Authors: James Grippando
At 10:00
A.M
. Joseph Kozelka reached the K&G Building, a modern highrise that towered above downtown Denver. The ground-floor lobby was buzzing with men and women in business suits, the clicking of their heels echoing off the polished granite floors. Four banks of elevators stretched from one end of the spacious atrium-style lobby to the other. The first three were for tenants who leased the lower thirty floors from K&G. The last was for K&G visitors and employees only, floors thirty-one through fifty.
Kozelka stopped at the security checkpoint before the special employee elevators. The guard smiled politely, almost embarrassed by the routine.
“Good morning, sir. Step up to the scanner, please.”
Kozelka stepped forward and looked into the retinal scanner. The device was part of K&G’s high-tech corporate security. It could confirm an employee’s identity based on the unique pattern of blood vessels behind the retina, like a fingerprint.
A green light flashed, signaling approval. The guard hit the button that allowed passage to the elevators.
“Have a good day, sir,” he said.
Kozelka nodded and continued on his way. It
was the same silly charade every morning, part of Kozelka’s self-cultivated image as a regular guy who tolerated no special treatment for anyone, including himself. Indeed, he never missed a chance to recount the story of the
former
security guard who had greeted him one morning with a respectful “Good morning, Mr. Kozelka,” allowing him to sidestep the scanner. Kozelka fired him on the spot. To his cigar-smoking friends over at the Bankers Club, it was a perfect illustration of how, in Kozelka’s eyes, the CEO was no better than anyone else. Never mind that a fifty-year-old faithful employee with a wife and three kids was suddenly on the dole. Kozelka didn’t much care about the real-life sufferings of the peons he used to promote his image.
And it was all
image
. Equality and accountability simply weren’t part of the K&G corporate lexicon. K&G had just two shareholders. Joseph held fifty-one percent. A trust for his children held the other forty-nine. The occasional talk on Wall Street of taking the company public never failed to make his lawyers giddy, but Kozelka wasn’t interested. Share holders would mean the loss of control. Kozelka didn’t need the money he’d get from the sale of his stock. It was the control that drove him—control over a corporate empire that in one way or another was connected to one out of three meals served in North America daily, be it pesticides, produce, fertilizers, feed, grain, livestock, fish farms, or any other link in the food chain. The real money, however, came from commodities trading. Some would even say manipulation. Minute-by-minute activity on the market flashed beneath the crown moldings in Kozelka’s penthouse office.
The elevator stopped on the thirty-first floor. Kozelka stepped off and transferred to a private executive elevator that took him to the penthouse office suite.
Half the top floor was his. The other half was divided among the remaining senior corporate officers—nonfamily members who served at the whim of Kozelka. No decorating expense was spared on either side of the hall. The doors were polished brass. The walls were cherry paneling. Sarouk silk rugs adorned floors of inlaid wood. The mountain views were nothing short of breathtaking, though Kozelka was thoroughly immune to them. For twenty years he’d commanded the same magnificent view, ever since his father had died and turned the desk, the office, and the thirty-billion-dollar family-owned company over to his son.
“Good morning, Mr. Kozelka,” his secretary said.
“Morning.”
She followed him into his office, taking his coat and briefcase. She had his morning schedule laid out on the desk for him, beside his coffee. Fridays were typically light, ever since his doctor had warned him about his blood pressure. He reviewed the schedule as he reclined in his leather chair.
His secretary stopped in the doorway on her way out. “One other thing, sir.”
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t sure I should even mention this, but there’s a man in the visitor’s lobby who says it is very important that he see you this morning. When I told him he would need an appointment, he said you would be expecting him. He’s been waiting two hours. I was going to call Security, but I wanted to check with you before making a scene.”
“Who is it?”
“He’s a doctor. Dr. Ryan Duffy.”
Kozelka said nothing, showed no emotion.
“Sir, what would you like me to tell him?”
“Nothing,” he said, reaching for his phone. “Just close the door on your way out, please. I’ll take care of this myself.”
Norm had an early-morning hearing in criminal court and didn’t reach his office until midmorning. It seemed to have come as somewhat of a surprise to Ryan, but he actually did have other clients with other cases. Norm hung his suit coat behind the door. He was only halfway to his desk when his secretary appeared in the open doorway.
