Authors: James Grippando
Trumpets blared. Violins wept. Joe Kozelka was seated in a leather wing chair, allowing a glass of Chivas Regal to help him through Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
Music helped him sort out his thoughts. Whenever life seemed without order, he would put it to music. The Ninth Symphony was his favorite, particularly the fourth movement. Experts thought it contained some of the master’s ugliest music. Kozelka had only the highest admiration for a man who could successfully incorporate his most controversial moments into his greatest overall achievement.
The music was suddenly soft. His thoughts turned toward Marilyn. In the nearly fifty years they’d known each other, they’d shared many memories. Strangely, the most memorable night for him was one of which Marilyn had no memory. It was the night Frank Duffy had driven them to Cheesman Dam. The night they’d all gotten drunk and parked on the canyon ridge.
His eyes drifted toward a Russian cut-crystal vase on the mantel. It sparkled beneath the track lighting, like the blanket of stars reflecting off the Cheesman reservoir. He sipped his Chivas, but it suddenly tasted like Southern Comfort. He remembered everything about that night, every lit
tle detail. He could smell the sweet bourbon, feel the warmth of his own erratic breath. He could see Marilyn passed out in the backseat of Frank’s car, watch himself get out and walk up the path toward his unsuspecting friend…
“Frank, hey,” said Joe.
Frank Duffy and his girlfriend were sitting on a fallen log, facing the moonlit canyon beyond the ridge. Joe was out of breath as he caught up with them.
Frank rose. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Marilyn. She passed out. And—”
“And what?”
Joe made a face. “She tossed her cookies all over your backseat.”
“Aww, man.”
“Hey, it’s not her fault. She never drank before.”
“How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad. Look for yourself.”
The boys ran toward the car. Linda followed behind. Frank opened the car door and immediately recoiled. The pungent odor was unmistakable. “Oh, gawd!”
Joe looked inside. Marilyn was lying on her back across the seat. A pool of vomit lay on the floor behind the driver’s seat. “At least she didn’t get any on her.”
“What about my car?” said Frank. “I’ll never get that smell out.”
Linda stuck her head in, sniffed, and stepped back. “Yuck. You’re on your own, Frankie boy. I’m not riding all the way back to Boulder in
that
. I’ll catch a ride with the others.”
“Linda, come on.”
“No way. I’m squeezing in the other car.” She hurried away before Frank could stop her.
Joe had an impish expression. “I think I’m going to ride back with the others, too.”
“No way! She’s your girlfriend.”
“Frank, I’m feeling kind of sick myself. If I ride back with you and that smell, I’m going to lose it, too. You want double the mess in your car? Just take her home for me, will you, please?”
“I can’t believe you’re bailing on me like this.”
“Come on, man. I can’t let Marilyn’s parents see me like this. They’re good friends with my old man. They’ll kill me.”
“What about me?”
“The worst that will happen is that her parents won’t let her double-date with Frank Duffy anymore. That’s no big deal. You’re not the one who wants to marry her.”
Frank’s eyes widened. “You’re in love with this girl?”
“Please. Just take her home. If her dad knows I got her drunk, I—I don’t know what I’ll do if he won’t let me see her anymore.”
Frank groaned, then said, “All right. What am I supposed to tell her parents?”
“I don’t know. Tell them she got food poisoning. Just don’t mention my name. Promise?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Frank dug for his car keys and opened the door. “But you owe me, Joe. Big time.”
Joe slapped him on the back, nearly shoving him into the driver’s seat. “Yeah, buddy. You have no idea.”
…The phone rang, drawing Kozelka from his memories. Beethoven’s symphony was in its fourth movement. The tumultuous Horror Fanfare had just begun when he hit the mute button and grabbed the phone.
“Yeah,” he said.
“It’s me,” said Nathan Rusch.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve beeped you a dozen times.”
“I’ve been…indisposed.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Rusch shook his head. Ex-prostitutes were like walking pharmacies. The effects of whatever Sheila had slipped him had not yet passed completely. “Long story.”
“I need you back in Denver tonight. Duffy contacted Marilyn directly. He expects her to show up at the Cheesman Dam at two
A.M
.”
“Why there?”
“Never mind, Rusch. Just get over here. I need you at the dam.”
“You don’t suspect an FBI setup?”
“No. It’s a clear case of like father, like son. The boy wants more money. He isn’t going to bring in the FBI to bear witness to his extortion. Besides, we have him boxed in so long as we have his father’s gun.”
Rusch rubbed his throbbing head. “One thing I should tell you. The gun is gone.”
