This Life: A Novel

by Maryann Reid

  They looked at each other again as Antonio moved to stand between Blake and the agents. The taller one spoke. “Let’s just be direct, then. Ms. Bertrand, Miami police have requested FBI assistance in investigating the fire that burned down your Cuban restaurant. Do you have any idea why?”

  “No. And I don’t know why you’d want to talk to me about it, anyway. My attorney already proved I was airborne when the fire started, and that I haven’t made any financial transactions that could be payment to an arsonist.” She eyed the recliner that stood empty, weary and wondering if she’d somehow be at a disadvantage if she sat down.

  “Your Cuban restaurant was engaged in money laundering for the Mafia,” said the shorter agent.

  Blake’s legs felt rubbery all of a sudden. She leaned against the wall. “I don’t have anything to do with the Mafia!”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m afraid that’s just not true.” The shorter agent crossed his legs and studied her through his shades. “Our investigation already shows that a number of properties purchased and maintained by you and your ex-husband laundered money for the Mafia.”

  “It must have been Lang’s doing.” Blake didn’t resist as Antonio helped her into the empty recliner. He then positioned himself behind her. She felt a wild urge to giggle as she imagined Antonio and his Ray-Bans having a staring match with the FBI agents in their shades.

  “Can you prove you had nothing to do with it?” inquired the taller agent.

  “I thought the burden of proof is on the prosecution, because the defense is innocent until proven guilty,” countered Suki.

  The agents shot shaded looks at Suki, in unison, and again Blake felt a crazed need to giggle. She bowed her head over her knees and clamped her hands over her face to stifle the impulse.

  “That’s true, ma’am, but even early in the investigation the evidence isn’t looking good for your employer, here.”

  “Well, Boss will just have to hope her attorney can call your evidence into question. And yes, she does have an attorney, so maybe you should speak with him.” Suki continued staring at them, her expression cold and unmoved as a statue’s. Being without shades clearly didn’t faze her.

  “May we have your attorney’s name and number, Ms. Bertrand?” The taller agent pulled an ink pen and a mini notepad out of his jacket pocket and waited to make notes of the information.

  Blake consulted her BlackBerry for the contact info of Enrico Torres, and the agent dutifully scribbled the name and number. The agent then read them back to her to confirm he’d got everything correct. He tucked pen and pad away, stood, and said, “I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.”

  The shorter agent stood, too, and threw up a salute at Blake as he followed his partner out of the apartment. Blake stared at her BlackBerry, her stomach caught in the grip of an icy fist. “I guess I’d better call my attorney, too.”

  She dialed Torres’s number and wished her life was a nightmare she could wake up from.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  June 23

  New York, New York

  In the morning Blake found herself all over the news. There was the announcement of her charity’s first program. With the success of her launch, she decided to add a local grant program for Black female college grads who wanted to start their own businesses. Along with this good news, unfortunately, there was also a disclosure that Blake Bertrand and her ex-husband, Lang Bertrand, were being investigated by the FBI for alleged Mafia dealings.

  Before she even arrived at the NBC studio for the day’s work on The Takeover, her BlackBerry rang with the caller ID showing that J-Lo wanted to talk to her. She took a deep breath and pressed the Talk button.

  “Good morning, this is Blake Bertrand speaking.”

  “Hi, Blake, Jennifer’s publicist here.” There was a brief silence, filled with an awkwardness that hurt Blake’s ear worse than a scream. “Uh, first, congratulations on all the money you raised for charity yesterday.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you and Jen. Jennifer’s work as spokeswoman has been superb, and donating some of her time for auction was a tremendous help too.”

  “Yeah. About that… Listen, I know you’re having a rough time, but I’ve got to know. This stuff about you working for the Mafia, is it true?”

  “No. I give you my word, that’s got to be something Lang was doing in secret. This crap is as much a surprise to me as it is to everyone else.”

