Cheesman was the oldest reservoir of Denver’s water system, some sixty miles south-southwest of the city. Built at the turn of the century, it was for many years virtually inaccessible to the public, situated in a scarcely populated government forest reserve and surrounded by mountains that soared from 9,000 to 13,000 feet. The archmasonry dam was the first of its type in the country, faced with squared granite blocks that were quarried upstream by Italian stonemasons, floated to the site on platforms, and hoisted into place with a gas-powered pulley. It linked the steep canyon walls in dramatic fashion, like a huge V-shaped fan, barely twenty-five feet across at the narrow base and nearly thirty times wider at the crest. Rising 221 feet from the streambed below, it had been the world’s highest dam at the time of construction. It was no longer the highest but was still the tightest in the entire water system.
Amy’s ears popped as the van climbed to an elevation of over 6,800 feet, the high-water mark for the reservoir. She sat quietly in the backseat with the surveillance equipment. Marilyn rode in the captain’s chair on the passenger side.
“When the moon is right,” said Jeb, “this is the most beautiful canyon you’ll ever see at night.”
Amy glanced out the window. Beyond the guardrail was a sheer granite drop. Up ahead, beyond the dam, the gentle light of the moon reflected on the dark reservoir surface, flickering like quiet glowing embers on the plain. No argument from her.
Jeb said, “Back in the old days, guys used to come here with their sweeties to watch the submarine races. If you know what I mean,” he added with a wink.
Marilyn glanced at Amy, then said, “Yeah, I know all too well what you mean.”
Jeb steered into a turnout along the side of the road. The van came to rest at about a twenty-degree angle, slightly steeper than the road grade. Jeb applied the parking brake, then turned to talk business.
“The dam is less than a five-minute walk from here, straight up the road. If we get any closer, the engine noise will surely give us away.”
“This is close enough,” said Marilyn. “I definitely don’t want them to know I came here with anyone. Especially you.”
Jeb climbed out of the seat and maneuvered to the back of the van. A radio control panel with a recorder was mounted into the wall. On the seat beside Amy rested a medium-sized trunk. Jeb opened it and removed a tangle of wires and microphones. He spoke as he sorted the equipment. “We’ll be as good as with you the whole time you’re up there, Marilyn. Your radio has two-way communication. Amy and I will be able to hear everything back here at the van as it feeds into the recorder.”
“How will you talk to me?”
“Earpiece. We’ll have to work the wire into your hair to hide it. Should work fine.”
“All right,” said Marilyn. “How about a panic button or something like that?”
“Just scream. I’ll keep the motor running. We can be there in thirty seconds.”
Marilyn checked her watch. 1:30 A.M. Thirty minutes before the designated meeting time. “Let’s get me wired,” she said. “I need to get going if I’m going to get to Rusch before Duffy does.”
Amy looked at her with concern. She had definitely noticed the look on Marilyn’s face when Jeb had made the innocent comment about the submarine races. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” asked Amy.
“Sure. This will be just fine.”
Amy squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, but it unsettled Amy. The touch was very unlike Marilyn. It was remarkably weak.
“I hope so,” said Amy, her eyes clouded with concern.
Across the dam, on the opposite side of the canyon, Ryan and Norm waited in the Range Rover. The phone rang. Norm answered it on the speaker.
Dembroski’s voice boomed inside the truck. “Hey, it’s Bruce. I finished that handwriting analysis you asked for.”
Norm snatched up the phone, taking him off speaker. Ryan grabbed the phone back and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece so Dembroski couldn’t hear. “Norm,” he said in an accusatory tone, “what’s he talking about?”
“Bruce was trained in handwriting analysis when he was with the CIA. I asked him to compare the handwriting samples we have for Debby Parkens. The letter she wrote to your father. And the letter she wrote to her daughter — the one Amy gave you.”
“Great. So now he knows Marilyn Gaslow is involved.”
“No. I blocked out her name in the letter.”
“What the hell did you do this for, Norm?”
“Because I don’t want to see you get killed out here tonight, all right? I was hoping that if Bruce could tell you the letter was fake or genuine, maybe that would be enough for you.”
“I didn’t come all this way to turn around and go home.”
“Humor me. Let’s just listen to what he has to say.”
Ryan calmed his anger, then nodded once. He placed the phone back in the holder. Norm put the call back on speaker. “You still there, Bruce?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, this was pretty quick. I’d like to study them some more.”
“Yeah, yeah. What’s your gut reaction?”
“My gut says the letter is genuine. Meaning that whoever wrote this letter to Amy Parkens also wrote the letter to Frank Duffy.”
Ryan and Norm looked at one another.
“But,” said Dembroski, “I’m somewhat troubled by a couple things in the second letter — the letter to Frank Duffy.”
“What?” asked Ryan.
“The wording is a little off, for one thing. People tend to have a way of expressing themselves in letters. I see different word choices, different turns of the phrase in these two letters.”
“That’s probably because the one letter is written to my father and the other one is written to her seven-year-old daughter.”
“That’s a good point,” said Dembroski. “But then there’s the matter of the shaky penmanship. The handwriting in the letter to your father is a little unsteady.”
Norm asked, “What do you make of that?”
“Could be a lot of things. She could have been drunk. Could have been tired. Or — it could be something else.”
“Like what?” asked Ryan.
“This is a wild guess. But you take the shaky handwriting and combine it with the awkward phraseology, and I can offer one theory. She wrote the letter to your father, all right. But not of her own free will.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying somebody could have told her what to write. Forced her to write it.”
“You mean someone had a gun to her head?”
“Yes,” he said. “Quite literally.”
There was silence in the truck. Ryan glanced at Norm, saying nothing. Norm picked up the phone.
“Thanks, Bruce. If you can, stay by the phone tonight, just in case.”
He hung up, then looked at Ryan. “That sure opens some new possibilities.”
“Not really. It’s a wild theory, if you ask me. And even if she was forced to write it, that doesn’t mean it’s false. Seems to me I’m in the same place I’ve always been. The letter isn’t dispositive. Only Marilyn Gaslow can tell me if my father raped her.”
“I’m thinking beyond rape.”
“Huh?”
“Take a worst-case scenario. Let’s say Debby Parkens was forced to write a letter saying Frank Duffy was innocent. Say the letter was false, which means your father really was a rapist. Say her death wasn’t a suicide, meaning that somebody conveniently got rid of her. There’s only one person who had motive to make her write that letter. And in my book, that leaves one prime murder suspect.”
Ryan stared blankly, stunned at the thought of his father as a murderer.
Norm asked, “You sure you want to go down this road tonight?”
“Now more than ever.” He opened the door and stepped down from the truck.