Found Money - James Grippando [50]
The deposit was three million dollars.
“Holy shit,” he uttered. His mind raced. The two million he’d already found in the attic was possibly part of the three million. Or perhaps the three was in addition to the two. The thought made him dizzy.
He reached inside the box for the remaining contents, which were in a large manila envelope. He opened the flap and removed a document. It looked old, tattered around the edges. It was old. Forty-six years old, to be exact.
Ryan scanned it from top to bottom. It was the information his mother had intuitively feared. A copy of a sealed record from the juvenile courts of Colorado. A criminal sentencing report for “Frank Patrick Duffy, a minor.” Not only had his father committed a crime, he’d apparently been convicted. In fact, he had pleaded guilty. Ryan felt chills as he read the charge aloud in quiet disbelief.
“One count sexual assault in violation of Colorado Statutes, section…”
His heart was in his throat. Before opening the box, he had hoped for many things. This was not on his wish list.
At age sixteen, Frank Duffy had raped a woman.
23
Ryan Duffy, M.D., S.O.R.—son of a rapist.
That was the identity with which he had to come to terms. He felt anger, resentment, betrayal—a flood of emotions. He and his father had always been close. Or had they? Certainly Ryan was proud to be his son. In truth, however, there had always been a safe emotional distance between them. Dad was a great buddy—a regular guy who would share a round of Irish whiskey on his deathbed. On that level, he and Ryan were close. Hell, on that level, Frank Duffy had been “close” with half the male population of Prowers County. But there were things Ryan and his father had never discussed, things they probably should have talked about. Not just the rape, the money, or the extortion. Other things, too.
Like the real reason Ryan had chucked a promising career in Denver and moved back to Piedmont Springs.
Secrets, it seemed, were a bit of a Duffy family tradition. Maybe it was genetic. As a child, he had emulated his father, wanting only to be more like him. How much, he wondered, were they alike?
Ryan returned to the hotel around 6:00 P.M. He had already checked out of his room, but his flight wouldn’t leave Tocumen International Airport for another four hours. He decided to kill some time in the bar in the main lobby.
“Jameson’s and water,” he told the bartender.
He sat alone on a stool at the end of the mahogany bar. It had been a long day. First the safe deposit box at the Banco Nacional, which had led him to a second Panamanian account at the Banco del Istmo—which had turned out to be a veritable bonanza. The two million dollars in the attic hadn’t been withdrawn from that account or even laundered through it, whatever the correct terminology was. The funds were completely separate sums, though inextricably related. Ryan had found an additional three million dollars that his father had obtained through extortion. The total was now five.
The bartender poured his drink. “Salud,” he said, then returned to his televised soccer game at the other end of the bar. He and some other fanatics were screaming at the set. Ryan was oblivious to the game, the shouting. He guzzled his drink and ordered another, a double. With each sip, the background noises were retreating further into oblivion. He was beginning to relax. The bartender served him another drink.
“No, gracias,” said Ryan, waving it off. “Reached my limit.”
“Is from the young lady at the table over there.” He pointed discreetly with a shift of the eyes.
Ryan turned in his bar stool. The bar was dimly lit, but not so dark that he couldn’t see her. She was surprisingly attractive.