“I don’t know. Tell them she got food poisoning. Just don’t mention my name. Promise?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Frank dug for his car keys and opened the door. “But you owe me, Joe. Big time.”
Joe slapped him on the back, nearly shoving him into the driver’s seat. “Yeah, buddy. You have no idea.”
…The phone rang, drawing Kozelka from his memories. Beethoven’s symphony was in its fourth movement. The tumultuous Horror Fanfare had just begun when he hit the mute button and grabbed the phone.
“Yeah,” he said.
“It’s me,” said Nathan Rusch.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve beeped you a dozen times.”
“I’ve been… indisposed.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Rusch shook his head. Ex-prostitutes were like walking pharmacies. The effects of whatever Sheila had slipped him had not yet passed completely. “Long story.”
“I need you back in Denver tonight. Duffy contacted Marilyn directly. He expects her to show up at the Cheesman Dam at two A.M.”
“Why there?”
“Never mind, Rusch. Just get over here. I need you at the dam.”
“You don’t suspect an FBI setup?”
“No. It’s a clear case of like father, like son. The boy wants more money. He isn’t going to bring in the FBI to bear witness to his extortion. Besides, we have him boxed in so long as we have his father’s gun.”
Rusch rubbed his throbbing head. “One thing I should tell you. The gun is gone.”
“ Gone?” he said incredulously.
“The girl stole it, I think. She’s gone and the gun is gone.”
“Damn it, Rusch. The frame-up was our way of making sure that Duffy doesn’t talk to the FBI.”
“I realize that, sir.”
Kozelka guzzled the rest of his scotch. In a rare surge of rage, he squeezed the crystal so tightly it nearly crushed in his bare hand. “That leaves us one option. Scorched earth. Take out the targets who are pushing the hardest.”
“Meaning?”
“The lawyer and the ex-wife have to go. Preferably in one hit. Tonight.”
“Easy enough. I’m thinking maybe an urgent package marked personal and confidential, addressed to Liz Duffy but delivered to Jackson’s house. The lawyer shouldn’t open it without his client’s permission. Decent chance they’ll open it together. I guarantee, it’ll be the last thing that twosome ever does.”
“Good.” He tucked the phone under his chin and refilled his scotch. “Get it done before you meet Duffy at the dam. I want this to look like the boy went berserk. Killed his brother-in-law, his ex-wife, her lawyer.”
“And then?”
“Then he drove to the dam where his father raped a woman and blew his brains out.”
Rusch smirked. “My specialty.”
“Just don’t screw it up. I have everything riding on this.” The words lingered for a moment, then he hung up the phone.
60
Ryan reached Denver long after dark. He’d been thinking about the meeting on the long drive up and was starting to feel vulnerable. He stopped at Norm’s house in Cherry Creek before heading out to the dam.
“What now?” asked Norm. He was standing at the back door, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. He was wearing his eyeglasses, having removed his contact lenses for bed.
“I need a favor,” said Ryan. “Can I come in?”
He stepped aside. “Just be quiet about it. Kids are asleep.”
“It’s just me, not the prize patrol.” Ryan went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and borrowed a Pepsi. Norm sat at the table.
Ryan sipped his soda. “I have a meeting tonight.”
“Who with?”
“Marilyn Gaslow.”
“You just have to ask her about that letter, don’t you.” Norm was practically groaning.
“Of course.”
“Isn’t it enough for you to have it in writing?”
Ryan came to the table. “The letter is no good until someone confirms it’s true. I want to hear it straight from her that my father never raped her.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
Ryan sat across from his friend, his expression solemn. “Have you ever stopped to think what stake Amy Parkens’s mother might have had in this?”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m talking about motive. Why would she write that letter to my father?”
“Because Marilyn wouldn’t do it. And it was the right thing to do.”
“That’s one explanation. Another is that she and my dad were in this thing together.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Maybe that two hundred thousand dollars my father sent Amy Parkens wasn’t just an unsolicited expression of gratitude for the way Debby Parkens stepped up to the plate and did the right thing. It could have been part of their deal. My dad and Amy’s mother, co-conspirators.”
“You’re saying Debby Parkens betrayed her best friend Marilyn Gaslow?”
“For money.”
Norm shook his head. “That would be like me selling you out.”
“Or like Judas, who took his money and then hung himself from a tree. Betrayal always has consequences. Did you ever think maybe that’s why Amy’s mother killed herself?”
“Or why somebody killed her.”
Ryan paused, then said, “Somebody like Marilyn.”
They looked cautiously at one another, each waiting for the other to say they were talking crazy. Neither said a word.
“What’s your plan?” asked Norm.
Ryan smiled with his eyes. “I knew you’d see it my way. I told her to meet me at Cheesman Dam. I figured if I was going to get an honest answer — or at least an honest reaction — from her, it made sense to get her back on the spot where the rape either happened or didn’t happen.”
“And if she says what you want her to say… then what?”
“I want my father’s name cleared forever. I want Marilyn’s voice on tape. I need to be wired.”
“You can record it, but I want you to understand that it’s not something you could ever use in court against her. The only way to do this legally would be to work with law enforcement.”
“I’m not looking for something I can use in a courtroom. This is for me and my family. I want my mother to hear it.”
“So do I,” said Norm. “Let me call my investigator. He’ll fit you up, no problem.” He rose and stepped toward the telephone on the kitchen counter.
“I want a bulletproof vest, too. Just in case. And I need to borrow your gun.”
Norm held the phone, poised to dial. “Marilyn Gaslow is not going to shoot you.”
“No. But I’ve invited someone else to the meeting besides Marilyn. Someone a little less predictable. Someone who says she can return my father’s gun to me.”
Norm hung up the phone and returned to the table. “Let’s talk about this.”
“Yeah,” said Ryan, “let’s talk.”
61
They returned to the Clover Leaf Apartments after ten o’clock. Gram went inside to turn down Taylor’s bed while Amy went up to Mrs. Bentley’s to pick her up. Rather than take her impressionable daughter to the old house, Amy had left her with their usual sitter.
Amy knocked once. The door opened. Mrs. Bentley was standing in the doorway. Marilyn Gaslow was standing right behind her, flashing a look that bordered on terror.
“Marilyn?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I stopped by your apartment, but no one was there. Your neighbor said to check with Mrs. Bentley.”
“Is Taylor okay?”
Mrs. Bentley answered. “She’s fine. Asleep since nine o’clock.”
Marilyn said, “I have to talk to you. In private.”
Amy was confused but curious. She got Mrs. Bentley to watch Taylor for a while longer, then stepped into the hall with Marilyn.
“What’s this all about?”
Marilyn glanced over her shoulder, almost paranoid. “Can we talk someplace private?”
“My apartment’s right upstairs.”
“I mean totally private. Not even your grandmother.”
The tone worried Amy. She led Marilyn down the hall to the laundry room, dug her key from her purse, and opened the door. “Nobody comes in here after ten o’clock. It closes then.”