Blood Money

by James Grippando

  Need a ride tonight. Walking over now.

  To his surprise, Theo actually responded: Watch out for the boogeyman.

  It was funny, but it wasn’t.

  The asphalt trail was a familiar path, and in the darkness, he was able to avoid the biggest potholes and tree roots almost from memory. This was one of the safest stretches in Coconut Grove, where churches and synagogues butted up against some of the oldest and most prestigious private schools in Florida. Hundreds of schoolchildren made this walk every day, no problem. Preschoolers, hand in hand with a parent. Teenage girls dressed in the traditional plaid uniforms of Sacred Heart Academy. Ivy League hopefuls in their new Range Rover or BMW convertible. Some even arrived by boat on the waterfront side of the lush campuses. Five days a week, a mixed parade of innocence, wealth, and privilege—all without incident.

  And every last one of them was on Cape Cod or in the Hamptons during the dead of Miami’s summer, the Grove a virtual ghost town.

  Stop it.

  Jack kept walking, and he was about a quarter mile from Cy’s Place when he noticed the sound of footsteps behind him. They had the rhythm of his own footfalls, seeming to match his pace and direction. He stopped, looked back, and said the first thing that came to mind—something a little less paranoid than Is anyone out there?

  “Theo, are you messing with me?”

  Nothing.

  “Theo?”

  A car passed, then more silence. Uncomfortable silence. Then another car passed, and in the glow of the headlights Jack spotted the orange reflective tape on the heels of a jogger across the street. She obviously had no problem being alone on Main Highway. It gave him a sense of relief, which quickly turned into anger at himself. Main Highway. Which fed into Main Street. This wasn’t a side street or a back alley. He could almost hear Theo laughing at him as that text message replayed in his mind’s eye:

  Watch out for the boogeyman.

  It was essentially the same thing Neil Goderich had told him right out of law school, when Jack had joined the Freedom Institute: Threats came with the turf. Over the years, Jack had gotten plenty of them from cops, clients, witnesses, and even the creepy anonymous source. Any criminal defense lawyer who couldn’t handle a dose of intimidation needed to find a new career.

  Still, as Jack reached the darkest part of the trail, he found himself walking faster. Streetlamps were of little help, their glow smothered by sprawling banyan trees on either side of the highway, the highest and longest limbs reaching across both lanes, as if to join hands. It was the lush, tropical version of a tunnel—one without lights. Jack had just passed the gated entrance to Ransom Everglades Upper School when, out of nowhere, it felt as if he’d been broadsided by an all-pro linebacker. The force sent him tumbling over the waist-high wall of coral rock that extended the full length of the trail. He landed facedown in the grass on the other side of the wall. The attacker was on him immediately.

  “What the—”

  Before Jack could finish his sentence, much less react, his hands were behind his back, a nylon loop closed around his wrists, and another loop joined his ankles. He was hog-tied, unable to move. The man rolled him over and grabbed Jack by the throat.

  “Don’t move, just listen,” the man said.

  The man’s grip was atomic, the fingers of a mountain climber, and the pressure around Jack’s neck made it difficult to focus on what he was saying. The thick, slurred speech didn’t make things any clearer.

  “Where is Sydney Bennett?”

  Where ish Shyndy. It wasn’t that he was drunk. He had something in his mouth—a wad of cotton or some spy toy to make his voice unrecognizable.

  Jack could barely breathe, let alone talk. “I don’t know where she—”

  “Don’t lie. If you lie, you die.”

  Jack was having trouble following even that simple line of logic. The pressure around his neck had his head pounding and lungs burning as he struggled to breathe. Jack couldn’t see the man’s face, couldn’t see much of anything. His attacker, like everything else, was a blur.

  “If you don’t know where she is, then it’s your job to find her for me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Shut up!”

  The grip tightened. The burning sensation in Jack’s lungs was unbearable. A hint of blood flavored his mouth, the pressure somehow having triggered it. Jack fought for air, but his attacker was in complete control.

