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 to catch their rides on the run. Norm hit the gas and quickly pulled back into traffic. They spoke as the truck weaved between car rental buses and stopped cars on the way to the airport exit and Pena Boulevard.
“You made it out smoothly, I presume,” said Norm.
“I told them exactly what you told me to say. Got their business cards, too. Forsyth is a field agent here in Denver. The other guy isn’t FBI. He’s from Washington. The criminal
tax division of the IRS.”
“I figured it was only a matter of time before they showed up.” Norm steered onto the express-way ramp. “I’ve been doing a little legwork myself while you were traveling. Called a friend over at the U.S. attorney’s office.”
“What would they know about this?”
“In any investigation, the FBI’s legal counsel is an AUSA — an assistant U.S. attorney. A routine subpoena for documents, for example, would be handled at a ministerial level by a junior AUSA. But if your case was assigned to an AUSA who specializes in money laundering, for example, that would tell us something about the focus of the investigation.”
“What did you find out?”
“Your case is under the major crimes section.”
“Major?” he asked with concern.
“Don’t let the name fool you. Everything is major. It’s a slush pile for cases that are too new to be routed to a more defined area of specialization.”
“Where do you think it’s headed?”
“Could be strictly a tax investigation. You said your old man didn’t pay taxes on the money. Or if the FBI gets wind of the extortion, it could go to the public corruption section. If it’s money laundering they smell, it could go to economic crimes. Too early to tell.”
“All this because I pissed off a stupid bank officer at Banco del Istmo.”
“Actually, it wasn’t just him who brought in the FBI. From what I gathered from the AUSA, your wife’s lawyer is also behind it.”
“Jackson?”
Norm nodded as he changed lanes. “He’s in the hospital. Gonna be okay. Looks like Brent may have punched his lights out in retaliation for scheduling his deposition.”
“What a jerk.”
“You mean Jackson or Brent?”
“Both,” Ryan scoffed.
“Anyway, Jackson has managed to pitch this in a way that has piqued the FBI’s interest. Three million dollars in a Panamanian bank account isn’t necessarily front-page news. But when a high-powered attorney starts poking around and lands in the emergency room, it puts a different spin on the case. Especially a guy like Jackson. Believe it or not, he has friends. And if you’re not his friend, he probably has dirt on you. You remember that hypothetical I gave you about the photographs of the TV evangelist having sex with his German shepherd?”
“Yeah.”
“Jackson is the kind of guy who would actually have those photographs. File drawers full of things on everybody from the governor of Colorado to your pet goldfish. He’s like the J. Edgar Hoover of the legal profession. He can make things happen. And your brother-in-law Brent has given him every reason to pull out the stops.”
“Terrific. Does this mean Jackson knows about the money?”
“Only if someone at the FBI leaked it, which I doubt. But he’s sure getting close.”
They rode in silence for a moment. The city lights of downtown Denver were coming closer.
“What’s happening with the yearbook search? Find any millionaires in my dad’s high school class?”
“Nothing yet. Still working on it.”
“What about the Cayman corporation? I brought a lot of grief on myself trying to find out who transferred that money into my father’s account. I definitely want to follow up on that.”
“My investigator is on it. Hopefully he won’t actually have to go all the way to the Caymans.”
“How am I going to pay this investigator of yours? He’s racking up some serious hours.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s on retainer. You’ll just have to cover his out-of-pocket expenses.”
“How ’bout that. Some good news.”
“Don’t be so negative. Let’s hear what the FBI’s concerns are. If they say your dad owes back income tax, you pay the penalty and you’re on your way. We just don’t know yet.”
“You think the FBI knows about the two million in the attic?”
“I don’t see how they would. If they don’t, we still have some time to decide what you should do about that. As the executor of your father’s estate, you have sixty days to file your sworn inventory with the court. That’s the form on which you would have to disclose the money.”
