Blood Money

by James Grippando

  Ben glanced at Jack, then took his wife’s hand. “Honey, this is so important.”

  “I wouldn’t ask,” said Jack, “but you, more than anyone, can make this judge see what kind of person Celeste is.”

  Her eyes welled, and her lip began to tremble again. “You want to see what kind of person she is?”

  Before Jack could answer, she pushed open the door, popped in and out of the room, and emerged with a photo album. She opened it and showed Jack. “I’ve been going through this all day with her, talking to her, pointing things out, trying to trigger her memories. This is her senior year of high school and graduation,” she said, pointing. “This is when we took her to college. This is Celeste and her roommate.” She flipped the pages. “And this is her just a couple of months ago. Mother’s Day.”

  Jack looked at each of the photos, casually at first, then more carefully. He was struck by a theme that ran through the time period represented by the photos, not sure it could even be called a theme. But he didn’t want to discuss it then and there, especially as distraught as Mrs. Laramore was.

  “May I borrow this album?” asked Jack.

  “No!” said Mrs. Laramore, clutching it. “I don’t mean to be rude. But we can’t lose this.”

  “I can e-mail JPEGs to you, if you want them,” said Ben.

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  “I need to get back,” said Mrs. Laramore, and she disappeared into Celeste’s room. Ben led Jack down the hallway toward the secured entrance and pushed the button on the wall to open the doors.

  “I’ll talk this out with my wife. And I’ll get you those photos.”

  “Thanks, please do that.”

  Jack exited the ICU, and the doors closed automatically behind him. He continued to the elevator, confident that Mrs. Laramore could be talked into testifying. His mind was more focused on those photographs. Flashes of brilliance sometimes didn’t seem so brilliant upon second look, but he was beyond certain that his more careful review of the photos, once e-mailed to him, would confirm his initial impression:

  With each photo since high school—with the gradual passage of time, starting roughly with the death of Sydney’s daughter—Celeste Laramore looked more and more like Sydney Bennett.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The funeral home was open until ten o’clock. At 9:55 P.M., Jack pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. That was as far as he could go. He was frozen behind the wheel, shrouded in darkness, unable to open the door.

  It had been Jack’s intention to stay away from any memorial service for Rene. After his meeting with the Laramores, however, he’d spotted the notice posted on the bulletin board in the hospital lobby: REMEMBERING RENE FENNING, MD, LINCOLN FUNERAL HOME, FRIDAY, 6 P.M. TO 10 P.M. The Jackson Memorial family had lost one of its own. Jack wasn’t part of that family, and Rene’s boyfriend had nearly broken every bone in his right fist trying to make Jack understand that he was most unwelcome. Jack couldn’t blame him for feeling that way. The sight of Rene’s body on a slab in the morgue had made Jack want to punch himself in the face. Twice. Once for Rene’s having ended up as “someone you love.” A second time for the hurt he’d caused everyone else who had ever loved her.

  It was a typical humid summer night, and the stale air inside the closed car changed from warm to stifling in a hurry. Rolling down the window to cool things down would have been pure procrastination. Jack had to do what he’d come to do—or he needed to leave. There was always a spare necktie in his console, and with the help of the rearview mirror he tied a quick double Windsor. A shave wouldn’t have hurt, but the best he could do was run a comb through his hair. He drew a breath, clutched his keys, and stepped out of the car.

  You can do this.

  Jack’s heels clicked on the asphalt as he crossed the parking lot. Several visitors passed him on their way out of the funeral home, then a few more. One older woman was sobbing and dabbing away tears. Others appeared numb, or at the very least at a loss for words. Jack looked away, only to catch sight of the black hearse parked beneath the porte cochere alongside the building. The thought of Rene heading to the cemetery in the morning was almost incomprehensible. A random memory came to him of the way Rene had surprised him one weekend and shown up at his front door direct from Abidjan—in her words, “a sex-starved expat willing to traverse the globe in search of quality horizontal time.” It was a nice combination, someone who could crack you up and turn you on at the same time. It all left a knot in his stomach. He walked faster to the door, and on his way inside, a woman at the front step seemed to recognize him but said nothing. Jack tried not to make eye contact with her or anyone else, fearful that he might be asked to leave.

  There was a small gathering of guests at the sign-in register in the lobby. Jack decided that he wouldn’t sign. Several other clusters of quiet conversation dotted the room. Bouquets of white roses and chrysanthemums adorned antique tables. It was all very subdued and traditional, except for the life-size photographs of Rene that flanked the entrance door to the parlor where she lay. On the left was a younger and dust-covered Rene, the volunteer pediatrician whom Jack had met in western Africa. Only a handful of people knew that period of her life. On the right was Dr. Fenning, a more current shot that was recognizable to all who had come to grieve.

  “Swyteck?”

  Jack turned. It was Rene’s boyfriend.

  “I asked you not to come,” said Dr. Ross.

  The perfect response was trapped somewhere between his brain and his tongue, but damned if Jack could get it out. “I didn’t come to make a scene,” said Jack, “and it wasn’t my intention to go inside and see Rene without your blessing.”

  “Walk with me for a minute.”

