Found Money - James Grippando [110]
“No!” shouted Ryan. “You told me on the phone we would discuss this as a family. Well, the family’s all here. Don’t avoid this, Mom. We have to talk—tonight.”
“Now isn’t the time.”
Ryan nearly exploded, but a knock on the front door checked his anger. The three of them glanced at one another, as if to ask who it might be.
“Are you expecting someone?” asked Ryan.
Both women shook their heads.
“Answer it, Ryan. Your sister is in no condition.”
He sighed with exasperation, his feet pounding the floor as he left the kitchen. He yanked hard on the door, harder than necessary. It startled their visitor.
“Hello, Ryan,” the man said timidly.
It was Josh Colburn, the old lawyer who had prepared his father’s will. Ryan hadn’t seen him since the funeral. He was wearing a bright yellow bowling shirt that bore the logo of the local hardware store. “Mr. Colburn,” he said with surprise.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was over at the bowling alley. Word is out about Brent. Poor fellow. I drove by your mother’s house first, but there was nobody there. So I came here as quickly as I could.”
“That’s very nice of you,” he said, bewildered.
“But what’s the hurry?”
“Well, I needed to talk to you. I’m having a little trouble interpreting your father’s instructions.”
“My father? What are you talking about?”
He leaned forward and whispered, as if sharing a matter of national security. “I have the envelope.”
“Mr. Colburn, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The envelope. Frank told me to send it straight to the Denver Post if anyone in the Duffy family was ever harmed.”
A chill went down Ryan’s spine. It was just like Norm had said. In any viable extortion scheme there had to be a safety valve—an unidentified third person who would automatically disclose the secret in the event the blackmailer or his family were ever killed. It was a way to ensure payment and prevent retaliation.
“Did you send it to the Post yet?” asked Ryan.
“No. You see, that’s where I’m confused. I know how your father felt about Brent. He hated him more than you did. To be honest with you, I’m not sure if Brent is considered part of the Duffy family.”
“Where’s the envelope now?”
“Back in my law office. I keep it locked in the safe. Frank told me never to carry it on my person.”
Ryan stepped outside, put a friendly arm around the old man’s shoulder, and started down the porch. “Let’s you and I talk about that,” said Ryan. “On the way to your office.”
The telephone rang after midnight. Amy was stretched across the couch in the living room, watching an old Audrey Hepburn flick. She snatched the cordless receiver from the cocktail table before the piercing ring could wake Taylor or her grandmother.
“Hello.”
“Amy, this is Ryan Duffy.”
She nearly jackknifed on the couch, spilling her steamy bag of microwave popcorn. “How did you get my number?”
“I found an old letter written by a woman named Debby Parkens.”
She rose, stunned. “That’s my mother.”
“I figured. It was postmarked in Boulder. I dialed directory assistance on a hunch. There’s only one Amy Parkens.”
She suddenly regretted ever having told him her real first name. “What do you want?”
“I had to call you. Amy, my father didn’t rape your mother.”
“I know he didn’t. He raped—” She stopped herself. She didn’t want to drag Marilyn’s name into this. “Just stop harassing me. Don’t ever call me again.”
“No, wait. I know why my father sent you the money.”
She fought the urge to hang up. That was one question she definitely wanted answered. “Why?”
“If I tell you on the phone, you’ll think I’m making this up. Meet with me, please.”
“I’m not getting anywhere near you. Just tell me now.”
“Amy, you have to see the letter. I don’t want to share it with you or anyone else until I’m sure it’s genuine. You’re the only one who can verify it. Bring something that will help you identify your mother’s handwriting. But please meet with me. As soon as possible.”
She paused to think. He now knew where she lived. If she refused to meet him, he’d probably show up at her front door,