Good thing she hadn’t mentioned that his son Ryan was a heartthrob. It would only have fueled Marilyn’s suspicions.
“Me tired,” said Taylor. She was half in her own seat, half in Amy’s lap.
Amy stroked her daughter’s forehead, then took her in her arms. “It’s time to go anyway.”
“I didn’t catch a ball yet.”
“Next time.”
They walked hand in hand down the cement ramps. Taylor was struggling to keep up as Amy walked with purpose, on the verge of a decision. It was time to regroup. Astronomy was history. She had already missed the Monday deadline to reenroll in the doctoral program for the fall, and she had lost the cash that would have made that possible anyway. The job now was to regain Marilyn’s confidence and prove she wasn’t making up stories about the money. That was something Ryan Duffy could help her with. Last time they’d talked, she had given him one week to come up with a legitimate explanation for the money. The deadline was Friday. She would go through with the follow-up meeting, she decided, even though the money was gone. She would tape-record their conversation and let Marilyn listen. It wouldn’t bring the money back, but it would restore Marilyn’s faith.
A roar of the crowd disrupted her thoughts. The Rockies had scored. She and Taylor kept walking, leaving through the turnstile and chain-link gate to the north parking lot.
Amy had never taken Taylor to a night game before. Leaving early had a different feeling at night than in broad daylight. Vapor lights gave the grounds an eerie yellow glow. Trash bins at the gate were overflowing with cans and bottles that had been confiscated from fans on their way in. Ticket stubs lay scattered on the ground. The crowd noise faded behind them. The parking lot was jammed, without another soul in sight. It was an uneasy feeling of solitude, as if forty thousand people had vaporized with the sunset, leaving Amy and Taylor alone in a sea of cars.
Amy picked up her sleepy daughter and walked faster toward her truck.
The walk back to the parking space always seemed farther than the walk to the stadium. That was never more true than when you were alone in the parking lot with a sleepy four-year-old in your arms. They passed row after row of empty vehicles. Amy was certain she was in section E, but the rows all looked alike. For the second time she saw the same red Honda. She headed in the other direction this time, searching for her distinctive old truck. Taylor was sound asleep on her shoulder. Amy’s arms were getting tired. Her back was aching. Taylor wasn’t such a little girl anymore. Finally, she spotted her truck in the next row.
She cut between two parked cars and dug out her key. She opened the passenger door with one hand and placed Taylor in the car seat. She closed the door and hurried around the back to the driver’s side. She stopped short, startled by a noise. A blur leaped from behind the truck. Someone jumped up and grabbed her from behind. She started to scream, but a huge hand covered her mouth. A cold knife was at her throat.
“Don’t move,” he warned.
She was shaking but unable to move, pinned against the truck.
He spoke right into her ear from behind her. “We saw the police report. You didn’t mention the money. Smart move.”
She didn’t even breathe. It was her worst fear — the thugs behind the money.
“Stay smart, lady. Tell no one about the money. And stay away from the cops.” He twisted her arm, heightening the pain. “Now get in your truck and get the hell out of here. You scream, you ever talk to the police again, it’s your daughter who pays.”
He knocked her to the ground and sprinted away. Amy hurried to her feet and looked around, gasping for breath. She didn’t see him anywhere. She reached for the rape whistle on her keychain and brought it to her lips, then stopped. His warning stayed with her.
She jumped in the truck and started the engine. Taylor was still asleep in her car seat. The sight of her little one brought emotions to a head and moisture to her eyes. She leaned over and hugged her with one arm while steering with the left. Her whole body trembled as she drove quickly from the parking lot.
36
Ryan’s flight landed at Denver International Airport at 11:50 P.M. He hadn’t bothered to retrieve his garment bag from the hotel room in Panama, so he had no checked baggage, just the small carry-on he had purchased to replace his stolen bag. He’d already passed through customs at the plane change in Houston. Norm met him out front, near the curbside check-in at the United Airlines terminal. The motor was running in the Range Rover as the passenger door flew open. Ryan jumped inside, laid his bag gently at his feet. After a day that included a run through the streets from Panamanian police, a run-in with the FBI, and nine hours of international travel, he nearly melted into the leather upholstery.
“Man, am I glad to see you,” he said as he slammed the door.
Norm checked his disheveled appearance. “You look like Steve McQueen in that old movie about Devil’s Island.”
“ Papillon? ”
“Yeah. What did you do, float in from Panama on a sack of coconuts?”
“Shut up and drive, Norm.”
A whistle blew, startling them. The DIA traffic gestapo was about to issue a parking citation, as if they expected passengers to catch their rides on the run. Norm hit the gas and quickly pulled back into traffic. They spoke as the truck weaved between car rental buses and stopped cars on the way to the airport exit and Pena Boulevard.
“You made it out smoothly, I presume,” said Norm.
“I told them exactly what you told me to say. Got their business cards, too. Forsyth is a field agent here in Denver. The other guy isn’t FBI. He’s from Washington. The criminal
tax division of the IRS.”
“I figured it was only a matter of time before they showed up.” Norm steered onto the express-way ramp. “I’ve been doing a little legwork myself while you were traveling. Called a friend over at the U.S. attorney’s office.”
“What would they know about this?”
“In any investigation, the FBI’s legal counsel is an AUSA — an assistant U.S. attorney. A routine subpoena for documents, for example, would be handled at a ministerial level by a junior AUSA. But if your case was assigned to an AUSA who specializes in money laundering, for example, that would tell us something about the focus of the investigation.”
“What did you find out?”
“Your case is under the major crimes section.”
“Major?” he asked with concern.
“Don’t let the name fool you. Everything is major. It’s a slush pile for cases that are too new to be routed to a more defined area of specialization.”
“Where do you think it’s headed?”
“Could be strictly a tax investigation. You said your old man didn’t pay taxes on the money. Or if the FBI gets wind of the extortion, it could go to the public corruption section. If it’s money laundering they smell, it could go to economic crimes. Too early to tell.”
“All this because I pissed off a stupid bank officer at Banco del Istmo.”
“Actually, it wasn’t just him who brought in the FBI. From what I gathered from the AUSA, your wife’s lawyer is also behind it.”
“Jackson?”
Norm nodded as he changed lanes. “He’s in the hospital. Gonna be okay. Looks like Brent may have punched his lights out in retaliation for scheduling his deposition.”
“What a jerk.”
“You mean Jackson or Brent?”
“Both,” Ryan scoffed.
“Anyway, Jackson has managed to pitch this in a way that has piqued the FBI’s interest. Three million dollars in a Panamanian bank account isn’t necessarily front-page news. But when a high-powered attorney starts poking around and lands in the emergency room, it puts a different spin on the case. Especially a guy like Jackson. Believe it or not, he has friends. And if you’re not his friend, he probably has dirt on you. You remember that hypothetical I gave you about the photographs of the TV evangelist having sex with his German shepherd?”