  Dr. Ross started toward the main entrance, and Jack followed. He led Jack all the way outside and across the driveway, to a patch of grass that was just beyond a stand of bushy palm trees in front of the funeral home. There were crushed cigarettes on the ground, and the night air still hinted at a recent smoke.

  “I can’t say that I was going to invite you,” said Dr. Ross, “but in a way I’m glad you came. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Jack braced himself.

  “Don’t worry,” the doctor said. “I’m not going to hit you.”

  “That’s a step forward.”

  It was too dark to tell if the doctor had cracked a semblance of a smile, but it would have been a sad one. “When we lost Rene, she was on her way to meet you.”

  “Yes, unfortunately, that’s true.”

  “Do you have any idea what she was going to tell you?”

  Jack wasn’t sure how forthcoming he could be. “It was Rene who convinced me I should represent the Laramore family in their lawsuit against BNN. Thursday’s meeting was a follow-up on that, but I don’t know what it was about specifically.”

  Ross looked away, then back. “Well, I do know what she was going to tell you. Specifically.”

  “How?”

  “We talked the night before she died. She told me what she’d found.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  He started to answer, then stopped. “Did you see the posting on Celeste Laramore’s Facebook?”

  It seemed like a change of subject, but Jack went along. “Yes, I saw. But I should tell you, those were posted in violation of a court order. I can’t discuss what they say.”

  “That’s fine. You have your orders. But the reality is that those postings were up long enough to leak all over the Internet. And they’re all over the hospital, too. Surely you can appreciate the interest in a claim that the media interfered with the transmission of data from the ambulance to the ER.”

  “It was certainly of interest to Rene,” said Jack.

  “Which brings me back to my original point,” said Dr. Ross. “One of those Facebook postings said something to the effect that a doctor at Jackson had reviewed the data and confirmed that if the transmission had gone through, doctors i
n the ER would have recognized that Celeste had a heart defect and started treatment that could have stopped her from slipping into a coma.”

  “I know what you’re talking about,” said Jack. “But like I said, I can’t discuss that.”

  “I’m not asking you to discuss it. I just want you to hear what I’m saying. The unnamed doctor who reviewed the data: that was Rene.”

  Jack was surprised—but he wasn’t. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Rene reviewed that data. She drew that conclusion. As I said, she was on her way to tell you that when she was murdered.”

  “That couldn’t have been an easy decision.”

  “It was quite courageous, if you ask me.” Dr. Ross waited for a couple of visitors to pass on the way to their car, then continued. “Rene and I were up half the night before your meeting, talking about it. She wasn’t sure if telling you was the right thing to do or not. We finally agreed she should.”

  It gave Jack even more respect for Rene, but he couldn’t help wishing she’d come out the other way. “Did she talk to anyone else about it?”

  “No way. She was agonizing over this and reluctant to get more involved than she already was. Her intention was to pass along the information to you and step aside.”

  Jack processed it. “So at the time of Rene’s death—before this ended up on Faebook—there were only two people who knew what Rene was going to tell me.”

  “Right. One was Rene, and she was dead before things started popping up on Facebook. The other is me, and until this very moment, I haven’t told anyone.”

  Jack said, “Which raises the question: Who posted that information on Celeste’s Facebook page?”

  “I haven’t had time to think this through,” said Dr. Ross, “but just talking it out with you makes it seem obvious, doesn’t it? There’s only one person it could be.”

  “The man who killed her,” said Jack.

  Dr. Ross looked back, stone-faced. “It makes sense, right? He got that information out of her before he killed her.”

  An uneasy silence came over them. The extraction of information before death only added to the heinous nature of the crime.

  “You need to tell this to the police,” said Jack.

  “I know. I will.” He buried his hands in his pockets and looked off toward the street. The extraction theory was weighing heavily on them both. “I need to get back inside,” the doctor said.

  “And I should probably be going. But thank you for this,” Jack said, extending his hand.

  Ross shook it, though he didn’t look Jack in the eye. He stepped away, and Jack went in the opposite direction, toward his car.

  “Swyteck,” Dr. Ross said, stopping him.

  Jack turned.

  “Rene always said you were a decent guy.”

  Jack gave a nod of appreciation. The doctor continued toward the funeral home. Jack walked back to his car, alone.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  At one fifteen A.M. Jack was in bed but still awake. He got up and made himself a cup of tea in the microwave, cleared away a place to sit on the couch, and watched about twenty minutes of a Friends rerun that he’d seen at least a half-dozen times before. Chamomile always worked for Andie when she had trouble sleeping. It just made Jack need to pee. When he came out of the bathroom, Max was waiting for him at the door.

  “Sorry, boy. It’s not time to run.”

  Max almost seemed relieved. He climbed up on the settee and went right back to doggy sleep. Jack looked at him with envy and crawled into bed. Then he reminded himself that he needed to follow up with the Kayal family about sending Max away for a while. One more thing to do.

  Andie stirred on the other side of the mattress.

  “What’s wrong, Jack?”

  Wow. What a question. Jack answered it the best he could. “Nothing.”

  She rolled toward him, draped her arm across his chest and her leg atop his thigh. “It’s going to get better,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “You have to believe that.”

