James Grippando - Found money

“I’m sorry. I should congratulate you, too. It’s just that my enthusiasm has been overshadowed by the FBI.”

“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” said Marilyn. “The FBI runs routine checks on all presidential appointees. It’s their job.”

“I don’t think this is routine.”

“Trust me. Once the appointment is announced, the FBI moves very quickly on these background investigations.”

“No, listen to me. I was eating lunch, watching you and the President on television, when the agent came up to me at the restaurant. It wasn’t triggered by your appointment.”

“Then what did trigger it, Amy?”

She struggled, dreading what she had to say.

“He wanted to know about my contact with Ryan Duffy.”

“Oh, my God. Amy, I told you to stay away from those people. Do you have any idea what kind of scrutiny I’m under right now? Everyone around me is a reflection on my character. Especially someone like you. It’s no secret you and I are close.”

Amy’s voice tightened. “Just how close are we?”

“Very close. You know that.”

“I do, yes. But I’m confused. I was up all night. I couldn’t stop thinking about what you told me yesterday. I flat-out do not understand it. I have to ask: why would a man rape you almost forty-six years ago, and then send me two hundred thousand dollars just before he dies?”

“I have no idea.”

“Marilyn, are we… related?”

Stunned silence. Finally she answered. “I told you we can never talk about this. Please don’t try to force me.”

“I just have so many questions.”

“Sometimes questions are better left unanswered.”

“Better for you, maybe.”

“Better for both of us. Don’t make me ask you again, Amy. Do not go down this road. It’s a dead end.”

“Marilyn, please.”

“Goodbye, Amy.”

Amy was about to make one more plea, but the line clicked in her ear. It had caught her off guard. She gripped the phone, staring in disbelief.

For the first time in her life, Marilyn Gaslow had hung up on her.

Driving alone at night on Highway 287 was an exercise in monotony. It plunged south through the quiet eastern plains at insufferable stretches, flat as the oceans of darkened cornfields, moving only imperceptibly to the east or west. It was like being stuck on a treadmill. The only scenery was oncoming pavement that reached as far as the headlights. With the brights on you could see the first row of corn just beyond the gravel shoulder, maybe count telephone poles as they rushed by, one after another.

Brent switched on the squeaky wipers again. It was a little game he played with the misty rain. Tiny drops collected on the windshield one at a time. He’d hold his speed steady at seventy miles per hour and see how far he could go without having to wipe it clean.

Eleven miles that time. A new world record.

He cut off the wipers and played with the radio dial. The Denver stations had long since faded. He was almost home. He didn’t need road signs to know it. Where civilization ended, Piedmont Springs began.

Between static, he found a country music station and cranked up the volume. He glanced at the dial to check the numbers. His eyes were away from the road just an instant — just long enough to hit the piece of lumber in the road at full speed.

The tires popped on the long row of nails. The car swerved out of control. Brent steered left, then right, trying to bring it back. The car slid into the left lane, hit the gravel shoulder and spun completely around. He came to a sudden stop facing back toward Denver.

He had a death grip on the steering wheel, unable to let go. Finally, he took a deep breath and lowered his arms. He was shaken but unhurt. For a moment, he just sat.

The rain collected on the windshield. The headlights beamed deep into the cornfield. The plains seemed even darker now that the car wasn’t moving. He switched off the headlights and turned on the emergency flashers. He unlocked the door and stepped outside. Two tires were flat, front and rear on the driver’s side.

“Damn it,” he said as he kicked the dirt.

He walked back to the trunk and popped it open. The little light inside was barely sufficient, enhanced only marginally by the intermittent orange flash of the emergency blinkers. He knew he had a spare, one of those mini-wheels that looked like they were from a go-cart. Hopefully Sarah had one of those fix-a-flat spray cans back there, too. He peeled back the carpeting to check, rattling the tire irons, turning things upside down. He was leaning over, inside the trunk from the waist up.

He didn’t notice the footsteps behind him.

“Need a hand?”

Brent started at the voice, hitting his head on the open trunk lid. He turned around quickly. The man was a mere shadow in the darkness a ways down the road, just beyond the reach of the flashing taillights. “Yeah,” he said nervously. “Got a flat. Two of ’em.”

“What a shame.”

The tone hardly put him at ease. Brent could barely see in the darkness. At this distance, the blinking orange taillights were actually a hindrance, playing tricks with his eyes. He squinted to focus, but he didn’t see another set of car lights. Come to think of it, he hadn’t even heard him pull up. The man seemed to have come from nowhere.

Survival instinct took over. He reached for the tire iron inside the trunk.

In one fluid motion, the stranger’s arm came up, the gun came out. A single shot pierced the night. Brent’s head jerked back. He fell to his knees, then flat on his face. Blood pumped from the hole that was once his right eye, spilling onto the asphalt. It gathered in a pool that drained to the shoulder, then gradually stopped.

All was quiet, save for the corn leaves rustling in the gentle breeze.

The gunman lowered his weapon and took a dozen steps forward. He stepped only on the pavement, not on the gravel shoulder, so as not to leave footprints. In the orange blinking lights his huge hands looked prosthetic, covered in the rubber gloves of a surgeon — there would be no fingerprints. He took aim at Brent’s head and squeezed the trigger once more, shattering the back of his skull. The job done, he pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and placed the weapon inside.

He walked toward the car and stopped at the left front tire. On one knee, he reached up inside the wheel well and yanked out the tiny transmitter he had attached while Brent was on the witness stand. The electronic pulse had allowed him to track the Buick all the way from Denver, telling him when to place the spiked board on the highway.

He rose and opened the car door. He reached inside and flashed the car lights. On cue, a car pulled onto the highway about fifty yards ahead. It had been parked in a narrow agricultural side road, sufficiently hidden by shoulder-high cornstalks. It raced toward him and stopped alongside the Buick. The passenger door opened. He jumped in.

The car sped away, back toward Denver, leaving the bloody corpse in the highway. He glanced back at his work, then took the murder weapon from his coat. He admired it in the dim light from the dashboard, leaving it in the plastic bag. A Smith & Wesson revolver with a mother-of-pearl handle. It wasn’t his, but he sure liked the way it had performed.

Frank Duffy had himself one fine piece.

Ryan’s pager chirped just north of Eads, about an hour from home. He kept one eye on the lonely highway as he checked the number on his belt. He didn’t recognize it. A Saturday evening page usually meant someone was awfully sick. Something told him, however, that this was no medical emergency.

He stopped at a gas station, went straight to a pay phone, and dialed the number. The rain seemed to fall harder with each push of the button. He moved closer to the phone, beneath the small overhang. It wasn’t much shelter. Thankfully, it took only one ring to get an answer.