  There was silence again for a moment or two, and then the publicist said, “Okay. I believe you, Blake. We’ll stick with you…unless it gets so bad we’re in danger of going down with you. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course.” Her call waiting beeped, and Blake said, “Thanks for asking me before deciding what to do. I’d better take this call, though, it may be my attorney.”

  “Sure. Good luck.” The publicist clicked off.

  Much to Blake’s astonishment, caller ID said her next caller was Kenton Rhodes. She pressed Talk and said, “This is Blake.”

  “Hi, Kenton Rhodes here. I’d say good morning, but I have a feeling it isn’t.”

  She gave voice to a mirthless laugh. “You’re so right about that.”

  “I’m calling to let you know that Torres and I discussed the new development last night. You see, usually when our firm has a case that’s going through the federal courts instead of Florida’s, I’m the attorney who handles it. But I can’t represent you, because… Well, you know why, I hope.”

  “Yeah. I get it.” Blake felt stinging tears welling up in her eyes. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll start looking for a new attorney.”

  “Wait! I wasn’t done yet.” Kenton talked faster. “I’m going to call a good friend of mine from law school. She’s one of Florida’s best federal criminal defense attorneys. I’ll ask her to partner with Torres on representing you.” He hesitated and added, “If that’s okay with you, that is.”

  “Oh, Kenton, it’s more than okay! I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for this.” A tear spilled from her right eye as the taxi stopped at the NBC studio, but now it was a warm and gentle tear of relief.

  “I’m glad to help. Listen, I’ve got to get going, and I’m sure you do too, but I’ll be sending you something later. It’s a little video of Lionel that I made last night. He’s putting together a jazz rock band, and they sound really good.”

  Blake smiled. “I can’t wait to see it. Thanks, Kenton.”

  “My pleasure. Keep your chin up.” He clicked off, and Blake went into the studio actually feeling like her luck was turning around at last.

  #

  That feeling was reinforced during her lunch break, when Blake finally looked to see who the winner of the auction for an afternoon with her turned out to be. It was the person who’d chosen to bid anonymously, but now that the auction had ended, the bidder’s identity was revealed: Her afternoon would be spent with Tanaya Steele, a singer and actress who was a current sensation on the pop charts, heartbroken by her father’s death, and desperately needing something that brought pleasure to her life. Tanaya’s feel-good music had certainly done that. But it had definitely been a while since she indulged in anything but jazz.

  “I can’t believe my luck,” Blake confided to Antonio. “Tanaya Steele just paid $72,000 to spend an afternoon with me! I’d pay that much to spend an afternoon with her!”

  Antonio lowered his Ray-Bans. “You might want to call her and schedule the meeting. She’s waited all night and all morning to hear from you, already.”

  “Jesus, you’re right.” Blake tried to tap Tanaya Steele’s phone number into her BlackBerry, but her fingers were trembling with excitement. “Here, could you put the number in for me as I read it out?”

  Antonio dialed the number for her, and as he handed the BlackBerry back to Blake, she heard Tanaya Steele’s unmistakable voice say, “Tanaya Steele talkin’, but who am I talkin’ to?”

  Blake swallowed hard and managed, “Tanaya Steele, this
is Blake Bertrand. Is this a good time to schedule our afternoon?”

  “You bet it is! I’m between jobs for the next couple of weeks, so girl, just choose a day and time and place. I’ll be there.”

  Thinking fast, Blake realized the current week was filled with too many obligations. “Next week sometime? Except for Wednesday, name your preference and I can make it happen.”

  “How about Friday? I’m hoping you’ll feel like dinner when the afternoon ends.”

  “Sounds good! What would you like to do?”

  “Let’s go shopping. This is the only chance I’ll ever get to buy clothes with one of the world’s most beautiful women to give me advice.”

  “You flatter me, but you’re on. Saks Fifth Avenue to start with sound okay to you? About one o’clock?”

  “Girl, it’s a date. I’ll see you there and then!”

  Blake pressed End Call, feeling giddy. Shopping and dinner with Tanaya Steele! Things really are finally getting better for me!