“Judge Novak’s chambers is on line one,” she said.
“Novak?”
“The judge in Dr. Duffy’s divorce case.”
What now?
he thought, then picked up. “Hello.”
The judge’s deputy was on the line. “Mr. Klusmire, I have Phil Jackson on a conference call. Since Mr. Jackson’s injuries prevent him from coming to the courthouse in person, the judge has agreed to hold a telephonic hearing on his emergency motion to reschedule the deposition of Brent Langford. Please hold for the judge.”
Norm heard the click of the hold button. He and Jackson were alone. “Emergency motion? What kind of rescheduling you talking about?”
“If you knew anything about practice in family court, Klusmire, you’d know that the rules don’t allow us to take a deposition on a Saturday. I originally set Brent’s deposition for Thursday of next week, but I have to depose him tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because his depo could lead to evidence that
your client is responsible for the injuries that put me in the hospital. If that proves to be the case, I need to get a restraining order issued as soon as possible to protect both me and my client from any further abuse at the hands of Dr. Duffy.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“It’s all in the papers I filed. Check your in box, chump.”
Norm hadn’t even checked the morning mail. He riffled through the pile, found an envelope from Jackson’s office, and tore it open. It took only a second to see what Jackson was really up to. The rescheduling of the deposition was secondary. His primary objective was simply to poison the judge’s mind with wild accusations against Ryan.
That son of a bitch.
The judge joined them on the line. “Good morning, gentlemen. I’ve read Mr. Jackson’s papers. Excellent, as usual. Mr. Klusmire, on what grounds are you opposing the motion?”
“Your Honor, if I could just have a minute to read through it. I haven’t really had a chance to consider it.”
Jackson jumped in. “Judge, the motion was hand-delivered to Mr. Klusmire’s office last night. It was plainly marked as urgent. In my cover letter I urged him to call me here at the hospital by 9:00
A.M
. if he would agree to let me take the deposition on Saturday instead of Thursday of next week. I hate to burden the court with an emergency motion on a simple scheduling matter, but Mr. Klusmire never called me. I had no choice but to petition the court.”
The judge grumbled. “Mr. Klusmire, I’ve never met you, but this is the second time we’ve talked on the telephone. The first time was the other night
when you called me at home, in direct violation of my rules against
ex parte
communications.”
“Judge, I swear I was paged by—”
“
Never
interrupt me,” he said harshly. “I don’t like the way you practice, Mr. Klusmire. Good lawyers don’t call judges at home. And they don’t force other lawyers to seek emergency relief from the court where good old-fashioned courtesy and cooperation should enable the lawyers to work things out themselves.”
“That’s what I always say,” said Jackson.
“Now,” the judge continued, “I’ve read the affidavit Mr. Jackson submitted in support of his motion, and I must say I am deeply disturbed. If Dr. Duffy and his brother-in-law are in any way responsible for this attack against Mr. Jackson, I want to put a stop to this before somebody else gets hurt. The request to take the deposition of Brent Langford a few days early is entirely reasonable. In fact, if Mr. Jackson weren’t injured, I would dispense with the deposition and proceed directly with a hearing on whether a restraining order should be imposed against Dr. Duffy.”
“Judge,” said Jackson, “I’m feeling better already. If the court has room on its busy calendar for an evidentiary hearing, I owe it to my client to be there.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it? Physically?”
“Yes. It was a mild concussion. Believe it or not, having your face smashed against a windshield looks a lot worse than it is.”
The judge growled. “I can’t believe they did this to you. I rarely schedule a Saturday hearing, but in this case I’ll make an exception. Can you have your witnesses here at ten o’clock tomorrow?”
“I believe so.”
Norm said, “Your Honor, Dr. Duffy will certainly be there. But if Mr. Jackson intends to question Mr. Langford, I can’t guarantee he will attend. I have no control over him. He’s not a party and he’s not my client.”
“Mr. Klusmire, if you know what’s good for you, your client will
make sure
that his own brother-in-law is in my courtroom tomorrow morning. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Judge,” said Jackson.
“Good day, gentlemen.” The judge disconnected, leaving only the lawyers on the line.
Norm shook his head. “You’re everything people say you are, aren’t you, Jackson?”
