Found money

49

Ryan’s pager chirped just north of Eads, about an hour from home. He kept one eye on the lonely highway as he checked the number on his belt. He didn’t recognize it. A Saturday evening page usually meant someone was awfully sick. Something told him, however, that this was no medical emergency.

He stopped at a gas station, went straight to a pay phone, and dialed the number. The rain seemed to fall harder with each push of the button. He moved closer to the phone, beneath the small overhang. It wasn’t much shelter. Thankfully, it took only one ring to get an answer.

“Brent’s dead.”

The pattering rain made it hard to hear. “ What did you say?”

“Your brother-in-law’s dead. Shot twice in the head. His body’s laying on Highway 287, about a half-hour from your house.”

Ryan recognized the voice. It was that security guy at K &G. “You killed him.”

“No. You killed him. With your father’s gun.”

He immediately thought of the break-in at his mother’s house. “You broke in and stole the gun.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Like the police are going to buy that one.”

“How’d you find it? How did you even know my father had a gun?”

“Registration records. And let’s face it. Isn’t the top drawer in the master bedroom the first place you’d look?”

“You bastards. You won’t get away with this.”

“Don’t be so sure. Listen to this.”

There was a click on the line, followed by Ryan’s own voice. It was a tape recording of his conversation with Norm after the hearing. Ryan listened in stunned silence as Norm’s words were played back to him. “My advice to you is to stay clear of your brother-in-law.” He braced himself for his own reply: “I will. Just as soon as I break his friggin’ neck.”

The recording was over. Ryan closed his eyes in disbelief. “You bugged Norm’s truck.”

“Not me. It probably was that bum who bumped into you outside the courthouse. Must have dropped something in your coat pocket. We heard the whole courtroom disaster — and everything since.”

Ryan reached frantically into his coat pockets, left, then right. A tiny microphone was buried at the bottom. He pulled it out and crushed it, erupting with anger. “Stop this! What do you people want from me!”

The reply was smug, unemotional. “Stay away from the FBI. And forget you ever heard of Joe Kozelka.”

“Or what?”

“Or the police are going to find this gun. They’re going to hear this tape. And they’re going to come knocking on your door.”

Ryan had no chance to speak. The line clicked, followed by the dial tone. He put the phone in the cradle but didn’t let go. The rain started to blow, soaking his hair and face. He didn’t know who to call first. Sarah. His mom. Norm. As he lifted the phone, he was certain of just one thing.

Definitely not the FBI.

Nathan Rusch hung up the pay phone and started back to the car. As an added precaution, he was taking the long way back to Denver, west to Pueblo and up I-25. He’d driven as far as Rocky Ford, the self-proclaimed melon capitol of the world. Banners and painted signs along the road heralded the upcoming Arkansas Valley Fair, held every August when the melons were in season. All the water-melon hoopla reminded Rusch of those old David Letterman shows where the host would drop big twenty-pounders off buildings in Manhattan, splattering them on the pavement. The result was not unlike Brent’s head on the highway.

Melonhead Langford. Twenty years in the business, he gave all his jobs a name. He especially liked this one.

The parking lot outside Denny’s restaurant was nearly full. Melons might have been the local claim to fame, but the Grand Slam breakfast was apparently a Saturday-evening hit. He crossed several rows of parked cars, then stopped alongside a white Taurus. The driver’s window slid down. His partner was behind the wheel. She wore neither the black nor the blond wig tonight. She was her natural brunette.

“Did you reach him?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She slid across the bench seat to the passenger side. Rusch opened the door and got behind the wheel.

“I guess we’re a pretty good team, huh?”

He started the engine, showing not a hint of friendly agreement as he steered out of the parking lot. “You fucked up again, Sheila.”

“No way. I did everything I was supposed to do.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be such an obvious break-in. The whole key to the frame-up is that Duffy used his father’s gun. If it looks like somebody broke into the house and stole it before Brent got whacked, we got nothing.”

“The house was locked. What was I supposed to do? I thought I did a damn good job of finding the gun as quickly as I did.”

“It wasn’t that brilliant, Sheila. Nine out of ten people keep their handgun in a bedroom dresser drawer.”

She glanced out the window. “You never give me credit.”

“Credit for what? You go to Panama, you leave your damn fingerprints all over a cocktail glass. You go to Duffy’s house, you break in like an amateur.” He shook his head, grumbling. “I must have been crazy to think I could promote you from bedroom detail.”

