James Grippando - Found money

“Where are we headed?” asked Ryan.

He stopped and opened the solid oak door to a conference room at the end of the hall. “Inside, please.”

It was an interior conference room, no windows. Eight leather chairs surrounded a rectangular walnut table. The lighting was soft and indirect.

He directed Ryan to the other side of the table. “Sit there.”

Ryan noted how evenly his voice had carried. The sound in the room was like Norm’s media room — acoustically perfect. The room had that sleek look of those counterespionage corporate conference rooms he’d seen in magazines, with cameras hidden in wall clocks and anti-bugging devices throughout. Ryan was glad he hadn’t come wired. It surely would have been detected.

The guard sat across from him. “Why did you come here?”

All doubts as to whether he had come to the right place were quickly evaporating. “I thought it was time we started a dialogue.”

“Why?”

“Simply to put some issues to rest.”

“There are no unresolved issues.”

“There are for me. And I think Mr. Kozelka could clear them up for me.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

He leaned forward, shooting a steely glare.

“Because Mr. Kozelka has no time for you.”

Ryan was unfazed but suddenly noticed something. Just over the man’s shoulder, behind him on the wall, was a very strategically placed painting. It was a hunch, but he felt certain that Mr. Kozelka was not only listening but watching — and probably recording.

With everything on tape, he had to be careful. The last thing he needed was to come off as an extortionist — like his father.

“I want you to give Mr. Kozelka a message. Tell him the woman in Panama who stole my bag made a big mistake. Tell him I have her fingerprints on a bar glass.”

“Mr. Kozelka has no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, he does. But that’s not why I’m here. I came to thank him personally for all the advice he gave to my father over the years. No self-respecting small-town electrician should be without the services of an experienced consultant on matters of international bank secrecy.”

The man’s face reddened, but he said nothing.

Ryan said, “I’m almost embarrassed to say it, but I could use Mr. Kozelka’s good advice, too. Ever since that mishap in Panama, the FBI wants to know all about my father’s bank account in Panama. They are determined to find out where all that money came from.”

Ryan checked for any reaction. It was subtle, but the mention of the FBI seemed to have hit a nerve.

“Now, I’ll ask you again. Can I count on you to deliver a message to Mr. Kozelka?”

“I don’t make promises.”

“Fine.” Ryan rose and faced the portrait on the wall — the hidden camera. He spoke directly to it.

“Tell Mr. Kozelka I don’t care about the money. I didn’t ask for it, and I’m not here to ask for more. I’m not a criminal, and I’ll do the right thing with or without the help of the FBI. All I want is a straight answer to a very simple question. Why. That’s all I want to know. Tell him I want to know why.”

He headed for the door and opened it, then stopped and glanced back. “And tell him one more thing. Tell him my appointment with the FBI is Monday. Ten o’clock.

“I can find my own way to the elevator,” he said, closing the door behind him.

Amy took an early lunch off the beaten track of Boulder’s Pearl Street Mall. With her mind still buzzing from Marilyn, she didn’t necessarily want to be alone, just someplace where she was certain not to run into anyone from the law office.

She went to the Sink, one of her old college hangouts. In fact, it had been everybody’s college hangout since the thirties, achieving a genuine claim to fame when a young Robert Redford quit as janitor, bagged UC-Boulder, and decided to try his hand at movies. The decor was organized graffiti. Youthful exuberance was the only way to describe the atmosphere. The food was of the munchies variety, with self-described “Ugly Crust Pizzas” a heavy favorite. Amy took one with pineapple topping and grabbed a small table by the window.

She glanced at the table beside hers. Two guys barely old enough to drink were making small talk with the girls, planning the weekend. Amy thought back to the days when weekends started after the last class for the week, sometimes on Thursdays if you could fix a schedule with no Friday classes. She hadn’t had a real three-day weekend since — well, since college.

The television in the corner caught her attention. Noise from the lunch crowd made it inaudible, but she didn’t need audio to know what was going on. Marilyn was standing beside the President outside the White House. A semicircle of smiling onlookers were applauding. It was official. Marilyn Gaslow had her nomination as chairwoman of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve. Now all she had to do was withstand the congressional approval process.

“Mind if I join you?”

Amy looked up. The face triggered no recognition. The only thing for sure was that he was the only person in the restaurant older than Amy. Way older. From the corduroy jacket and Bugle Boy pants, she would have guessed he was a professor.

“Do I know you?”

He put down his soda and joined her at the table. He extended his hand, introducing himself. “Jack Forsyth. FBI.”

All she could say was “Oh.”

“I hate to interrupt your lunch, but I would like to talk to you.”

Amy froze. The warning outside the baseball stadium was all too fresh in her mind — how her daughter would pay if she talked to the police. But it was too late to get up and run. “Talk to me?” she asked innocently. “What about?”

“I think you know.”

“I think you’d better tell me.”

“We’ve been watching Ryan Duffy for several days now. And we’ve been monitoring his phone calls. We heard the message you left at his clinic. And we saw you meet with him last night in Denver.”

Amy tried not to flinch. Her message had been intentionally vague, she recalled, just in case someone other than Ryan had listened to it. “So?”

“So, we’ve checked you out as well. We understand you were robbed recently. We spoke to the detective from the Boulder police. Says you were acting strange during his interview, as if you were holding back something.”

“That’s his opinion.”

“Yes. It is a matter of opinion. But you know what? Just sitting here and watching your face for the last two minutes, I’ve formed the same opinion.”

Amy looked away. It was a curse, that expressive face of hers. It wasn’t just Gram who could read it.

The agent leaned closer. “Tell me. What are you doing with a guy like Ryan Duffy?”

She could sense his stare, but she didn’t look, couldn’t meet his eyes. She had too many reasons not to talk to him — the threat outside the stadium, and now Marilyn. She had promised Marilyn never to talk to anyone about the rape, and she knew that was where this would lead if she let the FBI in the door.

She gathered up her tray and rose, spilling her soft drink. “I have nothing to say to you,” she said, flustered.

“You will. Take my card,” he said, handing it to her. “Call me when you’re ready.”

Amy gave him a long look. She took the card without a word and walked away, never looking back.

Ryan went directly from K &G headquarters to Norm’s office. Norm was working alone in the conference room, preparing for tomorrow’s courtroom showdown. That Brent’s deposition had blossomed into a full-blown evidentiary hearing came as a surprise to Ryan. Norm wanted to talk strategy with his client. Ryan, however, unloaded a surprise of his own — the meeting with Kozelka, or at least with his right-hand man.