  “You are going to lead me to Sydney,” the man said, his hand like a vise around Jack’s neck, the words slurring through the wads of cotton in his mouth. “If you don’t, I promise you this: Someone you love will get what Sydney deserves.”

  The hand around Jack’s throat rose higher on his neck and closed even tighter. Jack had one final burst of resistance left in his body, and then nothing more. The pounding in his head seemed to explode into his ears, and then the night went from black to blacker—to nothing.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was Jack’s second visit to a hospital in as many days. This time, he was the patient—in the emergency room.

  “How do you feel?” asked Andie.

  It was just the two of them in the small patient bay. A privacy curtain separated them from the buzz of activity that was the nerve center of Mercy Hospital’s ER. The adjustable bed was in the upright position, forcing Jack to sit up.

  “I’m totally fine,” he said. “Can we get out of here, please?”

  With all the tests they were running, Jack knew he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. His visit to the ER was going on four hours, and Andie had been at his side almost that long. A security guard at the high school had found Jack in the bushes and called an ambulance. By the time paramedics arrived, Jack had regained consciousness, somewhat disoriented but lucid enough to realize that his attacker had removed the bindings before fleeing. His wrists and ankles were raw, however, red bracelets that confirmed his recollection. He’d already recounted the entire attack twice, once to the ER physician and again to Andie. He was tired of talking about it, tired of saying the name Sydney Bennett. He was especially tired of the neck brace.

  “This thing has got to go,” he said as he tugged at the Velcro.

  “Leave it,” said Andie.

  Frustrated and exhausted, Jack let his head settle back into the pillow. The privacy curtain parted, and in walked a man who could have been straight out of an episode of Law & Order.

  “Jorge Rivera,” he said in a voice that was just right for a police station, a little loud for a patient with a throbbing head. “City of Miami Police.”

  The neck brace prevented Jack from turning his head, but he cut his eyes in Rivera’s direction, then toward Andie, who explained what the detective was doing there.

  “I called him,” she said.

  For a moment, Jack was speechless. “Andie, what if I didn’t want to involve the police?”

  Andie paused, her turn to be speechless. It was one of those patented disconnects in their relationship, as if Jack had asked, What if I wanted to paint myself blue and run naked through the ER?

  She rose and shook Rivera’s hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  “No problem.” He said “no” like a cow, a long moo with an “n.” From Jack’s vantage point, the bovine analogy seemed to fit in more ways than one. He was a large man, undoubtedly muscle-bound in his younger years, simply thick in middle age. He wore a necktie with the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, not to be casual but because the jowls made it impossible to button it. Folds of skin on the back of his neck led like steps to his crew-cut head. He had a set of matching stairs on his forehead.

  “I know you’re hurtin’,” said Rivera, “but I’ll be quick. I got most of what I need from Agent Henning’s report.”

  Jack shot another look in Andie’s direction—more than just eye movement this time, despite the neck brace. “You did a report?” he said, incredulous.

  “Yes, I had to.”

  “No, you didn’t have to. This isn’t an FBI
matter.”

  “You’re wrong there, Jack. Your attacker threatened an FBI agent.”

  Someone you love will get what Sydney deserves. Andie had probably filled in the blank correctly, but other alarming possibilities came to mind.

  “What about Abuela?” Jack said. “And my father?”

  “Theo is spending the night at your grandmother’s. I spoke to your father. It was three A.M. his time, and he didn’t seem particularly concerned.”

  Jack blinked, confused.

  Andie said, “Your father and stepmother are vacationing in London. They’re five hours ahead of us. Six hours ago, your head was clear enough to remember that.”

  Jack had completely forgotten, which told him that he wasn’t recovering from the attack as quickly as he had thought. “I’ll call them in the morning.”

  “Anyone else you want to call?” asked Rivera.