She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. “We all have our own strengths,” she said as she ran her fingertips along the inside of his thigh. “And we all have our weaknesses.”

He knocked her hand away. “That’s not going to work this time. I can only carry you so far. Kozelka doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

“What are you telling me, Nathan?”

He glanced her way, then back at the road. “Mr. Kozelka was very concerned that Duffy would take that cocktail glass to the FBI and implicate you. He was even more concerned that you might turn around and drop the name Kozelka. Now, there were two ways for me to make sure that didn’t happen. One was to make it impossible for Duffy to meet with the FBI. The other… well, I think you understand the other.”

She glanced nervously at his hands on the steering wheel, as if suddenly aware of how huge they were. “Under the circumstances, I wish the frame-up were a little tighter.”

“It should work in the short run. Even with your botched break-in, I can’t see Duffy running to the FBI before he and his lawyer have a chance to sort this out.”

“Then what?”

“Then we reevaluate.”

She managed a weak, awkward smile. “Sure hope this works.”

“Yes,” he said coldly. “I know you do.”

Ryan’s first call was to his mother. She was still at the McClennys’, where he had told her to stay until he returned from Denver. The rain continued to fall as he filled her in on everything from the courtroom disaster to the threatening phone call. By the time he’d finished, he was barely aware that he was completely rain-soaked.

She seemed shocked by the news of Brent’s death, though not exactly saddened. That pioneer spirit that had been missing since the death of her husband was suddenly back. She was circling the proverbial wagons.

“Are you sure he’s dead?”

“I haven’t seen the body, if that’s what you mean.”

“Then how do you know that man wasn’t bluffing?”

“He wouldn’t break into the house and steal Dad’s gun just to bluff. I can drive down Two-eighty-seven and take a look for myself, if that’s what you want.”

“No, don’t do that.”

Her tone alarmed him. “Why not?”

“Because the police could be there already. I don’t think you should talk to them.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have to think this through first. What are you going to tell them?”

“I was going to tell them I think I’m being framed for a murder I didn’t commit. That way, I’ll just beat Kozelka’s thug to the punch.”

“Please, don’t do that.”

“Why not, Mom?”

“Because if you tell the police you’re being framed, you’ll have to tell them why you’re being framed.”

“I think it’s about time we just came clean on this.”

“No.”

Ryan cringed. “What do you mean, no?”

“It’s not totally your call anymore, Ryan. I have a say in this.”

“What are we arguing about, Mom? I’m being framed for murder.”

“Not yet. They’ve only threatened to frame you. The only way you will be framed is if you tell the FBI what your father did. If you keep your mouth shut, Brent’s just another unsolved murder.”

His mouth opened, but words didn’t come. He couldn’t believe what his own mother was saying. “Mom, somebody was murdered here.”

“Not somebody. Brent. I’m sorry, but I’m not shedding any tears over a human slug who took a fist to my own daughter. Brent’s dead. You can’t change that by telling the police you’re being framed. And you can’t tell the police you’re being framed without ruining your father’s good name and reputation. None of that can bring Brent back, even if we wanted him back.”

“Mom, I’ve already done more than I should to keep this blackmail a secret.”

“Damn it. It’s not the blackmail I’m worried about. It’s the rape. I can’t have everyone in Prowers County thinking I was married forty-six years to a rapist!”

Ryan froze. “I thought you didn’t know about the rape. You told me you didn’t know what was in that safe deposit box in Panama. You said you didn’t want to know.”

Her voice was shaking, but she was no longer shouting. “Of course I knew.”

“Why did you lie to me before I went down to Panama?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you tell me what you knew?”

“Ryan, please.”

“ No,” he said sharply. “You knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid,” she said softly.

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid that you would never understand how I could forgive him. Please, Ryan. Let’s not do it this way. Your sister’s husband has just been murdered. She shouldn’t hear about it through the Piedmont Springs grapevine. I need to go to her. Let me be the one to tell her.”

“Don’t try to hide behind Sarah.”

“I’m not hiding. Not anymore. Meet me at her house. Then Sarah, you, and I will discuss this. Like a family.”

“Or what’s left of it.”

“Please, son. See me on this.”

A bitterness swelled from deep within — but he swallowed it. “All right, Mom. I’ll see you there.”