“
Gone
?” he said incredulously.
“The girl stole it, I think. She’s gone and the gun is gone.”
“Damn it, Rusch. The frame-up was our way of making sure that Duffy doesn’t talk to the FBI.”
“I realize that, sir.”
Kozelka guzzled the rest of his scotch. In a rare surge of rage, he squeezed the crystal so tightly it nearly crushed in his bare hand. “That leaves us one option. Scorched earth. Take out the targets who are pushing the hardest.”
“Meaning?”
“The lawyer and the ex-wife have to go. Preferably in one hit. Tonight.”
“Easy enough. I’m thinking maybe an urgent package marked personal and confidential, addressed to Liz Duffy but delivered to Jackson’s house. The lawyer shouldn’t open it without his client’s permission. Decent chance they’ll open it together. I guarantee, it’ll be the last thing that twosome ever does.”
“Good.” He tucked the phone under his chin and refilled his scotch. “Get it done before you meet Duffy at the dam. I want this to look like the boy went berserk. Killed his brother-in-law, his ex-wife, her lawyer.”
“And then?”
“Then he drove to the dam where his father raped a woman and blew his brains out.”
Rusch smirked. “My specialty.”
“Just don’t screw it up. I have
everything
riding on this.” The words lingered for a moment, then he hung up the phone.
Ryan reached Denver long after dark. He’d been thinking about the meeting on the long drive up and was starting to feel vulnerable. He stopped at Norm’s house in Cherry Creek before heading out to the dam.
“What now?” asked Norm. He was standing at the back door, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. He was wearing his eyeglasses, having removed his contact lenses for bed.
“I need a favor,” said Ryan. “Can I come in?”
He stepped aside. “Just be quiet about it. Kids are asleep.”
“It’s just me, not the prize patrol.” Ryan went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and borrowed a Pepsi. Norm sat at the table.
Ryan sipped his soda. “I have a meeting tonight.”
“Who with?”
“Marilyn Gaslow.”
“You just have to ask her about that letter, don’t you.” Norm was practically groaning.
“Of course.”
“Isn’t it enough for you to have it in writing?”
Ryan came to the table. “The letter is no good until someone confirms it’s true. I want to hear it straight from her that my father never raped her.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
Ryan sat across from his friend, his expression
solemn. “Have you ever stopped to think what stake Amy Parkens’s mother might have had in this?”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m talking about motive. Why would she write that letter to my father?”
“Because Marilyn wouldn’t do it. And it was the right thing to do.”
“That’s one explanation. Another is that she and my dad were in this thing together.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Maybe that two hundred thousand dollars my father sent Amy Parkens wasn’t just an unsolicited expression of gratitude for the way Debby Parkens stepped up to the plate and did the right thing. It could have been part of their deal. My dad and Amy’s mother, co-conspirators.”
“You’re saying Debby Parkens betrayed her best friend Marilyn Gaslow?”
“For money.”
Norm shook his head. “That would be like me selling you out.”
“Or like Judas, who took his money and then hung himself from a tree. Betrayal always has consequences. Did you ever think maybe that’s why Amy’s mother killed herself?”
“Or why somebody killed her.”
Ryan paused, then said, “Somebody like Marilyn.”
They looked cautiously at one another, each waiting for the other to say they were talking crazy. Neither said a word.
“What’s your plan?” asked Norm.
Ryan smiled with his eyes. “I knew you’d see it my way. I told her to meet me at Cheesman Dam. I figured if I was going to get an honest answer—or
at least an honest reaction—from her, it made sense to get her back on the spot where the rape either happened or didn’t happen.”
“And if she says what you want her to say…then what?”
“I want my father’s name cleared forever. I want Marilyn’s voice on tape. I need to be wired.”
“You can record it, but I want you to understand that it’s not something you could ever use in court against her. The only way to do this legally would be to work with law enforcement.”
“I’m not looking for something I can use in a courtroom. This is for me and my family. I want my mother to hear it.”
“So do I,” said Norm. “Let me call my investigator. He’ll fit you up, no problem.” He rose and stepped toward the telephone on the kitchen counter.
“I want a bulletproof vest, too. Just in case. And I need to borrow your gun.”
Norm held the phone, poised to dial. “Marilyn Gaslow is not going to shoot you.”
“No. But I’ve invited someone else to the meeting besides Marilyn. Someone a little less predictable. Someone who says she can return my father’s gun to me.”
Norm hung up the phone and returned to the table. “Let’s talk about this.”
“Yeah,” said Ryan, “let’s talk.”