  “Optimism is my middle name. Jack Optimism Sly-teck.”

  “You’re better than Faith Corso. Don’t let her keep you up at night.”

  “It’s not her,” said Jack. “I’m just having trouble understanding how the hell I got here.”

  Andie propped herself up on her elbow, looking him in the eye. “How do you think you got here?”

  “Two years ago Neil Goderich called me, said he was sick, and asked me to do him and the Freedom Institute a favor. So I cover a hearing. Neil dies eight weeks before trial, and the judge says I’m the only living attorney of record, the case is going to trial, so I’m Sydney Bennett’s lawyer. Now everybody wants to hang Sydney and her lawyer for buying off a juror, my old girlfriend is dead, and I have until Tuesday to figure out how to keep hope alive for two devastated parents whose daughter is in a coma.”

  Andie just looked at him, one of her patented expressions that said everything without saying a word.

  “What?” said Jack.

  “That’s how you think you got here? Really?”

  “Obviously that’s the Reader’s Digest version.”

  “No, that’s the Jack Swyteck version.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  The left eyebrow arched, the telltale sign that she was about to unload exactly what was on her mind. Then she said it. “You got here because you love it.”

  “I what?”

  “Take Rene out of this. That’s a horrible tragedy, and we’ll catch the guy who did it. But the Sydney Bennett trial, where all this began. You got in it because you love this stuff.”

  “That’s so not true.”

  “It makes you feel better about yourself to say you didn’t want this case, that you did Neil a favor and got strong-armed by the judge into defending Sydney Bennett.”

  “And how would that make me feel good about myself?”

  “Because this is exactly the kind of case you would want. But you didn’t want to take it.”

  “This is starting to sound like analysis.”

  “In your mind, being ordered by the judge to defend Sydney Bennett makes it more acceptable to your fiancée. There, I pointed it out: the elephant in the room.”

  “No, I think it’s Max. Those mangos are murder.”

  “Don’t make jokes, damn it.” She came closer “Look. Jack. I love you so much, but there’s a reason we’re engaged and still haven’t set a wedding date. And it’s not because we’re too busy. It’s because we’re still . . . negotiating.”

  “Negotiating?”

  “Yes. There’s no other word for it. I’m being very honest. I don’t want you to turn me into something I’m not, any more than I should turn you into something you’re not.”

  Jack was silent, but he knew where the conversation was headed.

  “I’m taking this undercover assignment,” she said. “I could be away for five months. For me, that’s not negotiable.”

  “That’s fine. I want you to take it,” he said.

  “And I love you for that. That’s not the problem. The problem is, I don’t want you to represent people like Sydney Bennett.”

  “So for you, undercover work is nonnegotiable, but you want my selection of cases to be negotiable?”

  “No, I want you to stop making yourself miserable, stop trying to be a pleaser. Stand up and say, This is me, this who I am, this is not negotiable. And I’m just going to have to find a way to get over that . . . if we’re ever going to set a wedding date.”

  He brought her closer.

  “Weird,” said Jack.

  “What is?”

  “That actually made me feel better.”

  She kissed him gently.

  “And confused,” said Jack.

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Could it be because what you just said is completely unlike anything you’ve ever said to me before?”

  “I’ve evolved.”

  �
��More like transformed.”

  “Let’s just say a little birdie sang in my ear.”

  “A birdie, huh?”

  She let out a little laugh, but it was cut short by Shorty Shitstain. Theo’s ringtone. Jack still had his friend’s cell phone, and it was vibrating on the nightstand. He reached over and grabbed it. This time there was no SQUEEZEPLAY or COOCHIE MONSTER in the caller ID. It was just a random number—at two o’clock in the morning.

  “I’m going to take this,” he said, and he answered it: “This is Jack.”

  “Oh, thank God! Jack, you have to help me!”

  She was in a panic, but he immediately recognized the voice. “Sydney, calm down.”

  “Calm down? I’m out here on my own, I can’t even close my eyes to go to sleep, and now I saw on TV that Judge Matthews expects me to show up in court on Monday.”

  “He wants to know about the guy who met you at the airport.”

  “He’s crazy, okay? Sick and crazy. He tried to choke me.”

  “What?”

  “He came to me like he was my friend, gonna sell my movie rights, gonna make me a million dollars. Then the first night we were alone together he turns into this crazy man.”

  “You didn’t tell me this before.”

  “I told you he was a creep, that I was going through hell. What is it about lawyers that they need to have everything spelled out from A to Z? Is that so you can give your client the big ‘I told you so’? I didn’t fire him, okay? I escaped! The guy is sick. I’m lucky to be alive!”

  Jack sat up on the edge of the mattress. “Sydney, you have to listen to me. You’re in a lot of danger.”

  “No shit!”

  “What I’m trying to say is that you need more help than your lawyer can give you. Where are you now?”

  “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone!”

  “We need to get you protection.”

  “Yeah, like the whole world wants to bend over backward to help me, Jack.”

  “Listen to me. My fiancée is an FBI agent. She’s here with me. I can put her on the phone right now to talk if—”

  “No! If you give her that phone, I’m hanging up.”