Found Money - James Grippando [67]
“So what should I do?”
“You need to talk to your divorce lawyer.”
“I fired my divorce lawyer.”
“Then you need to get a new one.”
Ryan was silent.
Norm read his mind. “Uh-uh, no way, no how. I’m a white-collar criminal defense lawyer. I quit that divorce shit years ago. Too nasty for my taste. If I want to get bloody, I take on an occasional murder case. That’s my limit.”
“Who else can I trust with this? Don’t make me go into some stranger’s office and tell them my dad was a blackmailer with two million dollars in his attic and another three in Panama.”
“You’re asking me to go up against one of the toughest divorce lawyers in Denver. I’m rusty, at best.”
Ryan’s voice dropped, more serious. “Norm, I’m calling in the favor.”
The tone made it clear this was not about wedding days and nipple rings. Three years ago, Ryan had forced him to get a biopsy on a strange-looking mole on his back. But for that, Norm would have died of skin cancer two years ago. Ryan never thought he’d play that card. Then again, he never would have foreseen this.
“All right,” Norm said with a sigh. “Let me ease into it. I’ll handle the deposition, see how it goes.”
“Thanks, buddy. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Guess that makes us even.”
“Touché.” Ryan checked the alarm clock beside his bed, ready to set it. “So, what time will my passport be ready tomorrow?”
“Stop by the embassy some time around midmorning. It should be there by then. Call me if you hit any snags.”
“You know I will.”
“Yeah.” Norm chuckled. “You’re becoming my best client.”
“No offense, but aren’t most of your clients in jail?”
They laughed together, then stopped in awkward silence. It suddenly didn’t seem funny anymore. Ryan said good night. But the thought stayed with him after the call had ended.
His best client. What a dubious distinction.
Phil Jackson rose at 5:00 A.M., the start of his usual eleven-hour workday. People abhorred his style. Colleagues begrudged his celebrity-like status in the Denver legal community. No one denied he worked hard for his success. He had to. A flashy reputation lured clients through the door. Results paid the rent.
Jackson was showered, dressed, and out the door in forty-five minutes. It was a lonely routine for him, though he rather enjoyed the solitude of an entire neighborhood asleep. The sun wouldn’t rise for a few more minutes. No traffic disturbed the quiet street. Even the morning paper had yet to arrive.
He stepped carefully across the lawn. The brick pavers on the sidewalk were slick with the morning dew, and the path was darker than usual. The decorative lamp outside the garage had apparently burned out.
The transmitter on his key chain activated the garage door opener, raising the middle door of his three-car garage. He felt like the 800 series Mercedes today. The black car, however, was barely visible this morning. The garage was unusually dark. The light inside was burned out, too.
What is this, an epidemic?
He entered the garage and started toward the driver’s side. The alarm chirped as it disengaged by keyless remote. The car lights blinked. He reached for the door. Something rattled behind him. He turned to look. His briefcase went flying with the first blow to the head. He swung wildly in self-defense. Someone had him by the neck. His head snapped forward. His face slammed into the windshield. He was stunned, blinded by the hot rush of blood. Another quick jerk of his head put a crack in the windshield.
His legs buckled, but his attacker held him up. He was pinned against the car, barely able to breathe beneath the man’s weight. The stranger’s hot breath coursed down the back of his neck. His attacker was right on him, as if poised to say something. A ringing filled his ears, but he could hear the rough words, a voice like gravel, undoubtedly disguised.
“It’s family business. Don’t make it yours.”
The lawyer’s head slammed against the windshield one last time. Red rivulets of blood ran down to the