They returned to the Clover Leaf Apartments after ten o’clock. Gram went inside to turn down Taylor’s bed while Amy went up to Mrs. Bentley’s to pick her up. Rather than take her impressionable daughter to the old house, Amy had left her with their usual sitter.
Amy knocked once. The door opened. Mrs. Bentley was standing in the doorway. Marilyn Gaslow was standing right behind her, flashing a look that bordered on terror.
“Marilyn?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I stopped by your apartment, but no one was there. Your neighbor said to check with Mrs. Bentley.”
“Is Taylor okay?”
Mrs. Bentley answered. “She’s fine. Asleep since nine o’clock.”
Marilyn said, “I have to talk to you. In private.”
Amy was confused but curious. She got Mrs. Bentley to watch Taylor for a while longer, then stepped into the hall with Marilyn.
“What’s this all about?”
Marilyn glanced over her shoulder, almost paranoid. “Can we talk someplace private?”
“My apartment’s right upstairs.”
“I mean totally private. Not even your grandmother.”
The tone worried Amy. She led Marilyn down the hall to the laundry room, dug her key from her purse, and opened the door. “Nobody comes in here after ten o’clock. It closes then.”
She pushed the metal door open and stepped inside. Marilyn followed. A bare fluorescent light made the tiny room too bright. The walls were yellow-painted cinder block, no windows. Six white washing machines lined one side. Stacked dryers lined another. A few mateless socks lay scattered on the linoleum floor. Amy closed the door and locked it. An empty chair waited by the soda machine, but neither one took it. They went to the folding table in the center of the room and stood at opposite ends, facing each other.
“Okay,” said Amy. “Now tell me. What’s going on?”
Marilyn struggled for words, struggled to look at Amy. “I haven’t been honest with you.”
“No kidding.”
“I wish there was some unselfish explanation for my dishonesty. I’d like to be able to tell you it was for your own good.”
“Please. I’ve heard that one enough for one lifetime.”
Marilyn nodded, knowing the old story. “That always sounds so hollow, doesn’t it? Rarely is it ever for the benefit of anyone but the person who is being dishonest. But I was able to fool myself for years. I told myself it was for your own safety that I didn’t tell you the truth. Only tonight did I admit to myself that all the deception was for
my
benefit—for the good of my career. It took something pretty drastic to get me to realize that.”
“What?”
“I realized that unless you know the truth, you
are going to get yourself killed.” She looked away, then back. “Just like your mother.”
Amy went cold. “My mother was murdered, wasn’t she.”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop lying! Ryan Duffy showed me Mom’s letter. I know the rape never happened.”
“That’s not what it says. It says Frank Duffy didn’t rape me.”
Her voice lowered, but the tone was just as bitter. “What’s the difference?”
“I
was
raped.”
A tense silence fell between them. “By who?”
She paused, then said, “Joe.”
“You
married
the man who raped you?”
“I didn’t know it was him. I thought it was Frank.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Listen to me, please. It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds.” She quickly recounted the drive to Cheesman Dam forty-six years ago, the drinking that led to her passing out. “The next thing I knew, I was in the police station. My parents were there. A counselor was there. I had been raped. Joe denied ever laying a hand me. He made a real scene of it, accusing Frank of raping me when he drove me home. He even punched Frank in the face.”
“And they believed Joe?”
“Frank ran with the rough crowd in high school. Never did anything major, but enough to make the police think he was capable of rape. Joe was the perfect kid from the perfect family.”
“Couldn’t they do a blood test from the semen?”
“They were both O-positive. Something like forty percent of the population is O-positive. And of course this was decades before they started doing DNA testing.”
“So Frank got charged.”
“And convicted.”
“How did you find out the truth? What
is
the truth?”
“The truth is, Joe raped me after I passed out. Before any of us ever left Cheesman Dam. Before I got sick.”
Amy stepped away from the table, taking it all in. “When did you find all this out?”
“Joe finally told me. Years after we were married.”
“He just confessed?”
“No. Joe is one of those even-tempered gentlemen who blow a gasket every now and then. He could get pretty rough, especially if he drank. One time I actually had to hit him to keep him off me. He came back and said something like, ‘I’ll rape you again, bitch.’ It was the
again
that hung him. I forced it out of him.”
“What did you do?”
“I wanted to tell Frank Duffy how sorry I was. But if I ever told anyone, Joe swore he’d say our sex was consensual and that it was
my
idea to put the blame on Frank Duffy, just to save my reputation.”
“But…you told my mother.”
“Yes. I had to.”