  #

  June 26

  New York, New York

  Wednesday she’d eliminated Nathan Moore from competition in The Takeover, and she’d hustled to do all the mentoring sessions with the remaining nine contestants by noon Friday. At two o’clock she was due to attend the first post-launch board of directors meeting of Mentors & Protégés. She and Antonio ate take-away seafood pad thai from Red Egg for lunch, Blake reviewing her notes for the meeting and Antonio watching the people in Times Square.

  “Hey, Blake. Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been wondering something.”

  She looked up from the Docs2Go file she’d been studying on her BlackBerry. “What’s that?”

  Antonio’s eyes were unreadable behind his Ray-Bans. “Have you seen or heard anything out of Brett Skeet this week?”

  Blake shook her head. “No, only that he’s called out sick every day.”

  “That’s odd.” Antonio finished off his meal and tossed the empty carton in a nearby street corner garbage can.

  “You think so? I figured he’s just working some new scam and can’t be bothered to show up for errand-boy wages.”

  Shaking his head, Antonio said, “Not like his type. Con artists who’ve found a better gig either quit a low-paying job or do a disappearing act. They don’t keep calling in sick unless they’re trying to hang onto the job until something better comes along.”

  “Well, he’d better be at work Monday or have a doctor call to confirm he’s not able to come to work yet. NBC won’t hold his job open forever. Just too many other people who’d be glad to get it.”

  Blake finished her lunch, tossed her empty carton in the garbage, and she and Antonio walked to the hotel room where she’d rented a conference room for the meeting. Thomas Mills sat at the conference table, Robin Love by his side. He beckoned Blake to him as soon as she entered the room, and she forced herself not to smile.

  “Since we have a few minutes before the meeting starts, I just thought I’d ask,” Thomas said. “Have you got a plan to make the Wishman Spears profitable in a year?”

  For answer, Blake dropped a thick manila envelope on the table in front of Thomas with a thunk that echoed in the room. “All the details are there, plus six months’ worth of advance booking requests for when it’s open for business. I sent copies to the other investment partners yesterday by overnight mail. You can spend the weekend discussing among yourselves.”

  “Hi, Blake,” said Robin.

  “Weird acoustics in this room,” said Blake. “Sometimes it’s like you hear someone talking when there’s nobody there.”

  Robin bit her lip to keep from crying as Blake began speaking to the board of directors. Blake felt a pang of remorse, but she told herself, I told her to stay away from Margot’s husband. She made her choice, and she can live with the consequences.

  #

  After the meeting ended, Blake found two voicemails waiting for her: one from her bank and one from attorney Enrico Torres. She entered her password to listen to the message, wondering what it could be about. My bank never calls me. They just email me.

  “Ms. Bertrand, we regret to inform you that the FBI has requested that a hold be placed on all transactions you request, until further notice. If you need more information, please call back at—”

  She almost dropped the BlackBerry in her haste to close that message and listen to the one from Torres. “Hi, Blake, Rico Torres here. I’m sorry to tell you this, but this morning my partner on your FBI case tried to deposit the retainer check you mailed to her. Her bank informed her that there’s a freeze on all your accounts and assets—”

  “Fucking hell.”

  One week of good luck, and now there’s line of people waiting their turn to screw me over. Again. When will this shit ever end?

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  June 27

  New York, New York

  Blake sat at her desk after breakfast, her wallet removed from her purse, counting her cash. She’d always kept a few thousand dollars in currency handy, just in case of emergencies. Not enough to pay the next month’s rent for her New York penthouse apartment, though. Only six thousand dollars stood between Blake Bertrand and a homeless shelter.

  In New York, six thousand dollars didn’t last long at all. Blake had felt helpless before, but never about money.

  Antonio knocked on her door, although it was standing open. She looked up and asked, “Hi, Antonio, what’s up?”

  “I just talked to Blitz Security. You’ve been a great customer, so they’ll let you run a tab for a month while you try to straighten out the FBI.”

  “Well, a month isn’t long, but at least it’s something.” She stared at the wad of Benjamins in her hand and murmured, “It’s looking like that month may be spent sharing a cardboard box in an alley. That’s my biggest worry, just now.”

