Found Money - James Grippando [96]
“Why?”
“Simply to put some issues to rest.”
“There are no unresolved issues.”
“There are for me. And I think Mr. Kozelka could clear them up for me.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
He leaned forward, shooting a steely glare.
“Because Mr. Kozelka has no time for you.”
Ryan was unfazed but suddenly noticed something. Just over the man’s shoulder, behind him on the wall, was a very strategically placed painting. It was a hunch, but he felt certain that Mr. Kozelka was not only listening but watching—and probably recording.
With everything on tape, he had to be careful. The last thing he needed was to come off as an extortionist—like his father.
“I want you to give Mr. Kozelka a message. Tell him the woman in Panama who stole my bag made a big mistake. Tell him I have her fingerprints on a bar glass.”
“Mr. Kozelka has no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, he does. But that’s not why I’m here. I came to thank him personally for all the advice he gave to my father over the years. No self-respecting small-town electrician should be without the services of an experienced consultant on matters of international bank secrecy.”
The man’s face reddened, but he said nothing.
Ryan said, “I’m almost embarrassed to say it, but I could use Mr. Kozelka’s good advice, too. Ever since that mishap in Panama, the FBI wants to know all about my father’s bank account in Panama. They are determined to find out where all that money came from.”
Ryan checked for any reaction. It was subtle, but the mention of the FBI seemed to have hit a nerve.
“Now, I’ll ask you again. Can I count on you to deliver a message to Mr. Kozelka?”
“I don’t make promises.”
“Fine.” Ryan rose and faced the portrait on the wall—the hidden camera. He spoke directly to it.
“Tell Mr. Kozelka I don’t care about the money. I didn’t ask for it, and I’m not here to ask for more. I’m not a criminal, and I’ll do the right thing with or without the help of the FBI. All I want is a straight answer to a very simple question. Why. That’s all I want to know. Tell him I want to know why.”
He headed for the door and opened it, then stopped and glanced back. “And tell him one more thing. Tell him my appointment with the FBI is Monday. Ten o’clock.
“I can find my own way to the elevator,” he said, closing the door behind him.
Amy took an early lunch off the beaten track of Boulder’s Pearl Street Mall. With her mind still buzzing from Marilyn, she didn’t necessarily want to be alone, just someplace where she was certain not to run into anyone from the law office.
She went to the Sink, one of her old college hangouts. In fact, it had been everybody’s college hangout since the thirties, achieving a genuine claim to fame when a young Robert Redford quit as janitor, bagged UC-Boulder, and decided to try his hand at movies. The decor was organized graffiti. Youthful exuberance was the only way to describe the atmosphere. The food was of the munchies variety, with self-described “Ugly Crust Pizzas” a heavy favorite. Amy took one with pineapple topping and grabbed a small table by the window.
She glanced at the table beside hers. Two guys barely old enough to drink were making small talk with the girls, planning the weekend. Amy thought back to the days when weekends started after the last class for the week, sometimes on Thursdays if you could fix a schedule with no Friday classes. She hadn’t had a real three-day weekend since—well, since college.
The television in the corner caught her attention. Noise from the lunch crowd made it inaudible, but she didn’t need audio to know what was going on. Marilyn was standing beside the President outside the White House. A semicircle of smiling onlookers were applauding. It was official. Marilyn Gaslow had her nomination as chairwoman of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve. Now all she had to do was withstand the congressional approval process.
“Mind if I join you?”
Amy looked up. The face triggered no recognition.