Ryan woke at 5:30 Monday morning, Mountain Time. He reset his wristwatch ahead two hours to local time in Panama City. Butterflies swirled in his belly. The bank would open in thirty minutes.
He showered and dressed in record time. Room service brought him a quick continental breakfast. He managed a few sips of cafe con leche while shaving but didn’t have the stomach for food. Overnight, something inside him had changed. He felt different. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he even looked at himself differently. From the moment he’d left Piedmont Springs almost forty-eight hours ago, his mind had strategically diverted his attention from the real problem. He’d been thinking of his mother and her small-town preference never to know anything that wasn’t fit to print in the Lamar Daily News. He’d met his friend Norm to talk out the legal niceties of Panamanian banks. He’d made small talk with a Panamanian family in the airport. He’d done everything but come to terms with the fact that his father was a blackmailer — and that the box would tell him why.
This morning, there was no more dodging the truth. He felt like a son who had never known his father. Today, he would meet him for the very first time.
Ryan checked out of the hotel at 7:50 A.M. and checked his garment bag with the concierge. He would pick it up later on his way to the airport after visiting the bank. He took the small carry-on with him, a leather shoulder bag that made him look like a camera-toting tourist. Whatever he might find inside the safe deposit box, the bag would enable him to carry it out in concealment.
Sweat soaked his brow the minute he stepped outside the hotel. Besides the great canal and those namesake hats that were actually made in Ecuador, Panama was known for its rainfall. It got more than any other Central American country, mostly between April and December. Today’s rain was not yet falling, but the heavy tropical heat and 90 percent humidity foreshadowed the inevitable. Ryan considered hailing a taxi to beat the heat, but the drivers were beyond aggressive; they were downright reckless, notorious for their many accidents. The buses weren’t much better, called the Red Devils not just because of their color. Ryan would just have to hoof it.
His pace was swift, partly because he was eager to open the box, partly because he was uncomfortable in the neighborhood. There seemed to be more beggars than anything else on the sidewalks. Street crime in Panama City was a serious problem. It surprised him that his father had actually come here. His mother never would have come.
The thought jarred him.
Maybe that was the point. Dad had chosen to hide his ugly secrets in a place Mom would never look — even if she knew where they were and she desperately wanted to know them.
The neighborhood improved considerably as he turned on Avenida Balboa. Banco Nacional de Panama was a modern building on the lively thoroughfare, one of literally hundreds of international banks in the burgeoning financial district of Panama City. Ryan climbed the limestone steps slowly, bemused by the fact that he was retracing his father’s steps. The bank itself was medium-size, slightly larger than the typical branch bank in the States. The entrance was formal and impressive, a tasteful mix of chrome, glass, and polished Botticino marble. An armed guard stood at the door. Two others were posted inside. Business hours had started just fifteen minutes ago, and the place was already bustling. Behind velvet ropes, lines of customers snaked toward the tellers. Bank officers were busy with clients or on the phone. With business all over the world, the bank transcended time zones.
Ryan crossed the spacious lobby and headed for the sign marked LAS CAJAS DE SEGURIDAD — SAFE DEPOSIT BOXES. The boxes were located in a small, windowless wing behind the tellers, part of the private banking section. Ryan left his name with the receptionist and took a seat on the couch, absorbing the surroundings. The well-dressed man seated beside him was reading a French magazine. The receptionist appeared to be a descendant of a local Indian tribe. One of the tellers was black; the other, Chinese. Ryan had read somewhere that Panama was not a melting pot but a sancocho pot. As in the local dish, the various “ingredients” contributed their own flavor but retained their own individual identity. The meaning was beginning to come clear.
“Senor Duffy?”
Ryan looked up at the woman in the doorway.
“ Buenos dias, senora. Yo soy Ryan Duffy.”
She smirked, obviously sensing from his accent that Spanish was his second language — a distant second. She answered in English. “Good morning. I’m Vivien Fuentes. Please come with me.”
Though not perfect, her English was fairly good, which helped account for his father’s selection of this particular bank. Ryan followed her to the small office around the corner. She offered him a chair, then closed the door and seated herself behind her desk. She smiled pleasantly and said, “How can I help you?”
“I’m here on family business, I guess you’d call it. My father recently passed away.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. As the executor of his estate, I’m accounting for all of his assets. It’s my understanding that he has a safe deposit box here at your bank, which I’d like to access this morning.”
“Very well. I’ll need to see your passport and power of attorney.”