“I don’t understand.”
Marilyn tried to step closer, but Amy kept her distance. Marilyn said, “It was the same night your mother told me she had cancer. She was worried about you. She asked me to be your guardian.”
Amy was confused, anguished. “What did you say?”
“I was torn. I wanted to. I would have done anything for Debby and you.”
“But you didn’t say yes.”
“I couldn’t give her an unconditional yes. I thought this thing with Frank Duffy was a potential noose around my neck. The absolute worst thing for you would be to lose your mother to cancer and then lose your guardian because she was embroiled in a rape scandal. I wanted Debby to know everything that could possibly impact on my perceived fitness to be your guardian. So I told her I had decided to divorce Joe. And I told her why.”
“You told her Frank Duffy didn’t rape you. You told her it was Joe.”
“That’s right.”
“And then she wrote to Frank Duffy and told him exactly what you said. Why?”
“I don’t know why. Maybe she thought Frank might need the letter to clear his name someday. Whatever she was thinking, I’ve always felt somewhat betrayed by that.”
The rage returned. “And that’s when Frank Duffy started to blackmail you and Joe.”
“Yes.”
“And then my mother was shot.”
“After. Yes.”
“Oh, my God. It’s like Ryan Duffy said. You and Joe are in this together. You killed my mother for telling his father the truth.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“That’s why Joe paid all that extortion. You weren’t just hiding the rape. It was the murder. You killed my mother for writing that letter to Frank Duffy. And then you paid Frank Duffy to hide the letter and keep your motive a secret.”
“Amy, I didn’t kill her.”
“Then Joe did.”
Marilyn was silent.
Amy came around the table, ready to strike her. “Joe killed her, didn’t he!”
Marilyn stepped back, on the verge of tears. “I don’t know. I swear to God, I don’t know.”
“You
know
, Marilyn. In your heart, you know.”
She covered her face, her hands shaking. “Don’t you think it’s been hell for me? Yes, in my heart I’ve suspected.”
“Then why didn’t you do something? Just go to the police.”
“I couldn’t. Not after Joe started paying the blackmail. The way he set it up, the whole scheme looked like it was designed to protect my reputation, my career. The police would have thought I was behind the murder. Not Joe.”
“Why shouldn’t I think the same thing?”
“Because now Joe’s motive is finally apparent. It was a long-term investment for him. The blackmail, the murder. He controls me. And if I get this appointment to the Board of Governors, he’ll control the Federal Reserve.”
“You let him control you.”
“I made a bad decision, and it snowballed. But I would never have done anything to hurt your mother. Or you. I’m a victim here, too. How do you think it feels after forty-six years? To be deceived into marrying the man who raped me. And to be manipulated by him still, twenty years after the divorce.”
Marilyn wiped away a tear. Amy felt every right to be angry, but she felt sorry for her, too.
“All I want,” she said, seething, “is to find the man who killed my mother. And make him pay.”
“I can understand that. But if you’re looking for
an actual trigger man, it wouldn’t have been Joe. Not personally, I mean.”
“Who was it?”
“Probably a man named Rusch. He’s been with Joe for years. He does the kind of work Joe never talked about, not even when we were married.”
“How do I meet this Mr. Rusch?”
“Trust me. You never want to meet him.”
She stepped closer, right in Marilyn’s face.
“Take me to him.”
“Amy, the reason I came here is to make sure you
don’t
meet him.”
“Excuse me?”
“Somebody faxed your mother’s letter to me this morning and said to meet them at Cheesman Dam tonight. I called Joe and told him about it. He’s sending Rusch in my place, in my Mercedes. It’s a trap.”
“A trap for who?”
“For whoever faxed the letter to me. I was afraid it might have been you.”
“I didn’t fax you anything.”
“Then it had to be Ryan Duffy.” Marilyn stiffened, concerned. She dug her phone from her purse. “Somebody has to warn him.”
Amy stopped her from dialing. “Let it go.”
“But Rusch will be waiting for him in my car.”
Amy’s eyes narrowed, as if revenge were in sight. “And
I’ll
be waiting for Rusch.”
“He’s a professional. He’ll kill you like a fly.”
“Not if you’re with me, he won’t.”
Marilyn hesitated. She should have been afraid, but for over forty years she’d let fear control her.
“All right. But we can’t just walk into this without any backup. It’ll cost me, but let me do that much.”
Amy thought for a second, then nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Of course it does,” she said with a thin smile.
“What’s a guardian for, anyway?”
“Let’s take a ride. Maybe we’ll both find out.”