Blood Money js-10

by James Grippando

  “You mean Celeste’s roommate?” asked Andie.

  “Yeah. The girl who went to the detention center with her on the night of Sydney Bennett’s release. Her story has completely unraveled.”

  “How so?”

  “She told Faith Corso on the air that she and Celeste had just come from a Sydney Bennett look-alike contest at Club Vertigo on South Beach. We called the club manager. It turns out that the contest was canceled. Never happened.”

  Jack and Andie exchanged glances. Andie followed up with the detective: “Why would she lie about that?”

  “She was covering for her friend,” said Rivera.

  “Covering up what?” asked Andie.

  “It took me a while to get it out of her, but she finally admitted it this morning. Despite all the accusations that BNN reporters were making things up, it turns out that somebody did, in fact, hire Celeste Laramore to go to the women’s detention center that night.”

  “Hire her-why?” asked Andie.

  “Celeste’s friend doesn’t know why,” said Rivera, “but it’s at least plausible that it’s just like BNN reported it. Celeste got paid a thousand bucks to show up and make people think she was Sydney Bennett. She was a diversion to stir things up and draw the crowd’s attention so that Sydney could slip away.”

  “That’s just not true,” said Jack.

  Andie gestured, telling Jack to stay out of it. Then she put another question to Rivera: “Did Celeste’s friend tell you who put up the money?”

  “She doesn’t know, and we’re still trying to find out. Mr. Swyteck, you got any ideas?”

  “I told you it’s not true,” said Jack.

  “Don’t get defensive,” said Rivera. “I didn’t accuse you. I asked if you had any idea who might have done it.”

  Again, Jack’s first thought was the man who had met Sydney at Opa-locka Executive Airport. But he still didn’t trust Rivera. “No, I don’t have any leads,” said Jack.

  “Well, if any names come to mind, you be sure to let us know.”

  “Will do,” Jack said.

  Rivera had to take another call, so Andie thanked him and hung up. Jack was thinking about his case against BNN, but even his best poker face couldn’t stop Andie from reading his mind.

  “You already told the Laramores that you would take their case, didn’t you?” Her question sounded more like a statement.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You seriously plan to sue BNN?”

  “Yup.”

  Andie tucked her phone into her purse, then gave him a troubled look. “You like the publicity, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She glanced toward the playing field, as if measuring her words, then looked right at Jack. “When we got engaged, you weren’t such a publicity hound. Tell me what’s going on?”

  “Andie, this isn’t about the publicity.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. If it weren’t about the publicity, you would have done the legwork, just like Rivera did. You would have talked to Celeste Laramore’s friend and realized that this is not a good case.”

  “Hannah did call her. She wouldn’t talk to us.”

  “Didn’t that tell you something?”

  “Yeah, it tells me I need to file a lawsuit so I can get a subpoena issued and take her deposition. That truth is, it doesn’t matter if Celeste was hired to be a Sydney Bennett look-alike. The fact that she voluntarily put herself into an angry crowd might be an issue if we sue the correctional facility for providing inadequate security, but it doesn’t excuse what BNN did to her after she got hurt.”

  “Exactly what did BNN do?”

  “I can’t get into details. The judge issued a gag order before we could even file the complaint-which should only prove to you that I’m not doing this case for the publicity.”

  “Fine. It’s not about publicity. The real issue-like always-is the clients you choose to represent.”

  “Are you comparing Celeste Laramore to accused criminals now?”

  “No. But Celeste obviously has something to hide. Don’t you think you should know her secrets before you haul off and file a lawsuit against one of the biggest media companies in the world?”

  “You’re not hearing me, Andie. For purposes of our claim against BNN, it wouldn’t matter if Celeste Laramore had gone to that parking lot to set the building on fire and steal a getaway car. Once she got hurt, BNN had no right to interfere with her getting the medical treatment she needed.”

  “Well, you’re the lawyer. But this can’t help your case.”

