“Legally, you have no obligation to talk to anyone. The FBI has no right to detain you. But we have to be concerned about appearances. After you leave, the FBI agent will fill out a Three-oh-two report that makes a record of your conversation. We don’t want that Three-oh-two to state simply that on the advice of your attorney, you refused to talk to the FBI. That sounds like you’re hiding something. We want you to sound as cooperative as possible, short of talking to them. So here’s what you do. You go back to the embassy and tell the agent that you fully intend to cooperate. But now isn’t a good time to talk. Your bag was stolen along with your passport. You’re upset and you’re tired. Ask them for their business cards. That’s important. I need to know which field office these agents are from. Tell them your lawyer will contact them about an interview in Denver after you’ve returned to the States.”
“So you want me to come straight back to Denver? No stop in the Cayman Islands?”
“Do not go to the Cayman Islands. I’ll have my investigator check out that lead discreetly. Everything you do from here on out, you have to assume the FBI is watching.”
“This is getting so nuts.”
Norm sensed his frustration. “Ryan, take it easy. You’ve done nothing wrong. If a crime has been committed, it was your father. The FBI can’t send you to jail for something your father may have done.”
“The FBI may be the least of my problems. Obviously someone has been tailing me all over Panama, maybe even followed me from Denver. And I still can’t figure out why the same woman who scammed me out of my bag at the hotel bar would then warn me that the police were coming to my room to pick me up.”
“Are you sure it was the same woman?”
“Sounded just like her. If it wasn’t, that’s even more baffling. It is strange, though. Why would someone who essentially robbed me suddenly decide she’s on my side?”
“Maybe she’s not exactly on your side. Just that in certain respects your interests coincide.”
“What do you mean?”
“The essence of blackmail is the secret. Neither side wants the secret to get out. If it does, the blackmailer loses his cash cow, and the person paying the blackmail has to suffer the consequences of the world knowing the truth about him.”
“You think she’s protecting the person who was blackmailed?”
“I think she knows who paid the money. And I think it’s her job to make sure nobody finds out.”
Ryan swallowed hard. “Then why doesn’t she just kill me?”
“Probably for the same reason she didn’t just kill your father. He must have worked out some arrangement where the secret would be revealed if anything untoward happened to him or his family. It’s a fairly common safety valve in any extortion case.”
“How would it work?”
“Hypothetically, let’s say your father had photographs of a famous TV evangelist having sex with his German shepherd. This is not the kind of thing that advances an evangelist’s career. Your father blackmails the evangelist, but he’s afraid the bad guys might kill him rather than pay him five million dollars. So he sends copies of the photographs to some third party, along with explicit instructions. If Frank Duffy dies under suspicious circumstances, the photographs are to be sent immediately to the National Enquirer. That way, killing the blackmailer accomplishes nothing. The only option is to pay the money.”
“So in my situation, this third party would be… who? My mother?”
“Not likely a family member. Maybe a friend. Maybe someone with no apparent connection to your father at all.”
Ryan fell silent, pensive. Maybe somebody like Amy. Maybe that was why she had balked at his hints to move their relationship beyond business.
“You still there?” asked Norm.
“Yeah, I’m here. I was just thinking. This third party you mentioned. They probably wouldn’t work for free, right?”
“It would be typical to give them a cut of the extortion money.”
“Say two hundred thousand dollars?”
“I guess. Whatever they negotiate. What are you driving at?”
“Maybe it’s best I’m not going to the Cayman Islands after all. There’s something I need to check out back in Denver.”
Norm stiffened, concerned. “You’re getting that funny sound in your voice again. What are you thinking?”
He smiled with his eyes. “I’m thinking that things are just beginning to make sense.”
34
Visiting hours at Denver Health Medical Center started at 7:00 P.M. Liz reached Phil Jackson’s private room at 7:01.
She was eager to see him and make sure he was okay. She walked briskly, then slowed steadily. A journey down the busy hospital corridors triggered memories of Ryan’s medical school residency, back when DHMC was called Denver General Hospital. She remembered the night he’d decided to be a surgeon. She remembered the following nights, too, the years of sacrifice. Ryan worked twenty-hour shifts for wages that didn’t even come close to paying his student loans. They lived week to week on Liz’s paycheck. They saw each other once a day for dinner right at the hospital, usually a ten-minute burger break between her night job and her day job. Ryan had invested so much. She had invested just as much. All for the glorious payoff of life without parole in Piedmont Springs.
For Liz, it was a return to failure. She had grown up dirt poor, one of seven children in a dilapidated four- bedroom farmhouse. She was the only one in her family who had ended up staying in Piedmont Springs. It was a bitter irony. Her heart had been broken when Ryan had gone away to college without her. She was seventeen and left to play mom to six younger siblings, an experience that had taught her never to want children of her own. Four years later, her friends had been so jealous when Ryan invited her up to Denver and asked her to marry him. A medical student. A future surgeon. He could have been her way out. No one had told her it was a round-trip ticket. In hindsight, she should have smelled trouble when it took five years of living together to move the engagement to the wedding.
“Knock, knock,” said Liz as she appeared in the doorway.
Jackson was sitting up in bed and conscious. He looked battered but better than expected. The right side of his face was swollen with purple and black bruises. A bandage covered eleven stitches above his right eyebrow. Painkillers and a glucose solution fed intravenously into his needle-pricked forearm. His dinner rested on a tray over his lap. It had hardly been touched. At his side was a yellow legal pad and a case file his secretary had brought from the office.
“Phil?” she said softly.
He waved her in and tried to smile, but the movement of any facial muscles seemed to cause him pain.
“You poor man.”
“Nothing a good dose of work can’t cure.”
“Don’t you ever stop?”
“Don’t complain. It’s your case I’m working on.”
She nearly shivered with gratitude. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that. I was so afraid you would drop my case.”
“Why would I do that?”
She shrugged impishly. “I spoke to your paralegal this afternoon about the phone conversation I had with Sarah Langford. Didn’t she tell you?”
“She told me everything. Honestly, I figured it was Brent long before you even called.”
“And you’re still sticking with me?”
He laid his legal pad aside and took her hand lightly, looking her straight in the eye. “Let me tell you something. I have deposed everybody from Teamsters to gangsters — and ripped them to shreds. I have had my tires slashed, my house vandalized, my life threatened. If I were easily intimidated I’d be sitting in an office at some
