Found Money - James Grippando [76]
A roar of the crowd disrupted her thoughts. The Rockies had scored. She and Taylor kept walking, leaving through the turnstile and chain-link gate to the north parking lot.
Amy had never taken Taylor to a night game before. Leaving early had a different feeling at night than in broad daylight. Vapor lights gave the grounds an eerie yellow glow. Trash bins at the gate were overflowing with cans and bottles that had been confiscated from fans on their way in. Ticket stubs lay scattered on the ground. The crowd noise faded behind them. The parking lot was jammed, without another soul in sight. It was an uneasy feeling of solitude, as if forty thousand people had vaporized with the sunset, leaving Amy and Taylor alone in a sea of cars.
Amy picked up her sleepy daughter and walked faster toward her truck.
The walk back to the parking space always seemed farther than the walk to the stadium. That was never more true than when you were alone in the parking lot with a sleepy four-year-old in your arms. They passed row after row of empty vehicles. Amy was certain she was in section E, but the rows all looked alike. For the second time she saw the same red Honda. She headed in the other direction this time, searching for her distinctive old truck. Taylor was sound asleep on her shoulder. Amy’s arms were getting tired. Her back was aching. Taylor wasn’t such a little girl anymore. Finally, she spotted her truck in the next row.
She cut between two parked cars and dug out her key. She opened the passenger door with one hand and placed Taylor in the car seat. She closed the door and hurried around the back to the driver’s side. She stopped short, startled by a noise. A blur leaped from behind the truck. Someone jumped up and grabbed her from behind. She started to scream, but a huge hand covered her mouth. A cold knife was at her throat.
“Don’t move,” he warned.
She was shaking but unable to move, pinned against the truck.
He spoke right into her ear from behind her. “We saw the police report. You didn’t mention the money. Smart move.”
She didn’t even breathe. It was her worst fear—the thugs behind the money.
“Stay smart, lady. Tell no one about the money. And stay away from the cops.” He twisted her arm, heightening the pain. “Now get in your truck and get the hell out of here. You scream, you ever talk to the police again, it’s your daughter who pays.”
He knocked her to the ground and sprinted away. Amy hurried to her feet and looked around, gasping for breath. She didn’t see him anywhere. She reached for the rape whistle on her keychain and brought it to her lips, then stopped. His warning stayed with her.
She jumped in the truck and started the engine. Taylor was still asleep in her car seat. The sight of her little one brought emotions to a head and moisture to her eyes. She leaned over and hugged her with one arm while steering with the left. Her whole body trembled as she drove quickly from the parking lot.
36
Ryan’s flight landed at Denver International Airport at 11:50 P.M. He hadn’t bothered to retrieve his garment bag from the hotel room in Panama, so he had no checked baggage, just the small carry-on he had purchased to replace his stolen bag. He’d already passed through customs at the plane change in Houston. Norm met him out front, near the curbside check-in at the United Airlines terminal. The motor was running in the Range Rover as the passenger door flew open. Ryan jumped inside, laid his bag gently at his feet. After a day that included a run through the streets from Panamanian police, a run-in with the FBI, and nine hours of international travel, he nearly melted into the leather upholstery.
“Man, am I glad to see you,” he said as he slammed the door.
Norm checked his disheveled appearance. “You look like Steve McQueen in that old movie about Devil’s Island.”
“Papillon?”
“Yeah. What did you do, float in from Panama on a sack of coconuts?”
“Shut up and drive, Norm.”
A whistle blew, startling them. The DIA traffic gestapo was about to issue a parking citation, as if they expected passengers