  “There’s no such thing as a perfect client. Unless you’re a probate lawyer.”

  “I just don’t want you to end up looking foolish.”

  “If I tried to unravel every surprise before filing a lawsuit, I’d never file a lawsuit.”

  “I’m not talking about every surprise. Damn it, Jack. Do you think it’s fun for me to turn on the television and watch the commentators make fun of you? I’ve never told you this, but every time Faith Corso blasts you, I get e-mails from other agents. The last one came from the head of our public-corruption unit and said something like ‘Looks like “MISTER Andie Henning” stepped in it again.’”

  “Cop humor,” said Jack. “Lovely.”

  “Fine. Dismiss it. But I don’t see why you can’t at least check this out before you file.”

  Jack was already committed to the case, but there was no need to be a cowboy, even when trying to help a twenty-year-old college student in a coma. This was going to be a very public fight, and a little more sensitivity to the impact on the people in his life wasn’t too much for Andie to ask. “All right. It can’t hurt to make one more run at Celeste’s roommate before the complaint is filed,” he said as he dialed Hannah’s number.

  “You’re suing BNN today?”

  “And Faith Corso.”

  “Oh, my God,” Andie said, groaning.

  Hannah was on the line. She was riding in an open convertible, yelling into her cell above the wind noise, which forced Jack to hold the phone a comfortable distance from his ear, even if it did mean that Andie could overhear. “I was just about to call you with an update,” Hannah shouted.

  “Has the complaint been filed yet?” asked Jack.

  “Yessiree. Filed under seal this morning at nine-oh-five. BNN was served at nine thirty.”

  Jack was silent.

  “Jack?” said Hannah. “Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  Jack looked at Andie. The glare she shot back at him could have melted steel. Professionally speaking, he was perfectly fine with letting the lawsuit go forward. The question was how to deal with the personal reality that his fiancee clearly wasn’t.

  “Yeah,” Jack said into the phone. “Everything is just dandy.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jack took an afternoon ride into Little Havana.

  Every available minute after his meeting with Andie had been devoted to legal work for paying clients, but at two P.M. he had a follow-up with Rene, who had promised there was more to the case against BNN. He needed all the ammunition he could get. He took Theo with him, knowing that if he was to stay off the FBI’s “unwanted” list, there should be no more one-on-one meetings with old girlfriends.

  Theo drove with his usual disregard for speed limits. They reached San Lazaro’s Cafe fifteen minutes ahead of schedule and grabbed the same table that Jack and Rene had shared, the old map of Cuba right behind Jack’s head. Theo ordered a double espresso. Jack’s adrenaline was already pumping, no need for any more caffeine.

  “Where’s Bejucal?” asked Theo, studying the map on the wall.

  Bejucal was the birthplace of Jack’s mother. He turned and pointed. “Right outside Havana. I’m impressed you remembered it.”

  “Got a history lesson from Abuela the night you were in the emergency room.”

  “Really. How did that come up?

  “Mos
tly her carrying on about how the threat against ‘someone you love’ couldn’t possibly mean her.” Theo put on a sad face, speaking in Abuela’s broken English. “Jack no call me. He no visit. Mi vida no love me no more.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. I call her every day.”

  Theo chuckled as he stirred a pack of sugar into his cup. Jack loosened his tie, reached inside his collar, and massaged his neck. The bruises were fading, but it still hurt at times.

  “You packin’ a Glock these days?” said Theo.

  “No.”

  “I am. Just give me the word, dude. I’ll find that guy and give him a lot more than a pain in the neck.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I’m leaving things to the FBI. For the time being, anyway. But now that you mention it, there is someone I need to track down.”

  “Who?”

  “This morning I found out that someone actually did hire Celeste Laramore to show up at the detention center looking like Sydney.”

  “No shit?”

  “Totally serious. I spoke to Ben Laramore on the phone over the lunch hour, and he fully believes that it wasn’t me who hired her. But we agreed that we need to find out who did. I was thinking you could maybe help with that.”

