He glanced at the glass, then at Ryan. “Of course, it would make me feel terribly guilty to accept a gift from a friend without giving something of myself in return.”
“You know what I want.”
“I told you. It’s against the law.”
“I’ve never been a big fan of laws that allow criminals to shield themselves behind banks. This is not negotiable.”
Hernandez seemed in agony, like a man with a gun to his head. Suddenly he swiveled in his chair, faced his computer and typed in the account number. “I have here the entire transaction history for your father’s account. It shows every deposit, every withdrawal. Including internal transfers from other account holders at the bank.”
Ryan couldn’t see the screen from his chair. As he rose to take a look, Hernandez said, “Stay right where you are.”
Ryan retreated to his chair, confused.
Hernandez said, “As I explained, I cannot give you this information. That would be a crime. That is my final word on the matter.” He rose, then continued, “Now, I’m going to take this glass, go to the snack room, and get myself a cool drink of water. I will be back in exactly five minutes. You can remain here while I’m gone, if you wish. Whatever you do, do not look at that computer screen. I repeat: Do not look at that screen.”
The banker had cleared his conscience. He took the glass and quietly left the room. The door closed behind him.
Ryan remained in his chair, staring at the back of the computer monitor. It chilled him to think the answer was right around the desk, flashing on the screen. Yet to learn who had paid the blackmail, he would have to break the law of bank secrecy. It wasn’t an American law. It wasn’t even a law he much respected, having seen it abused by drug lords and tax evaders. Breaking any law, however, was a dangerous road. The first step had a way of leading to the second.
He paused to weigh his alternatives. He could walk away, perhaps never to know who his father had blackmailed. Or he could step around and have a look.
He waited only another moment. Then he took that first step.
28
Amy drove to Denver on faith. She didn’t actually have an appointment with Marilyn Gaslow, but she was confident she would see her. Few people had a full appreciation of the personal history between Amy and the firm’s most influential partner.
The main offices for Bailey, Gaslow & Heinz were on five contiguous floors some forty stories above downtown Denver. Theoretically, the Denver headquarters and six branch offices operated as one fully integrated law firm. Amy made sure that was the case with state-of-the-art computer links between cities. Still, there was no technological or other way to transport completely the high-charged atmosphere of the main office to its satellites. Each visit to Denver reminded Amy that it wasn’t the satellites in Boulder or Colorado Springs that made this Rocky Mountain law firm comparable to the finest firms in New York or Los Angeles.
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.”