Found Money - James Grippando [130]
“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.”
She pushed the metal door open and stepped inside. Marilyn followed. A bare fluorescent light made the tiny room too bright. The walls were yellow-painted cinder block, no windows. Six white washing machines lined one side. Stacked dryers lined another. A few mateless socks lay scattered on the linoleum floor. Amy closed the door and locked it. An empty chair waited by the soda machine, but neither one took it. They went to the folding table in the center of the room and stood at opposite ends, facing each other.
“Okay,” said Amy. “Now tell me. What’s going on?”
Marilyn struggled for words, struggled to look at Amy. “I haven’t been honest with you.”
“No kidding.”
“I wish there was some unselfish explanation for my dishonesty. I’d like to be able to tell you it was for your own good.”
“Please. I’ve heard that one enough for one lifetime.”
Marilyn nodded, knowing the old story. “That always sounds so hollow, doesn’t it? Rarely is it ever for the benefit of anyone but the person who is being dishonest. But I was able to fool myself for years. I told myself it was for your own safety that I didn’t tell you the truth. Only tonight did I admit to myself that all the deception was for my benefit—for the good of my career. It took something pretty drastic to get me to realize that.”
“What?”
“I realized that unless you know the truth, you are going to get yourself killed.” She looked away, then back. “Just like your mother.”
Amy went cold. “My mother was murdered, wasn’t she.”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop lying! Ryan Duffy showed me Mom’s letter. I know the rape never happened.”
“That’s not what it says. It says Frank Duffy didn’t rape me.”
Her voice lowered, but the tone was just as bitter. “What’s the difference?”
“I was raped.”
A tense silence fell between them. “By who?”
She paused, then said, “Joe.”
“You married the man who raped you?”
“I didn’t know it was him. I thought it was Frank.