Ryan Duffy, M.D., S.O.R. — son of a rapist.
That was the identity with which he had to come to terms. He felt anger, resentment, betrayal — a flood of emotions. He and his father had always been close. Or had they? Certainly Ryan was proud to be his son. In truth, however, there had always been a safe emotional distance between them. Dad was a great buddy — a regular guy who would share a round of Irish whiskey on his deathbed. On that level, he and Ryan were close. Hell, on that level, Frank Duffy had been “close” with half the male population of Prowers County. But there were things Ryan and his father had never discussed, things they probably should have talked about. Not just the rape, the money, or the extortion. Other things, too.
Like the real reason Ryan had chucked a promising career in Denver and moved back to Piedmont Springs.
Secrets, it seemed, were a bit of a Duffy family tradition. Maybe it was genetic. As a child, he had emulated his father, wanting only to be more like him. How much, he wondered, were they alike?
Ryan returned to the hotel around 6:00 P.M. He had already checked out of his room, but his flight wouldn’t leave Tocumen International Airport for another four hours. He decided to kill some time in the bar in the main lobby.
“Jameson’s and water,” he told the bartender.
He sat alone on a stool at the end of the mahogany bar. It had been a long day. First the safe deposit box at the Banco Nacional, which had led him to a second Panamanian account at the Banco del Istmo — which had turned out to be a veritable bonanza. The two million dollars in the attic hadn’t been withdrawn from that account or even laundered through it, whatever the correct terminology was. The funds were completely separate sums, though inextricably related. Ryan had found an additional three million dollars that his father had obtained through extortion. The total was now five.
The bartender poured his drink. “ Salud,” he said, then returned to his televised soccer game at the other end of the bar. He and some other fanatics were screaming at the set. Ryan was oblivious to the game, the shouting. He guzzled his drink and ordered another, a double. With each sip, the background noises were retreating further into oblivion. He was beginning to relax. The bartender served him another drink.
“No, gracias, ” said Ryan, waving it off. “Reached my limit.”
“Is from the young lady at the table over there.” He pointed discreetly with a shift of the eyes.
Ryan turned in his bar stool. The bar was dimly lit, but not so dark that he couldn’t see her. She was surprisingly attractive. Very attractive. Ryan glanced back at the bartender. “Is she a… you know.”
“A hooker? No. You want one? No problemo. What you like, I can get it.”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” he said with mild embarrassment.
“Berry good-looging,” he said with a smirk.
Ryan checked his reflection in the big mirror behind the bar. No woman had ever bought him a drink before. Bars had never been his forte. He was too shy. He felt like the only man in America who had actually never gotten a woman’s phone number in a bar, not even in college. Maybe I should have been hitting the happy hours in Panama.
He looked her way to thank her, raising his glass. She smiled — not too much, barely perceptible. A subtle smile that invited him over.
His battered ego swelled. It had been a long time since a woman had looked at him that way. Liz hadn’t wanted him for months. Amy had sparked him for a few minutes at the Green Parrot, then backed off like a squirrel. Flirting, however, was the last thing he felt like tonight. Still, her interest was flattering. He at least had to be polite, thank her properly. He started across the room toward her table. The closer he got, the better she looked.
She was in her early thirties, he guessed. Her straight hair was shoulder-length, a rich black sheen beneath the dim bar lights. The eyes were equally dark, not cold but mysterious. She wore a tan fitted suit, probably French or Italian. Her jewelry was gold and sapphire, clearly expensive but still professional. A stunning international businesswoman. Ryan was amazed she was alone.
Don’t see many women like this in Piedmont Springs.
“Thank you for the drink,” he said.
“You’re quite welcome. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you looked like you could use it. That’s a very stressful look on such a handsome face.”
“Kind of a tough day.”
“Sorry.” She offered the empty chair. “Care to commiserate?”
He considered it, then thought better. Nothing good could come from confiding in some stranger, however beautiful. “I appreciate the invitation, but my wife has this thing about me meeting women in bars. Can you imagine that?”
She smiled thinly. “I understand. That’s very decent of you. Your wife’s a lucky woman.”
“Thanks.”
“Does she know how lucky she is?”
It was an oddly personal question, the kind that sounded rehearsed. Ryan guessed it was a tried-and-true modus operandi, the gorgeous woman in the bar who made married men feel the need to spend time with a woman who could appreciate them. “Thanks for the drink,” he said.
“Any time.”
He turned and headed back to his bar stool. The irony nearly choked him — using Liz as an excuse not to meet an attractive, interesting woman. Instinct, however, had him questioning everything and everybody. Especially with what he was carrying in his bag.
My bag!
He froze just a few steps from his bar stool. He didn’t see his leather bag. He’d forgotten it had even been there until now. The come-hither looks had made him forget all about it and leave it behind when he’d walked over to her table. He was sure he’d left it on the floor.
He checked the other bar stools and the floor all around. It was nowhere to be found. Panic gripped him. The bag contained everything. His passport. His plane tickets. Photocopies of everything from the two Panamanian banks.
“Bartender!” he said urgently. “Have you seen my bag? It was right beside the stool.”
“No. Sorry.”
“Did somebody pick it up, maybe by accident?”
“I don’t see nobody.”
He wheeled around for a look at the woman. Her table was empty. She was gone.
“Damn it!” He ran from the bar to the lobby, weaving through the crowd, skidding on the marble floors. He nearly knocked over a bellboy laden with baggage. “Have you seen a woman in a tan suit? Black hair?”
The man just shrugged. “Many peoples, senor. ”
Ryan was about to try in Spanish, but his mind was racing too fast to translate. He sprinted across the lobby and pushed through the revolving doors at the main entrance. Outside it was dusk. City lights were flickering, a neon welcome for the night life. Cars and taxis clogged the motor entrance to the hotel. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks on both sides of Avenida Balboa. Ryan ran to the curb and looked up the busy street, then down. For blocks in either direction, throngs of shoppers flowed in and out of stores that would remain open well into the evening. Ryan picked out several tan suits in the crowd, but no one stood out. In Panama, that woman’s jet-black hair was hardly a distinguishing feature.
He clenched his fists in anger, mostly at himself. She was clearly a designed distraction. He’d been robbed. Scammed was more like it. Undoubtedly, the woman had gone in one direction. Her partner had run off in another — with Ryan’s bag.
He rolled his head back, looking up toward the darkening sky. “You idiot.”