“Who is he?”
“I’m thinking he has to be related to the family who established the Kozelka Cardiology Center in Denver. They gave millions of dollars for construction and operation — tens of millions.”
The screen brightened and Norm logged on. He went directly to an Internet search engine. “How do you spell his name?”
Ryan leaned forward and typed it in, then hit Enter. They waited as the computer searched databases all over the world for any information on Joseph Kozelka. It seemed to be taking forever.
Norm said, “It’s conceivable we’ll get goose eggs.”
“I know. But if this guy has the kind of money I think he has, his name is bound to be out there at least a few times.”
The screen flashed the results. Both Ryan and Norm did a double take. The computer-generated message read: “Your search has found 4,123 documents.”
“Holy shit,” said Ryan.
Norm scrolled down the abstracts of materials that mentioned Joseph Kozelka. Many of them were in Spanish. “Looks like he lived outside the States for a while.”
“He wasn’t just living there. Looks like he was head of the entire Central and South American operations for some company — K &G Enterprises. I never heard of them.”
“Me neither. But if they do a lot of business south of the border, that might explain the Panamanian bank.”
Ryan took the mouse from Norm and scrolled down himself, scanning the next group of entries.
“He sure has a lot to do with farming.”
“When you get to his level, Norm, I think they call it commodities. Look at this.”
The full text of a Fortune magazine article filled the screen. The title read “All in the Family.” It was an expose on a handful of “family-run businesses” whose sales rivaled companies like Coca-Cola.
“‘Joseph Kozelka,’” Ryan read aloud. “‘CEO and principal shareholder of K &G Enterprises, third-largest privately held corporation in the world. Estimated sales of over thirty billion dollars a year.’”
Norm said, “These are the kind of empires people never hear about because they’re family owned. The stock isn’t publicly traded. No public filings with the Securities Exchange Commission, no shareholders to hold them accountable. Nobody really knows how much they’re worth.”
Ryan scrolled further down the list of matches, then stopped when he saw something related to the Cardiology Center in Denver. He pulled up the full text. It was a description of the center, with bios of its directors — including Joseph Kozelka, president emeritus.
“Excellent,” said Ryan. “This is what I wanted. A full bio.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet ‘graduate of Boulder High School’ is right up there on the top of his resume.”
“Shut up, Norm.”
The bio slowly appeared on the screen, more than words. There was a photograph. It was the face of a man in his sixties. It was the aging smile of the kid in the yearbook.
“Look at those eyes,” say Ryan. “That chin. Gotta be him.” He scanned the bio for pertinent details. “Place of birth,” he read aloud, “Boulder. Date of birth — same year as my dad. They had to be classmates.”
“Fine. He’s rich and he’s your dad’s age. That doesn’t mean he’s the guy who paid the extortion.”
“It’s more than just that. Kozelka was born and raised in Boulder. He’s my dad’s same age. That means he and my dad were classmates the same year my dad committed rape. We know the extortion has something to do with rape, or the records wouldn’t have been down in the safe deposit box in Panama. Logically, whoever paid the extortion should meet two criteria. One, he probably knew my dad in high school. Two, he definitely has to be financially secure enough to pay five million dollars. I defy you to find someone other than Joseph Kozelka who meets those criteria.”
“Your logic is sound. But only if your criteria are correct.”
“It’s all I have to go on, Norm. Work with me.”
They exchanged glances. Norm said, “Okay, it’s possible. But where do we go from here?”
“We dig in. There’s a ton of material right here on the computer. Something has to give us a clue as to whether he and my dad ever crossed paths.”
“That could take a long time.”
“I’m up for it.”
Norm settled into his chair, thinking. “Maybe we can shortcut it.”
“How?”
“I say we meet with the FBI, like we’re supposed to. You remember what I said about quid pro quo, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, before we take on a corporate shark as big as Kozelka, let’s see who else is fishing. And let’s find out what they’re fishing for.”
Amy woke with fur on her face. It tickled at first, then frightened her. She swung her arm wildly, launching her attacker.
Taylor giggled as a stuffed Winnie the Pooh went flying across the bedroom. Amy sat up in bed, relieved it wasn’t the real-live rat she had imagined.
“Don’t you like bears, Mommy?”
“Yes, I love bears. But I like it better when you kiss me good morning.”
Taylor crawled onto the bed and kissed her on the cheek. “Come on,” said Taylor. “I’m making breakfast for you and Gram before you go to work.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll be right there in ten minutes.” She sent Taylor off, then headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth. After a quick shower, she wrapped her wet hair in a towel and threw on her robe. She was awake, but she didn’t quite feel like it. Last night’s phone conversation still had her mind swirling. Marilyn had certainly put the kibosh on the theory that Ryan’s father had sent Amy money to make amends for the rape of her mother. Things no longer made sense.
“Mom, breakfast!”
Taylor was shouting loud enough to invite the neighbors. But she was allowed. Gram didn’t often turn her kitchen over to a four-year-old, and Taylor was always so proud of the special menu she came up with. Amy put her makeup bag aside and headed for the kitchen table. Her business face was not required for Cap’n Crunch and Kool-Aid.
Gram was seated at the table, eating her cereal and watching the morning news on television. Another place setting was arranged neatly beside her. Taylor was pouring the milk. “Skim milk for you, right Mommy?”
“That’s right,” she said with a smile. She pulled up a chair, then froze. A handsome young reporter on television was standing in front of the Mayflower Hotel in Washington D.C.
Gram said, “Hey, listen to this. They’re talking about Marilyn.”
Amy’s pulse quickened. She reached forward and turned up the volume.
The reporter was saying something about Washington’s worst-kept secret. “According to White House sources,” he said, “Ms. Gaslow met yesterday with several of the President’s high-ranking advisors. She will be meeting this morning with the President. If all goes well, we could possibly hear an announcement by the end of the day. Assuming she meets Senate approval, that would make Marilyn Gaslow the first woman ever to serve as chairman — make that chairwoman — of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System.”
The Denver anchor broke in, fumbling with his earpiece. “Todd, most of us hear about the Federal Reserve every day, but few of us understand it. Put Ms. Gaslow’s appointment in perspective for us. How significant is this?”
“Very significant. The Fed is often referred to as the fourth branch of government, and that is no understatement. Through its seven-member Board of Governors, it sets the nation’s monetary policy. It controls the money supply, it sets interest rates, it regulates the federal banking system, it engages in a host of activities that affect market conditions. Historically, it has received blame for the severity of the Great Depression in the thirties, and it has received credit for the relatively stable economic conditions of the sixties. In short, it determines the overall economic well-being of the most powerful nation on earth. If Marilyn Gaslow is approved as chairman, she would arguably become the most powerful woman in America.”