  “You’ve got some rich and famous friends. Why not ask for some help?”

  “I’d sooner take a dive off the veranda.”

  “That’s foolish, Ms. Bertrand. Most people in this country are just living from one week to the next, one paycheck to the next. Do you think they never ask for help?” He shook his head. “Here you’ve started a charity, and you don’t even know the meaning of the word.”

  Antonio turned around and walked away, leaving Blake lost in thought. Jesus, he’s right. There are places in the world where I could live for years on six thousand dollars. Hell, there are places in this country where I’d be good for a few months. Worrying about how to pay rent is new to me, but it’s how most people live. For a while, she had no idea how long, she sat gawking at her handful of cash as if it were a revelation…which she supposed it was. Nobody should ever be in serious danger of homelessness. Why do we let this shit happen?

  Finally she picked up her BlackBerry and speed-dialed Uncle Thorne. I’ve got to get myself out of this mess first. Then I can work on changing things. When Uncle Thorne answered with a sleepy “Heyyyy, Blake,” she began explaining.

  #

  July 1

  New York, New York

  Thanks to Western Union and Uncle Thorne, Blake had enough money for rent, food, and taxis for July and August. Her six-month lease expired then, and her own and her mother’s Fisher Island condos were prepaid through the end of the year. No, her life was not ideal, but at least she no longer faced homelessness. Too many other Americans couldn’t say the same…as she now realized.

  Brett Skeet had returned to work on Monday, both eyes a vomit-colored mix of yellows and greens and his right arm in a sling. Someone had obviously given him one hell of a beating. Blake knew how that felt, thanks to Lang. In spite of everything, she wanted to tell Brett that he had her sympathy, even share tips she’d learned for relieving pain and speeding healing. Regretfully, she reached the conclusion that she couldn’t risk feeling so much pity for him that she gave him access to her again. So, although it took all her willpower to resist, she didn’t speak to him.

  However, after filming of the fou
rth elimination on Wednesday, in which Blake told Miguel Lopez to punch out the clock, Vanessa and Jerome requested a private meeting with her. As soon as the door to Vanessa’s office was shut, Blake warned them, “If you’re repeating your suggestion that I plan for Gabby Truitt to win, I’m still determined to award the win to whoever deserves it most.”

  “No, no, that’s not it at all!” In spite of his protest, Jerome seemed to be trying to melt into his chair.

  “We just wanted to give you a heads-up about Brett Skeet,” explained Vanessa. “First he was absent all week, last week. Maybe it’s not his fault someone obviously beat the shit out of him, but still without him we were short-staffed. Yesterday, though, he did something unforgivable. We’re firing him this afternoon. You asked us to give him a job, so we thought you’d like to know we can’t keep him anymore, and why.”

  Blake bowed her head, consumed by pity for Brett and angry at herself for feeling that way. “What did he do yesterday?”

  Jerome leaned closer to her and whispered, “He told an advertising rep to go fuck himself.”

  “Not just any advertiser, either. One of the top companies buying ad time during broadcast of The Takeover,” clarified Vanessa.

  “FedEx,” Jerome added.

  She ran a hand through her hair, needing the release of frustration. “I appreciate the warning. But maybe I should tell him, since I’m the reason he’s been working here at all.”

  Vanessa and Jerome exchanged glances, giving the idea consideration. Finally Vanessa said, “Yes, do that. I don’t mind being spared the hassle, that’s for sure.”

  Blake nodded, got to her feet, and with Antonio following her, she left Vanessa’s office in search of Brett. She found him in the studio break room, sharing a table with Gabby Truitt. That startled Blake for a moment, but even more surprising was that Brett was eating what appeared to be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He’s economizing. Shit, this is going to suck elephant turds.

  She stood in the doorway and waited for Brett and Gabby to notice her presence. They were whispering to each other, but Blake couldn’t make out any of the words. She wished Suki were there. The martial artist had such keen ears. They seemed supernatural.