“Anywhere you want.”
“It’s a toss-up. Fiji or Piedmont Springs,” he said dryly, then hung up the phone.
Marilyn’s Volvo took her and Amy back to Denver in well under an hour. Marilyn had phoned ahead before she and Amy left Boulder, so Jeb Stockton was expecting them. Jeb didn’t ask for details on the phone, and Marilyn didn’t offer. All she had to say was that she needed his help and was calling in the personal favors. Jeb agreed to meet them tonight at his downtown office.
Jeb headed the Denver office of a statewide private investigation firm, which sounded more impressive than it was. It was actually just a two-man operation, both retired ex-cops who would take a case anywhere in Colorado, so long as they could bring their fishing poles along. In that sense, it was “statewide.” Jeb’s law enforcement career had spanned nearly four decades, culminating with a twelve-year stint as Denver County sheriff. His election was due in no small part to the money Marilyn had raised for his campaigns. She considered him a friend, though she had politely stemmed his efforts to take it further than that. Jeb was handsome enough, but not her type. He had the rugged look of the Old West, with wind-burned skin and smoky gray hair. He rarely went anywhere without his cowboy boots and ten-gallon hat, even before his retirement. He wasn’t the slickest ex-cop around, but slickness was no asset in places as far off the beaten track as Cheesman Dam. Outside the city lights, there was no one more dependable than Jeb. Most important, he could be trusted.
Marilyn followed the exit ramp off the express-way and steered into downtown Denver. It was after midnight, so the traffic lights had changed over to a string of blinking amber dots. Stores and offices on either side of the street were secured for the night, some with roll-up metal gates that resembled garage doors. A group of homeless people were haggling with a police officer on the corner. The Volvo cruised through one quiet intersection after another, passing only a handful of cars along the way.
Amy checked the street signs, then glanced back at Marilyn. “So, your friend Jeb will take us up to the dam, I presume?”
“Right. We’ll use his van as a staging area. Park it somewhere out of sight. I’ll be wired, so the two of you can hang back and listen from inside the van while I talk to Rusch.”
Amy looked confused. “What do you mean, hang back? I’m talking to Rusch.”
As the car slowly turned the corner, Marilyn caught Amy’s eye. “Don’t argue with me.”
“There’s no argument. This is something I have to do.”
“Amy, this is a risk a young mother shouldn’t be taking. It isn’t necessary. It isn’t even logical. Rusch won’t tell you anything. He won’t tell me anything if you’re standing at my side. The only chance of getting him to say anything about your mother’s death is if I go alone.”
Amy wanted to argue, but she sensed Marilyn was right. “This wasn’t the way I envisioned it.”
“If you think about how this is likely to unfold, it’s our only alternative.”
“How do you see it?”
“It basically boils down to one likely scenario. When I talked to Joe this afternoon, he told me to leave the keys in my Mercedes, so I presume Rusch is going to use the car somehow. My guess is he’ll park it out in the open for Duffy to see. Duffy will walk right up to the car, thinking it’s me inside. When he does, Rusch will either shoot him on the spot or put him in the trunk and then shoot him somewhere else. I think it’s fair to say that there are only two people on the planet who can walk up to that car and live to tell about it. Joe Kozelka is one of them. The other one is not you.”
“How can you be sure Rusch won’t shoot you?”
“First of all, he has no reason to think I’m not on his side. Not yet, anyway. Secondly, I’m too important to Joe. My appointment is too important.”
“What if something goes wrong? What if Rusch somehow discovers you’re wearing a wire.”
“Then we kick into plan B.”
“What’s plan B?”
She pulled into a parking space and killed the engine. “I was kind of hoping Jeb might help us figure that out.”
Amy tried not to look worried as they stepped down together and started toward Jeb Stockton’s office.
Phil Jackson was still mad. Liz had phoned him at dinnertime, said she was thinking about finding a new lawyer. The ingrate. Without him, she would have gotten nothing. Now she was at the doorstep of the mother lode. Of course, she couldn’t completely stiff him. The judge would order her to pay him the fair value of his services so far. That wouldn’t come close to the fees he would have racked up had he seen this battle through to the final chapter. Assuming he could get to the Duffys’ Panamanian accounts, the contingency fee he and Liz had discussed would have earned him over nine thousand dollars an hour. And he was worth it.
Liz hadn’t found the courage to utter the words, but he figured it was only a matter of days before she officially fired him. She’d probably do it by letter. Backstabbing bitch.
He’d been stiffed by clients before, but this one was especially hard to swallow. He’d worked hard on the case, but he always worked hard. He didn’t mind the sweat. This case, however, had taken his blood. Almost a half-pint of it, spilled on the garage floor in the predawn beating.
The anger, the resentment, were not subsiding. If anything, he’d worked himself more into a dither as the evening passed. It was hard to concentrate, difficult to make decisions. One thing, in particular, had become a vexing quandary. The briefcase.
It had been delivered by courier to his doorstep around ten o’clock, marked “PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.” It was addressed to his client. The return address indicated it was from Ryan Duffy.
He was naturally suspicious. After Brent’s murder, he was at first afraid to touch it, fearing a booby trap. But the more he thought about it, the less likely that seemed. As much as he’d tried to make Ryan look like a gangster in the courtroom, he didn’t seem the type to send his wife a letter bomb. He seemed more likely to send a peace offering — a settlement.
Jackson settled into the plush sofa in his family room, staring at the briefcase on the coffee table before him. He noticed the tumblers near the latch. There were three altogether. A lock with a three-number combination. Just like the combination Liz had testified to in court. Three numbers: 36-18-11.
The realization hit like lightning. That was exactly what this was — Liz’s share of the money. Ryan had very cleverly put together a settlement offer his greedy wife couldn’t refuse: a briefcase full of cash. His instincts took over. This was his chance. Liz was trying to screw him, but he could beat her to the punch. He’d bet his life there was money inside. And he knew the combination.
He jumped forward and laid the briefcase flat. Eagerly he turned the tumblers into place, left to right. The first one, thirty-six. The next, eighteen. Finally, eleven. He flipped the latches, left and right. They popped up. His body tingled with a surge of excitement. This was it. He opened the briefcase. It opened just an inch, then seemed to catch on something, moving no farther. He heard a click. An ominous click. In a flash, he knew it wasn’t a cash settlement offer and that it wasn’t from Ryan Duffy.
Oh, shit!
A fiery orange explosion decimated the entire west wing of the Jackson estate. The impact rattled windows around the neighborhood, as a shower of glowing embers rained down on the brand-new windshield of his just- repaired Mercedes.
63
Two minutes after they met, Ryan already had a name for him: the gadget man.
Bruce Dembroski was a friend of Norm’s, a former CIA agent whose specialty had been sniping. Though life after the agency didn’t present many opportunities to use his laser range finder, suppressed weapons, or ultra- long-range. 50-caliber sniper rifle, he had found a profitable niche in offering high-tech, high-quality private investigative services to an elite clientele, mostly security-conscious corporations. His bread and butter was in the latest surveillance and countersurveillance equipment, from simple cordless phone monitors to fax machine intruders. He had all the toys and wasn’t afraid to use them. That bravado had occasionally taken him beyond the accepted limits of corporate espionage. It was Norm who routinely got him out of legal trouble. They had an old- fashioned barter arrangement. Norm got the services of an investigator he couldn’t otherwise afford, and Dembroski
