He remained silent, the wheels turning in his head.
“Ryan, come on. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s like I told you before you left. You’re executor of the estate. Eventually you’ll have to represent to a court that you’ve accounted for all the heirs and inventoried all the assets. What the hell are you going to say about the two million in the attic and three million more in Panama? I’m your friend and I want to help you, but I can’t help any client break the law.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise, I’m not going to break any laws.” He hung up the phone. At least not the laws of the United States.
Ryan stepped out of the phone booth and crossed the busy lobby, back to the hotel bar. A few more customers had gathered around the television, glued to the soccer game. It was nearing the end of the match, score tied. The bartender looked as if he hadn’t moved. The lone waitress was equally riveted. No one had been tending to the tables since Ryan had left. He glanced toward the table at which the woman had been seated.
Her empty glass was still there.
Ryan smiled to himself. So far, so good.
26
The Boulder police arrived in minutes. Curious onlookers gathered outside the apartment and in the parking lot, near the squad cars. Two officers searched the outside perimeter of the complex. Two others marked off the crime scene with yellow police tape.
A detective interviewed Amy in the doorway. She would have invited him inside, but there wasn’t a chair left unbroken. He had salt-and-pepper hair and deep lines in his face, the kind that came from too much work or too much drinking, perhaps both. He was a serious type, with not much of a bedside manner. The closest he came to an expression of sympathy was a clipped “Hope you got insurance, lady.” He took notes on a small spiral pad as he moved from question to question in a plodding, matter-of-fact manner.
Gram arrived in the middle of the interview. The emotion in her eyes touched her granddaughter. They embraced in the hall, just outside the open doorway.
“It’s okay, Gram.” Those same words from her grandmother had never failed to comfort Amy as a child. They felt a little strange flowing the other way.
“Thank God we weren’t home.”
Amy took a step back. “Where’s Taylor?”
“I didn’t want her to see this. She’s over in three-seventeen with Mrs. Bentley.”
Together, their eyes drifted inside to the living room. For Amy, the second look was worse than the first. Details stood out in what before was just wreckage. The potted plants Gram had babied along forever were upside down on the floor. Taylor’s box of toys was a pile of splintered lumber.
Gram spoke quietly, as if at a funeral. “I just can’t believe they did this. They destroyed everything we own.”
“Excuse me,” said the detective. “Who is ‘they’?”
Gram blinked, confused. “I’m sorry — what?”
“You said you can’t believe they did this. Who is ‘they’?”
“It was just a figure of speech.”
“Do you have reason to believe more than one person did this?”
“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.”