His face hurt, but Jackson managed a smile. “Everything—and then some.”
“This hardball stuff really isn’t necessary.”
“But it is,” he said, his smile fading. “This isn’t the Liz and Ryan Duffy soap opera anymore.
This
is personal. I’ll see you in court.”
The wait was going on two and a half hours. Ryan took it as a good sign that he hadn’t been thrown out of the building yet. Even better, he hadn’t been thrown
off
it. He could wait all day, if he had to. The visitors’ lobby was certainly comfortable enough. The leather couches weren’t the stiff grade found in family rooms. These were as soft and supple as driving gloves.
Ryan had thought hard before coming directly to K&G headquarters. Last night, Amy’s reaction had convinced him of one thing. He couldn’t live with the money without knowing the truth. There was no honor in profit at the expense of a raped woman. He had to know how the rape was connected to the extortion.
Ryan’s father was dead. Amy’s mother was dead. The only living person who could possibly hold the answer was the man his father had blackmailed. Ryan couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that it was Joseph Kozelka, but Norm’s investigator had not identified a single other person in the Boulder High yearbook who had acquired the financial wherewithal to pay that much money. True, he and Norm had agreed they would talk to the FBI before moving on Kozelka. Waiting, however, would deprive Ryan of his leverage. The threat of
going
to the FBI and dropping Kozelka’s
name seemed like the only way to get Kozelka to tell him if he in fact had paid the money to Frank Duffy—and more important,
why
.
He knew what Norm would say. It was risky, maybe even dangerous. Somehow, however, his father had managed to keep the scheme going and keep himself alive for some twenty years. Ryan would take those odds. Still, he couldn’t tell Norm in advance and give him the chance to talk him out of it. This time, Ryan was on his own.
“Dr. Duffy?”
It was a baritone voice from behind. Ryan rose from the couch and turned. The sheer size of the man suggested he was from corporate security.
“Yes,” said Ryan.
“Come with me.”
They walked side by side down the hall in silence. Ryan stood over six feet, but he felt small next to this guy. He was easily six-five and solidly built. Not like those upper-body freaks at the gym with Herculean chests and legs like Bambi. This man’s build was proportional, more athletic. Ryan suspected a military background.
“Where are we headed?” asked Ryan.
He stopped and opened the solid oak door to a conference room at the end of the hall. “Inside, please.”
It was an interior conference room, no windows. Eight leather chairs surrounded a rectangular walnut table. The lighting was soft and indirect.
He directed Ryan to the other side of the table. “Sit there.”
Ryan noted how evenly his voice had carried. The sound in the room was like Norm’s media room—acoustically perfect. The room had that sleek look of those counterespionage corporate
conference rooms he’d seen in magazines, with cameras hidden in wall clocks and anti-bugging devices throughout. Ryan was glad he hadn’t come wired. It surely would have been detected.
The guard sat across from him. “Why did you come here?”
All doubts as to whether he had come to the right place were quickly evaporating. “I thought it was time we started a dialogue.”
“Why?”
“Simply to put some issues to rest.”
“There are no unresolved issues.”
“There are for me. And I think Mr. Kozelka could clear them up for me.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
He leaned forward, shooting a steely glare.
“Because Mr. Kozelka has no time for you.”
Ryan was unfazed but suddenly noticed something. Just over the man’s shoulder, behind him on the wall, was a very strategically placed painting. It was a hunch, but he felt certain that Mr. Kozelka was not only listening but watching—and probably recording.
With everything on tape, he had to be careful. The last thing he needed was to come off as an extortionist—like his father.
“I want you to give Mr. Kozelka a message. Tell him the woman in Panama who stole my bag made a big mistake. Tell him I have her fingerprints on a bar glass.”
“Mr. Kozelka has no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, he does. But that’s not why I’m here. I came to thank him personally for all the advice he gave to my father over the years. No self-respect
ing small-town electrician should be without the services of an experienced consultant on matters of international bank secrecy.”
The man’s face reddened, but he said nothing.
Ryan said, “I’m almost embarrassed to say it, but I could use Mr. Kozelka’s good advice, too. Ever since that mishap in Panama, the FBI wants to know all about my father’s bank account in Panama. They are determined to find out where all that money came from.”
