Amy’s hand shook as she gripped the phone. “Oh, my God. Marilyn, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I hope-”
“Forget it. Just forget all about it. It was a long time ago. I’ve put it behind me. And that’s where I want it to stay. Promise me, Amy. We will never talk about this again. To anyone.”
“But-”
“Amy,” she said sternly. “ Never again. I don’t need this back in my life. Not now. Especially not now. Do you understand?”
Amy swallowed the lump in her throat. “Marilyn,” she said weakly, “I only wish I understood.”
42
Ryan stayed in the media room all night, studying the old yearbooks of Boulder High School. Norm had said the copies were photo quality, which didn’t say much for the quality of the original photos. Eight hundred grainy black-and-white mug shots were enough to make anyone’s eyes blurry. Even after a pot of coffee, it was difficult to stay focused. He’d never seen so many kids wearing glasses — ugly eyeglasses at that. A lot of people said television or the airplane was the greatest invention of the twentieth century. Some of these geeks made a pretty compelling case for contact lenses.
After a few hours, Ryan had developed a system. He would check the eyes first. Amy had bright, almond- shaped eyes. Then the bone structure. Amy’s face was heart-shaped, the makings of a natural beauty. From there, the task got more difficult. Most of the girls in the yearbook were smiling. It made him think of his first meeting with Amy, how pretty her smile had been. He imagined her mother’s was much the same.
Though neither Duffy had given them much to smile about.
By 5:00 A.M., Ryan had lost track of the number of times he’d been through the photographs. He’d studied so many faces he was beginning to forget what Amy actually looked like. He’d narrowed it down to about thirty possibilities, but he didn’t feel confident that any of them were actually Amy’s mother. He was about to close the book when something caught his eye. It was a name, not a face. A boy, not a girl.
Joseph Kozelka.
It was an unusual name, Kozelka. Yet it was familiar to him. After a moment, he placed it. There was an entire hospital wing in Denver that bore the same name — the Kozelka Cardiology Center. Ryan had seen the plaque in the lobby years ago, during his residency.
He looked carefully at the photograph. A nice-looking kid. Well dressed, one of the few wearing a coat and tie that actually seemed to fit him. How many Kozelkas could there possibly be in Colorado? If this kid was related, he was one rich son of a bitch. Rich enough to pay millions in extortion.
Ryan nearly leaped from the sofa and hurried out the door. The elevator was right outside the media room, but it was way too slow. Ryan hurried up the dark stairwell and tapped lightly on the door to Norm’s master suite.
The door remained closed, but he could hear Rebecca’s sleepy voice from inside. It was muffled, as if she were calling from beneath the covers. “Tommy, please go back to sleep. You’re getting too old for this.”
Ryan whispered, more out of embarrassment than anything else. “Uh, Rebecca. Sorry. It’s Ryan. I have to talk to Norm.”
He waited. Inside, there was mild grumbling, then footsteps. The door opened about six inches. Norm was wearing a robe. That long strand of hair that covered the ever-growing bald spot was standing on end. His face was covered with stubble. “What the hell time is it?” he asked, yawning.
“Early. Sorry. I think I might have found someone at Boulder High who was actually rich enough to pay my dad the extortion money. Can we get on your computer?”
“Now?”
“Yes. This could be the break I’ve been waiting for.”
Norm rubbed the sleep from his eye, slowly coming to life. “All right,” he said as he stepped into the hall. “This way.”
Norm led him down the hall to the upstairs office. A computer terminal rested atop a small built-in desk that was covered with bills and magazines. Ryan spoke as it booted up.
“His name’s Joseph Kozelka. Unusual name. I’m hoping we can pull up something on the Internet about him.”
“Who is he?”
“I’m thinking he has to be related to the family who established the Kozelka Cardiology Center in Denver. They gave millions of dollars for construction and operation — tens of millions.”
The screen brightened and Norm logged on. He went directly to an Internet search engine. “How do you spell his name?”
Ryan leaned forward and typed it in, then hit Enter. They waited as the computer searched databases all over the world for any information on Joseph Kozelka. It seemed to be taking forever.
Norm said, “It’s conceivable we’ll get goose eggs.”
“I know. But if this guy has the kind of money I think he has, his name is bound to be out there at least a few times.”
The screen flashed the results. Both Ryan and Norm did a double take. The computer-generated message read: “Your search has found 4,123 documents.”
“Holy shit,” said Ryan.
Norm scrolled down the abstracts of materials that mentioned Joseph Kozelka. Many of them were in Spanish. “Looks like he lived outside the States for a while.”
“He wasn’t just living there. Looks like he was head of the entire Central and South American operations for some company — K &G Enterprises. I never heard of them.”
“Me neither. But if they do a lot of business south of the border, that might explain the Panamanian bank.”
Ryan took the mouse from Norm and scrolled down himself, scanning the next group of entries.
“He sure has a lot to do with farming.”
“When you get to his level, Norm, I think they call it commodities. Look at this.”
The full text of a Fortune magazine article filled the screen. The title read “All in the Family.” It was an expose on a handful of “family-run businesses” whose sales rivaled companies like Coca-Cola.
“‘Joseph Kozelka,’” Ryan read aloud. “‘CEO and principal shareholder of K &G Enterprises, third-largest privately held corporation in the world. Estimated sales of over thirty billion dollars a year.’”
Norm said, “These are the kind of empires people never hear about because they’re family owned. The stock isn’t publicly traded. No public filings with the Securities Exchange Commission, no shareholders to hold them accountable. Nobody really knows how much they’re worth.”
Ryan scrolled further down the list of matches, then stopped when he saw something related to the Cardiology Center in Denver. He pulled up the full text. It was a description of the center, with bios of its directors — including Joseph Kozelka, president emeritus.
“Excellent,” said Ryan. “This is what I wanted. A full bio.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet ‘graduate of Boulder High School’ is right up there on the top of his resume.”
“Shut up, Norm.”
The bio slowly appeared on the screen, more than words. There was a photograph. It was the face of a man in his sixties. It was the aging smile of the kid in the yearbook.
“Look at those eyes,” say Ryan. “That chin. Gotta be him.” He scanned the bio for pertinent details. “Place of birth,” he read aloud, “Boulder. Date of birth — same year as my dad. They had to be classmates.”
“Fine. He’s rich and he’s your dad’s age. That doesn’t mean he’s the guy who paid the extortion.”
“It’s more than just that. Kozelka was born and raised in Boulder. He’s my dad’s same age. That means he and my dad were classmates the same year my dad committed rape. We know the extortion has something to do with rape, or the records wouldn’t have been down in the safe deposit box in Panama. Logically, whoever paid the extortion should meet two criteria. One, he probably knew my dad in high school. Two, he definitely has to be financially secure enough to pay five million dollars. I defy you to find someone other than Joseph Kozelka who