“Sure.” Ryan opened his leather bag and removed the power of attorney his father had executed when he became ill. He handed it over with his passport.
“Thank you.” She flipped right to the photo ID, then glanced at Ryan. She seemed satisfied. “Your father’s full name?” she asked, poised to enter it on her computer keyboard.
“I believe it’s a numbered account.”
“It’s numbered as far as the outside world is concerned. We do have the names in our internal data bank.”
“Naturally,” he said, feeling a little stupid. “His name was Frank Patrick Duffy.”
She typed in the name and hit ENTER. “Here it is,” she said, checking the screen. “Yes, he does still have a safe deposit box with us.”
“Box Two-Forty-Two,” said Ryan as he pulled the key from his bag.
“That’s what your key says. It’s actually Box One-Ninety-Three. It’s coded for security purposes.”
“Whatever it is, I’d like to get into it as soon as possible.”
“First, I need to check your father’s signature on the power of attorney against the signature specimen on file here. Standard procedure. It will take only a second.” She clicked her mouse, bringing up a signature on her computer screen. She fed the signature page from the power of attorney into a document scanner on her desktop. In seconds, as she had promised, it verified the signature as genuine.
“Let’s go,” she said, rising.
Ryan followed her out the door and down the hall. They stopped at the security checkpoint, where another armed guard was posted. He unlocked the glass door to allow Ryan and his escort to pass. The safe deposit boxes were all in one secured area, arranged from floor to ceiling like a locker room. Everywhere he looked was another stainless steel box. The large ones were on the bottom. Smaller ones were on top. Ms. Fuentes led Ryan to Box 193, which was one of the smaller ones. It had two locks on the facade. She inserted her master key into one lock and turned it.
“Your key is for the other lock,” she said. “I’ll leave you alone now. If you need me, check with the guard. There’s a room with a table and chair to your left. You can take the whole box with you and open it there, if you wish. No one else will be allowed in here until you’re finished.”
“Thank you,” said Ryan.
She nodded, then turned and walked away.
Ryan stared straight at the shiny stainless steel box. He could only shake his head. His father had led a simple life. So simple, his secrets were locked in a cold steel box in Central America.
To his surprise, he felt numb, nearly paralyzed. Even just five minutes ago, he had been so eager to open the box that he thought he might conceivably break the key in the process. Now, however, he wasn’t so courageous. He felt his mother’s trepidation. Norm’s warning haunted him. He did have a choice. He could open the box. Or not. It wasn’t just a matter of wanting to know the truth. The question was, could he deal with it?
Slowly, he brought the key to the lock and inserted it. With a turn of the wrist, the tumblers clicked. He grabbed the handle and tugged. The box slid forward a few inches, opening like a small drawer. He froze. He felt a sudden impulse to shove it back in place, closing it forever. There was still time to turn back. He could not yet see inside. He hadn’t come this far just to pay homage to the past, however, leaving it safely buried.
With a steady pull he removed the box from its sleeve. He laid it on the bench behind him. It was no larger than a shoe box, sealed all the way around. With the truth so close, curiosity took over. He didn’t bother taking the box to the back room with the table. His heart quickened. He flipped the latch and opened the top.
He stared inside. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this didn’t look like much. Just some papers. He reached inside and removed the top sheet. It was a bank record for yet another Panamanian bank, the Banco del Istmo. Ryan read it closely. He recognized his father’s signature at the bottom. It was an application for a numbered bank account. Attached to the back was a deposit slip. Ryan shuddered.
The deposit was three million dollars.
“Holy shit,” he uttered. His mind raced. The two million he’d already found in the attic was possibly part of the three million. Or perhaps the three was in addition to the two. The thought made him dizzy.
He reached inside the box for the remaining contents, which were in a large manila envelope. He opened the flap and removed a document. It looked old, tattered around the edges. It was old. Forty-six years old, to be exact.
Ryan scanned it from top to bottom. It was the information his mother had intuitively feared. A copy of a sealed record from the juvenile courts of Colorado. A criminal sentencing report for “Frank Patrick Duffy, a minor.” Not only had his father committed a crime, he’d apparently been convicted. In fact, he had pleaded guilty. Ryan felt chills as he read the charge aloud in quiet disbelief.
“One count sexual assault in violation of Colorado Statutes, section…”
His heart was in his throat. Before opening the box, he had hoped for many things. This was not on his wish list.
At age sixteen, Frank Duffy had raped a woman.