  “Let me think a minute,” said Jack. “My head’s a little cloudy, and I don’t want to forget if there’s anyone else I should—oh, hell yes. Sydney’s parents.”

  Rivera looked confused. “You put Sydney’s parents in the category of ‘someone you love’?”

  “No, no,” said Jack. “The threat wasn’t just against me and my loved ones. This guy is out to do harm to the Bennetts’ daughter—that’s his ultimate objective. They need to be made aware of that.”

  Andie said, “I spoke to them. Neither one of them claims to have a clue where Sydney is.”

  “Do you believe them?” asked Jack.

  “Actually, I do,” said Andie. “Lord knows that if they were in touch with Sydney, we would have heard about it on BNN by now.”

  Jack sensed a hint of sarcasm. “Maybe I should follow up with them.”

  “No,” said Andie. “They really don’t want to hear from you.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Jack. The defense hadn’t explicitly played the “abuse excuse” at trial, but they hadn’t portrayed the Bennetts as model parents, either.

  “I’ll work that angle,” said Andie. “For now, I made it clear that they need to call me if they hear from Sydney. My message to them was that Sydney didn’t do anything illegal by going into hiding, but she could be doing something really stupid if she decides to come out of hiding.”

  “Oooo-kay,” said Rivera, another moo. “My turn. Just a few questions for you, Mr. Swyteck.” He removed a pen and notepad from his pocket, then started down his checklist.

  “First, Agent Henning said you’ve been getting threatening phone calls. Did any of those callers sound like the guy who attacked you?”

  “No. First of all, the guy had some kind of voice distorter, like he had cotton or something in his mouth. But aside from that, every call I got was from a woman. You could ask my secretary if any of the calls she took were from men.”

  “Already did that,” said Andie. “All women.”

  Rivera put a check mark on his list, then stumbled through a few generic questions that could have fit everything from a dog bite to a terrorist attack. He was rambling, almost as if stalling, which was annoying. Finally, a police photographer arrived, and Rivera got to the heart of the matter.

  “Mind if I take a look at your neck?”

  “Sorry, Dr. Henning here says I have to leave this contraption on.”

  Andie rolled her eyes and said, “I’ll check with the doctor.”

  Rivera and the photographer discussed the shots they needed while Andie was away. Her quick return told Jack that she had definitely flashed her badge out there in the ER jungle. A doctor accompanied her. Jack had one of those feeling-old moments, struck by the way doctors seemed to get younger every time he needed one. This one looked like a teenager.

  “I’m Dr. Cohen,” she said as she removed the brace. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

  “Ouch!” said Jack.

  “As long as you don’t turn your head,” the doctor added.

  The photographer moved in quickly for the shots they needed—straight on, side angles, close-ups.

  “Keep your head just like that,” Rivera told him.

  Jack’s chin was raised slightly, but with a little effort he was able to see what was going on at shoulder level. Rivera held an eight-by-ten photograph below Jack’s chin for comparison. The tone of the discussion changed, as if Jack was no longer in the room, Rivera and Andie talking cop to cop.

  Rivera said, “You see the bruising pattern that is emerging here, right along his carotid artery?”

  “Definitely,” said Andie.

  “Now look at the photograph.”

  Andie paused, seeming to study it. “Bruising is virtually in the same spot,” she said.

  “Same spot as who?” asked Jack.

  Andie touched his hand, as if to reassure. “Celeste Laramore.”

  Jack took a minute to absorb the comparison, but his skepticism bore out. “This is junk science, folks. Wouldn’t anyone who gets choked have a bruise like mine?”

  “No,” said Rivera. “That’s the interesting thing. I asked our medical examiner to take a look at Celeste Laramore’s photos. He says the bruising pattern on her neck is more like a hanging, where the rope jerks up higher on the neck. It’s the simple force of gravity, the weight of the body pulling the victim down. Choking someone with your bare hands tends to produce a bruising pattern much lower than this. Unless you were lifting them up by the neck.”

