Found Money - James Grippando [87]
“Then that’s where you need to look. Go back in time. Check with people your mother might have confided in. Her classmates, her girlfriends.”
The word hung in the air, as if the mere mention of “girlfriends” had struck the same chord in both of them.
Gram asked, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Her eyes brightened. “Only if you’re thinking of Marilyn Gaslow.”
40
Ryan sat in silence amidst a seventy-inch television screen and surround-sound speakers that stood four feet tall. With all the electronic toys turned off, the media room was the ideal place in Norm’s huge house for a confidential conversation. It was soundproof with no windows, putting even the most paranoid at ease. In here, Norm had heard some of the most acoustically perfect confessions in the history of American criminal defense law—including one from Ryan eight years ago.
Tonight, however, Ryan had only Amy on his mind.
“Want a beer?” asked Norm.
Ryan was sitting on the couch, still shell-shocked from the full-blown explosion at the Halfway Café. “Huh?”
Norm took that as a yes and grabbed two from the minibar. He handed Ryan an open Coors and sat in the leather recliner facing the blank television screen. “Let’s hear it. Tell me what the mysterious Amy had to say.”
Ryan peeled the label on his bottle. “Not a whole lot. She was just…angry is the only way to describe it. Which is understandable. She thinks my father raped her mother.”
“So, let me get this straight. She knew her mother had been raped, but she didn’t know your father had done it?”
“No. I don’t think she knew anything about a rape at all. I implied that my father might have raped someone she knew. She inferred it was her mother. It was the age similarity, I guess. Her mom is dead, but she would have been about the same age as my father. When I asked if her mother ever lived in Boulder, she wouldn’t say. But I got the impression the answer was yes.”
“Too bad we don’t know Amy’s last name. We could check those old yearbooks from Boulder High School, see if your father and her mother were classmates.”
“Amy’s name isn’t the key. We need to know her mother’s maiden name.” Ryan sipped his beer, thinking. “You know, it might be worth a look at those yearbooks anyway. It’s a long shot, but maybe Amy looks like her mother. I might be able to pick her out.”
“You’re right. That is a long shot.”
“You got a better idea?”
Norm shrugged. “We can check them out tomorrow. The copies I made are photo-quality, so I don’t see any burning need to drive all the way to Boulder to check the originals.”
“I’d like to do it tonight. You want to go downtown?”
“They’re not in the office. My investigator has them. He’s still working on that background search of your father’s classmates, looking for the kid who grew up rich enough to pay five million dollars in extortion.”
“Call him. Maybe he can bring them by here. If I’m going to look for a woman who looks like Amy, I’d really like to do this tonight, while Amy’s face is fresh in my mind.”
Norm checked his watch. Not quite nine-thirty. “I guess it’s not too late to ask. He lives just a few minutes away from here.”
Ryan only half listened as Norm placed the call. He leaned back on the couch and waited. He noticed his reflection on the dark television screen. It was barely perceptible. Norm’s was even fainter, standing in the background and talking on the phone. It was a blurry image, yet in some ways it seemed clear. It was like watching himself from another time—déjà vu on the big screen, taking him back to the last time he had sought advice from his friend Norm. It didn’t feel like eight years ago. Ryan was a resident at Denver General. A prominent professional athlete had checked into the hospital for surgery. Turned out he was HIV-positive. Back then, infected athletes worried about being banned from the playing field. His illness was a well-guarded secret. He’d told Ryan, as his doctor, to make sure it stayed a secret. He forbade Ryan to tell anyone—even the unsuspecting wife.
“All set,” said Norm. “My investigator will be