Found Money - James Grippando [107]
“You bastards. You won’t get away with this.”
“Don’t be so sure. Listen to this.”
There was a click on the line, followed by Ryan’s own voice. It was a tape recording of his conversation with Norm after the hearing. Ryan listened in stunned silence as Norm’s words were played back to him. “My advice to you is to stay clear of your brother-in-law.” He braced himself for his own reply: “I will. Just as soon as I break his friggin’ neck.”
The recording was over. Ryan closed his eyes in disbelief. “You bugged Norm’s truck.”
“Not me. It probably was that bum who bumped into you outside the courthouse. Must have dropped something in your coat pocket. We heard the whole courtroom disaster—and everything since.”
Ryan reached frantically into his coat pockets, left, then right. A tiny microphone was buried at the bottom. He pulled it out and crushed it, erupting with anger. “Stop this! What do you people want from me!”
The reply was smug, unemotional. “Stay away from the FBI. And forget you ever heard of Joe Kozelka.”
“Or what?”
“Or the police are going to find this gun. They’re going to hear this tape. And they’re going to come knocking on your door.”
Ryan had no chance to speak. The line clicked, followed by the dial tone. He put the phone in the cradle but didn’t let go. The rain started to blow, soaking his hair and face. He didn’t know who to call first. Sarah. His mom. Norm. As he lifted the phone, he was certain of just one thing.
Definitely not the FBI.
Nathan Rusch hung up the pay phone and started back to the car. As an added precaution, he was taking the long way back to Denver, west to Pueblo and up I-25. He’d driven as far as Rocky Ford, the self-proclaimed melon capitol of the world. Banners and painted signs along the road heralded the upcoming Arkansas Valley Fair, held every August when the melons were in season. All the water-melon hoopla reminded Rusch of those old David Letterman shows where the host would drop big twenty-pounders off buildings in Manhattan, splattering them on the pavement. The result was not unlike Brent’s head on the highway.
Melonhead Langford. Twenty years in the business, he gave all his jobs a name. He especially liked this one.
The parking lot outside Denny’s restaurant was nearly full. Melons might have been the local claim to fame, but the Grand Slam breakfast was apparently a Saturday-evening hit. He crossed several rows of parked cars, then stopped alongside a white Taurus. The driver’s window slid down. His partner was behind the wheel. She wore neither the black nor the blond wig tonight. She was her natural brunette.
“Did you reach him?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” She slid across the bench seat to the passenger side. Rusch opened the door and got behind the wheel.
“I guess we’re a pretty good team, huh?”
He started the engine, showing not a hint of friendly agreement as he steered out of the parking lot. “You fucked up again, Sheila.”
“No way. I did everything I was supposed to do.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be such an obvious break-in. The whole key to the frame-up is that Duffy used his father’s gun. If it looks like somebody broke into the house and stole it before Brent got whacked, we got nothing.”
“The house was locked. What was I supposed to do? I thought I did a damn good job of finding the gun as quickly as I did.”
“It wasn’t that brilliant, Sheila. Nine out of ten people keep their handgun in a bedroom dresser drawer.”
She glanced out the window. “You never give me credit.”
“Credit for what? You go to Panama, you leave your damn fingerprints all over a cocktail glass. You go to Duffy’s house, you break in like an amateur.” He shook his head, grumbling. “I must have been crazy to think I could promote you from bedroom detail.”
She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. “We all have our own strengths,” she said as she ran her fingertips along the inside of his thigh. “And we all have our weaknesses.”
He knocked her hand away. “That’s not going to work this time. I can only carry you so far. Kozelka doesn’t