  “He didn’t lift me up. I was on the ground.”

  “That’s my point. No one saw Celeste Laramore’s feet leave the ground, either.”

  “You’re suggesting we had the same attacker?”

  “It’s an assumption based on the M.O.”

  “Strangulation?”

  “More than that. It’s the way he strangles his victim. He seems to be trying to simulate the effects of a hanging with his bare hands.”

  Jack gave it some thought. “Well, I don’t necessarily agree that you can ascribe an M.O. to someone in a mob who reached out and grabbed Celeste Laramore by the throat. But for the sake of discussion, let’s say you’re on to something. Why would anyone try to simulate a hanging?”

  The doctor spoke up. “Possibly to involve the carotid sinus.”

  “The what?” asked Jack.

  “The carotid sinus is a dilatation of the lower end of the internal carotid artery,” Dr. Cohen said, gently putting her hand to Jack’s neck. “It functions as a baroreceptor, which is complicated, but basically it plays a key role in short-term blood pressure control.”

  The doctor no longer seemed like a teenager to Jack. “So . . . you’re saying what? The carotid sinus comes into play in hanging but not in other forms of strangulation?”

  “Not exactly. But there have been studies on this, partly out of morbid fascination with what actually causes death in a hanging, which isn’t fully understood. It’s safe to say that a hanging would more likely involve pressure above the carotid sinus—like your injury. Other forms of manual strangulation might involve pressure on or below the carotid sinus.”

  “Above or below—what’s the difference?” asked Jack.

  “Pressure above the carotid sinus can interrupt parasympathetic pathways between the brain and heart, which can result in anything from fainting to instantaneous death.”

  “To coma,” said Jack, thinking of Celeste Laramore.

  “Yes. Coma is possible. Depending in part on the duration and force of the compression. Don’t get me wrong. You can get the same end result with pressure on or below the carotid sinus. But there are researchers who posit that pressure above it—as in a hanging—is more, shall we say, efficient. Or maybe ‘expedient’ is the right word.”

  The doctor refastened Jack’s neck brace, but Jack was watching Andie, almost able to feel her next question coming.

  “Doctor,” said Andie, “how difficult is it for someone to know how much force and compression are needed to achieve a specific result along the continuum you described?”

  “Are you asking me if someone
could learn how to squeeze a person’s neck just long enough to make him pass out, how to apply enough pressure to make sure he’s dead, how to stop just short of death and induce a coma?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m asking.”

  “Virtually impossible.”

  “Well, you’re the doctor,” said Jack. “But isn’t controlled deprivation of oxygen the whole idea behind erotic asphyxiation?”

  Andie’s mouth opened, but the words were on a few-second delay. “Not that he learned that from me.”

  The detective snickered. “Henning, I knew you had a wild side.”

  “No, no,” Jack said nervously. “I wasn’t implying . . . Actually, this was another woman I dated who used to like to—”

  Jack stopped, frozen by a glare from his fiancée that said, Way too much information.

  An awkward silence hung between them. Finally, the doctor bailed Jack out.

  “Mr. Swyteck raises a good point,” said Dr. Cohen. “The notion that oxygen deprivation is something you can manipulate with precision is a myth. Even when the participants know each other intimately, and the strangulation is intended only to enhance sexual gratification, mistakes happen. So you can only imagine what a guessing game it is when the victim is a stranger. There’s absolutely no way to know how far you can push it without fatal results. Too many different variables come into play. One person’s fainting episode is another person’s cardiac arrest.”

  Jack was reluctant to say more on the subject, but it was worth pursuing. “There’s always someone who thinks he’s smart enough, who thinks he can play God and get whatever result he wants.”

  Andie picked up on Jack’s point, apparently having forgiven his faux pas. “I see this in my criminal profiling. Predators with enough experience to fancy themselves experts on such matters.”

  The doctor considered it. “That would be one very sick human being.”