  “You want me to interview a girl in a coma?”

  “No, moron.”

  “Cuz I can do it, you know. Had many a conversation with your ex-wife.”

  “Low blow, Theo. There was a guy who flew out of Opa-locka with Sydney. You got any contacts over there?”

  “Opa-locka,” Theo said, searching. “A buddy of mine got arrested flying in there from the Bahamas with about two kilos of-”

  “That’s not the kind of contact I’m talking about.”

  “Actually, it is, dude. Lobo-that’s what we call him. It means ‘wolf.’”

  “I know what it means. I speak some Spanish.”

  “Not according to your grandmother.”

  “Will you back off, please?”

  “Anyway, Lobo took the rap himself, refused to cut a deal and testify against a half dozen dudes who worked in baggage. They love him. Even better, they owe him.”

  “Could be promising,” said Jack. “See what you can find out.”

  “No problem.”

  Jack checked his watch. Ten minutes past two. “Hope I’m not being stood up.”

  Theo was actually quiet for a minute or two, which Jack savored. Until his cell rang. It was his new iPhone-he’d cut himself loose from the old one and its spyware over the lunch hour-so he almost didn’t recognize the ring tone. But he did immediately recognize the incoming number. It wasn’t entirely rational, but the mere sight of it made Jack feel like a cheater.

  “It’s Andie,” he said.

  Theo snorted so hard he nearly coughed up his espresso.

  “Quiet,” Jack said, and he answered. “Hey, sweetheart. How are you?”

  “Thank God you answered,” she said, her voice filled with urgency. “Where are you?”

  “Little Havana. Having coffee. Just me and Theo.” Literally true, but the obvious omission made him feel even more like a cheater.

  “Get in the car and meet me at the medical examiner’s office.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Listen to me. Don’t stop anywhere or for anyone on the way.”

  “Did something happen to Celeste?”

  “Don’t even stop at traffic lights if you can avoid them.”

  “Damn it! I didn’t think she needed a guard so long as she was in the ICU.”

  “Jack, I don’t care if this is your new phone, that’s all I can say on your line.”

  Of course it was. Nothing short of surrendering his privacy to the FBI would make an FBI agent trust the security of his phone lines.

  “Just go!” said Andie.

  “Right,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The medical examiner’s office is in the Joseph H. Davis Center for Forensic Pathology, a three-building complex on the perimeter of the University of Miami Medical Center campus and Jackson Memorial Hospital. Typical for midafternoon, the campus was bustling with activity, people headed to the spine institute, the eye institute, and other world-class specialists. Theo nearly flattened a line of them as his car sped through the crosswalk and into the parking lot, only to lose a race with an SUV for what seemed like the last remaining parking spot in Miami-Dade County. Theo jumped out of his car and threatened to pick up and physically remove the two-thousand-pound intruder that had taken the parking space that was rightfully his. Jack didn’t have time to mediate the argument. He jumped out and ran to the main entrance. The guard buzzed him in, and Jack hurried across the lobby to reception.

  “I’m here to meet Agent Andie Henning,” he said, winded from the run. “Jack Swyteck’s my name.”

  “Wait here, please. I’ll let the doctor know.”

  Jack was tempted to burst through the locked door to find Andie himself, but he didn’t need B amp;E charges added to his list of troubles. There was a couch in the waiting room, but he was too wired to sit. He dug his cell phone from his pocket. He’d been trying to reach Ben Laramore since leaving the coffee shop. He dialed again. Same result. No answer. It probably didn’t help that the phone number flashing on Laramore’s display screen was Jack’s new number, as yet unknown to Ben. Jack had told him not to answer any calls from strange numbers, as it might be the media-or worse.

  Jack took a seat and caught his breath. A trip to the medical examiner’s office wasn’t exactly a daily occurrence for a criminal defense lawyer, not even for one who defended death row inmates. It had nonetheless been only a matter of weeks since Jack’s most recent visit; it was on the eve of Sydney Bennett’s trial.

