet door. “So that’s their angle.”

“What?”

“They’re trying to say the money was a gift from your dad while he was alive, rather than an inheritance that passes through the estate after death.”

“What’s the difference? From Liz’s standpoint, I mean.”

“Huge. If it’s an inheritance, it’s what the law calls a special equity. She can’t get her hands on it in the divorce. But if it was a gift made before your father died, that might be a different situation. Especially if she can show that your dad expressly promised it to her.”

“Meaning she can get it in the divorce?”

“It’s a tough argument. But it’s their only argument.”

Ryan rose from the hotel bed and began to pace. “A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed Liz would reach like this. But I’ll believe anything after the wringer her lawyer ran me through in his office.”

“Who’s her lawyer?”

“Phil Jackson in Denver.”

“Oh, man. That guy’s a shark.”

“You know him?”

“Hell yes. He has his own publicist, for crying out loud. His mug is on the front page of the legal fish wrappers every other day. He’s slick. I think he’s downright dishonest. In fact, it wouldn’t at all surprise me to hear that one of his overly zealous investigators is behind the disappearance of your bag.”

“How could that be?”

“Let’s say Liz knows there’s money in Panama. Maybe your dad told her that much. She tells Jackson. He hires an investigator to watch you, letting you lead him straight to the money. Bingo. He’s hit the mother lode.”

Ryan shook his head. “I don’t know. Liz may have gone off the deep end, but I don’t think she would ever authorize someone to follow me to Panama and swipe my bag.”

“Jackson could have talked her into it. Or he could have done it without her authorization. He could be just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to show Liz a copy of that three-million-dollar bank book you lost.”

“So what should I do?”

“You need to talk to your divorce lawyer.”

“I fired my divorce lawyer.”

“Then you need to get a new one.”

Ryan was silent.

Norm read his mind. “Uh-uh, no way, no how. I’m a white-collar criminal defense lawyer. I quit that divorce shit years ago. Too nasty for my taste. If I want to get bloody, I take on an occasional murder case. That’s my limit.”

“Who else can I trust with this? Don’t make me go into some stranger’s office and tell them my dad was a blackmailer with two million dollars in his attic and another three in Panama.”

“You’re asking me to go up against one of the toughest divorce lawyers in Denver. I’m rusty, at best.”

Ryan’s voice dropped, more serious. “Norm, I’m calling in the favor.”

The tone made it clear this was not about wedding days and nipple rings. Three years ago, Ryan had forced him to get a biopsy on a strange-looking mole on his back. But for that, Norm would have died of skin cancer two years ago. Ryan never thought he’d play that card. Then again, he never would have foreseen this.

“All right,” Norm said with a sigh. “Let me ease into it. I’ll handle the deposition, see how it goes.”

“Thanks, buddy. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Guess that makes us even.”

“Touche.” Ryan checked the alarm clock beside his bed, ready to set it. “So, what time will my passport be ready tomorrow?”

“Stop by the embassy some time around midmorning. It should be there by then. Call me if you hit any snags.”

“You know I will.”

“Yeah.” Norm chuckled. “You’re becoming my best client.”

“No offense, but aren’t most of your clients in jail?”

They laughed together, then stopped in awkward silence. It suddenly didn’t seem funny anymore. Ryan said good night. But the thought stayed with him after the call had ended.

His best client. What a dubious distinction.

Phil Jackson rose at 5:00 A.M., the start of his usual eleven-hour workday. People abhorred his style. Colleagues begrudged his celebrity-like status in the Denver legal community. No one denied he worked hard for his success. He had to. A flashy reputation lured clients through the door. Results paid the rent.

Jackson was showered, dressed, and out the door in forty-five minutes. It was a lonely routine for him, though he rather enjoyed the solitude of an entire neighborhood asleep. The sun wouldn’t rise for a few more minutes. No traffic disturbed the quiet street. Even the morning paper had yet to arrive.

He stepped carefully across the lawn. The brick pavers on the sidewalk were slick with the morning dew, and the path was darker than usual. The decorative lamp outside the garage had apparently burned out.

The transmitter on his key chain activated the garage door opener, raising the middle door of his three-car garage. He felt like the 800 series Mercedes today. The black car, however, was barely visible this morning. The garage was unusually dark. The light inside was burned out, too.

What is this, an epidemic?

He entered the garage and started toward the driver’s side. The alarm chirped as it disengaged by keyless remote. The car lights blinked. He reached for the door. Something rattled behind him. He turned to look. His briefcase went flying with the first blow to the head. He swung wildly in self-defense. Someone had him by the neck. His head snapped forward. His face slammed into the windshield. He was stunned, blinded by the hot rush of blood. Another quick jerk of his head put a crack in the windshield.

His legs buckled, but his attacker held him up. He was pinned against the car, barely able to breathe beneath the man’s weight. The stranger’s hot breath coursed down the back of his neck. His attacker was right on him, as if poised to say something. A ringing filled his ears, but he could hear the rough words, a voice like gravel, undoubtedly disguised.

“It’s family business. Don’t make it yours.”

The lawyer’s head slammed against the windshield one last time. Red rivulets of blood ran down to the wipers. Jackson fell to the cement floor. He could see nothing. He heard only footsteps, faintly, until he heard nothing at all.

The numbness took over as he drifted away.

Ryan slept in his hotel room until noon. He’d been awake all night, having last checked the alarm clock at 6:55 A.M. Rest was something that no longer came easy, not since his father’s death. Each time his busy mind drifted toward sleep, the images came. He would think of his father. Dead, not alive. He could see him in the ground, sleeping peacefully beneath so many tons of earth. Beside him in the coffin was a noticeable void, a hole much deeper than the one in which they’d buried him. It was a vast underground cavern, like the ones he’d shown Ryan long ago in New Mexico, big enough for the secrets he should have taken to the grave.

The phone rang. He was standing at the bathroom sink, dressed only from the waist down, splashing away the soapy remains of his morning shave — though it was actually the afternoon. He dried his face with a towel as he crossed the room and answered on the half-ring.

“Hello.”

“They’re coming for you. Get out of the hotel.”

It was a woman’s voice. It sounded vaguely familiar — like the woman who’d scammed him in the hotel bar. “Who is this?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds, no more. Get out of the hotel. Now. ”