Ryan checked for any reaction. It was subtle, but the mention of the FBI seemed to have hit a nerve.
“Now, I’ll ask you again. Can I count on you to deliver a message to Mr. Kozelka?”
“I don’t make promises.”
“Fine.” Ryan rose and faced the portrait on the wall—the hidden camera. He spoke directly to it.
“Tell Mr. Kozelka I don’t care about the money. I didn’t ask for it, and I’m not here to ask for more. I’m not a criminal, and I’ll do the right thing with or without the help of the FBI. All I want is a straight answer to a very simple question. Why. That’s all I want to know. Tell him I want to know
why
.”
He headed for the door and opened it, then stopped and glanced back. “And tell him one more thing. Tell him my appointment with the FBI is Monday. Ten o’clock.
“I can find my own way to the elevator,” he said, closing the door behind him.
Amy took an early lunch off the beaten track of Boulder’s Pearl Street Mall. With her mind still buzzing from Marilyn, she didn’t necessarily want to be alone, just someplace where she was certain not to run into anyone from the law office.
She went to the Sink, one of her old college hangouts. In fact, it had been
everybody’s
college hangout since the thirties, achieving a genuine claim to fame when a young Robert Redford quit as janitor, bagged UC-Boulder, and decided to try his hand at movies. The decor was organized graffiti. Youthful exuberance was the only way to describe the atmosphere. The food was of the munchies variety, with self-described “Ugly Crust Pizzas” a heavy favorite. Amy took one with pineapple topping and grabbed a small table by the window.
She glanced at the table beside hers. Two guys barely old enough to drink were making small talk with the girls, planning the weekend. Amy thought back to the days when weekends started after the last class for the week, sometimes on Thursdays if you could fix a schedule with no Friday classes. She hadn’t had a real three-day weekend since—well, since college.
The television in the corner caught her attention. Noise from the lunch crowd made it inaudible, but she didn’t need audio to know what was going on. Marilyn was standing beside the President outside the White House. A semicircle of smiling onlookers were applauding. It was official. Marilyn Gaslow had her nomination as chairwoman of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve. Now all she had to do was withstand the congressional approval process.
“Mind if I join you?”
Amy looked up. The face triggered no recognition. The only thing for sure was that he was the only person in the restaurant older than Amy.
Way
older. From the corduroy jacket and Bugle Boy pants, she would have guessed he was a professor.
“Do I know you?”
He put down his soda and joined her at the table. He extended his hand, introducing himself. “Jack Forsyth. FBI.”
All she could say was “Oh.”
“I hate to interrupt your lunch, but I would like to talk to you.”
Amy froze. The warning outside the baseball stadium was all too fresh in her mind—how her daughter would pay if she talked to the police. But it was too late to get up and run. “Talk to me?” she asked innocently. “What about?”
“I think you know.”
“I think you’d better tell me.”
“We’ve been watching Ryan Duffy for several days now. And we’ve been monitoring his phone calls. We heard the message you left at his clinic. And we saw you meet with him last night in Denver.”
Amy tried not to flinch. Her message had been intentionally vague, she recalled, just in case someone other than Ryan had listened to it. “So?”
“So, we’ve checked you out as well. We understand you were robbed recently. We spoke to the detective from the Boulder police. Says you were acting strange during his interview, as if you were holding back something.”
“That’s his opinion.”
“Yes. It is a matter of opinion. But you know what? Just sitting here and watching your face for the last two minutes, I’ve formed the same opinion.”
Amy looked away. It was a curse, that expressive face of hers. It wasn’t just Gram who could read it.
The agent leaned closer. “Tell me. What are you doing with a guy like Ryan Duffy?”
She could sense his stare, but she didn’t look, couldn’t meet his eyes. She had too many reasons
not
to talk to him—the threat outside the stadium, and now Marilyn. She had promised Marilyn never to talk to anyone about the rape, and she knew that was where this would lead if she let the FBI in the door.
She gathered up her tray and rose, spilling her soft drink. “I have nothing to say to you,” she said, flustered.
“You will. Take my card,” he said, handing it to her. “Call me when you’re ready.”
Amy gave him a long look. She took the card without a word and walked away, never looking back.