  Jack had vehemently opposed the disinterment of Emma Bennett’s remains, but the prosecution had convinced the judge to overrule his objection. It was “regrettable but necessary,” the judge had stated in his ruling. As of that pretrial stage of the case, the defense had offered nothing in the way of scientific evidence to counter the prosecution’s theory: that Emma Bennett’s late-night crying was simply too much for a party-minded mother who didn’t get home from the clubs until after one A.M.; that Emma’s grandmother had refused to babysit past two A.M.; and that in a drunken fit of rage, Sydney Bennett had snapped sometime before dawn, yanked her crying two-year-old child out of bed, and slapped or suffocated her into a state of unconsciousness, only to wake the next morning and find Emma not breathing. In the judge’s view, the state had demonstrated a “compelling need” to reexamine the body in order to counter the defendant’s eleventh-hour change of position-Sydney’s newly minted claim as to the “real” cause and manner of Emma’s death.

  Jack’s ensuing visit to the medical examiner’s office was one that he would never forget.

  Torrents of icy air gushed from the air-conditioning vents in the ceiling, making the autopsy room so cold that Jack almost had to remind himself that he was still in Florida. Bright lights glistened off the white sterile walls and buffed tile floors. Jack watched through the discerning eyes of a criminal defense lawyer as an assistant medical examiner led him to the small mound beneath a white sheet on a stainless steel table. Dr. Hugo Flynn, a pathologist, was waiting beside the table. Flynn was the expert witness for the defense.

  “I think you’ll find this very interesting,” said Dr. Flynn.

  The assistant stepped aside to observe from a distance, far enough away so that Jack and Dr. Flynn could talk without being overheard by a government employee. Flynn adjusted the spotlight and took hold of the corner of the sheet.

  “Now, be forewarned,” he told Jack. “As you know, the body was hidden in the Everglades before it was discovered and given a proper burial. According to the autopsy report, there were no internal organs, very little of the shell of the torso remaining. Much of that was lost to predators. We are now adding to that the natural effects of almo
st three years of decomposition in the grave.”

  “So. . what remains?”

  “Bones. Hair. Teeth.”

  He pulled back the lower corner of the sheet. Dr. Flynn’s powers of concentration were such that his bushy gray eyebrows had pinched together and formed one continuous caterpillar that stretched across his brow. Whatever he was examining did not even resemble a human body part to Jack, which made him uneasy. The fact that these remains were those of a child made it that much worse.

  “What do you see?” asked Jack.

  The doctor took a step back and sighed deeply. “The first thing you have to understand,” said Dr. Flynn, “is that even when the corpse is fresh, drowning cannot be proven by autopsy. It is a diagnosis of exclusion, based on the circumstances of death.”

  “Emma Bennett’s death has some pretty vague circumstances.”

  “Yes, it does. And her remains are indeed minimal.”

  “So in your process of diagnosis by exclusion, what does that tell you, Doctor?”

  “Not much. There is really not enough for me to rule out every other possible cause of death. But we do have something to hang our hat on.”

  The doctor laid his iPad on the table and motioned Jack toward him. The image on the screen was right next to the actual remains-to what appeared to be the bones of a small foot.

  “This photograph is from the autopsy report,” said Flynn. “It’s the right foot, the remains of which you see here on the table. Do you see this?” asked Flynn, adjusting the size of the image on the screen.

  “I see it, but I don’t really know what I’m looking at.”

  “As I mentioned, the lungs and internal organs decomposed or were eaten by scavengers while the body lay in the weeds. But as of the time of this photograph, the bottom of one foot was relatively well preserved. The extremities are away from the internal organs, slower decomposition.”

  “I still don’t know what I’m supposed to see.”

  “This photograph shows a rough patch of skin on the bottom of her right foot. And I believe that those striations,” Flynn said as he zoomed the image, “are abrasions.”