Blood Money

by James Grippando

  Chapter Forty-Six

  I don’t want to talk about it.”

  That was all Virginia Laramore said to Jack after the hearing before Judge Burrows. Jack was fine with it, at least until the handful of inquisitive reporters stopped trailing them out of the courthouse, down the granite steps, and to the parking lot. The media coverage wasn’t nearly as extensive as it had been for the Sydney Bennett hearing, but one reporter followed them all the way to the car, asking over and over, “Mrs. Laramore, did you abuse your daughter?” The question was met with silence, punctuated by Jack slamming the driver’s-side door.

  Jack was behind the wheel and turning onto Flagler Street when his client finally opened up.

  “Celeste was adopted.”

  Jack hit the brake, then looked straight at her. “What?”

  “All those medical records are from the time she was with her birth mother. Ben and I adopted her after HRS took her away and she was put in foster care.”

  Jack pulled the car over to the curb and put it in PARK. It wasn’t easy to get tough with a woman whose daughter was in a coma, but Jack was losing patience. “Why didn’t you tell me that? And, for God’s sake, why didn’t you shove it in Ted Gaines’ face when he attacked you like that?”

  “Because Ben and I have never told anyone outside the family that Celeste is adopted. And I’ve never even told Celeste that her birth mother was abusive. I wasn’t about to make that blowhard Ted Gaines the first person to hear it. Especially not on television. Celeste has already made enough headlines for his disgraceful client.”

  Jack couldn’t disagree. “I’m sorry you had to go through that today,” he said.

  “It’s the second worst thing I’ve ever had to deal with.”

  Jack knew the first.

  “Can we get back to the hospital, please? I want to be with Celeste.”

  Jack put the car in gear and drove. Instinct told him that Mrs. Laramore would have preferred to ride in silence, but questions remained, and Jack was running out of time. He’d spoken to Ben Laramore about the visitation records from the women’s detention center and gotten no explanation. He needed to ask again.

  “Why did Celeste visit Sydney Bennett in jail?”

  Mrs. Laramore was looking out the side window. “I’m no more help than Ben on that one. We don’t know.”

  “Why do you think she went? Your best guess.”

  “No idea.”

  “Celeste’s roommate told me that Celeste also visited Neil Goderich, Sydney’s first lawyer. We’ve searched through all Neil’s notes and can’t find a single record of their meeting.”

  “Maybe it never happened.”

  “Can you think of any reason why Celeste would have met with him?”

  “A formality, maybe? She wanted to visit Sydney and needed to clear it with her lawyer. But that’s just a guess.”

  It seemed like a reasonable guess. “But that still doesn’t tell us why she wanted to visit Sydney.”

  “No,” Mrs. Laramore said as she massaged the bridge of her nose. “This is giving me a headache.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to press. This adoption news may be leading me down the wrong path, but it may be the answer to some of the questions I’ve been asking myself. Questions that started with those photographs of Celeste that Ben sent me.”

  “What about them?”

  Jack cut across traffic to take the expressway on-ramp. “There’s a definite transformation in Celeste’s appearance.”

  “She grew up.”

  “No, it’s not just the difference between being seventeen and being twenty. Sydney Bennett was arrested three years ago. That’s when her face first appeared on the news. There’s a vague resemblance between Celeste at age seventeen and Sydney when she was arrested. Over the next three years—as Sydney’s face was more and more on television—the resemblance gets stronger. Mostly due to the way Celeste started wearing her hair, how she wore her makeup.”

  “Are you saying she was trying to look like Sydney?”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? I don’t mean to pry,” said Jack, “but if you’ve never told Celeste that her mother was abusive, you probably haven’t told her much at all about her. Is it possible that Celeste started to wonder?”

  “She never asked me about her.”

  “Did she ask Ben?”

  “Not that he ever told me. But I honestly don’t see where you’re going with this. And could you please drive faster? I really want to get back to the hospital.”

  Jack’s focus on the conversation had dropped his speed well below the limit. He took it up to sixty, which still left him in the slow lane on the busy westbound Dolphin Expressway. They were coming up on the exit for Jackson Memorial Hospital when the real question finally popped out of Jack’s mouth.

  “Virginia, do you know who Celeste’s birth mother was?”

  “No. Ben and I were never foster parents. We came into the picture after the birth mother’s rights were terminated and Celeste’s foster parents decided they couldn’t afford to adopt another child. I got medical information and such, and I think under Florida law I could have gotten the mother’s first name, if I’d wanted it. But the birth mother’s identity was just something I never really wanted to pursue.”

  Jack turned at the Twelfth Street exit, and they stopped at the red light at the end of the ramp. The hospital where Celeste lay in a coma was in sight. Jack glanced at her adoptive mother.

  “I’m thinking it may be time to find out,” he said.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Ted Gaines’ flight landed at LaGuardia Airport a few minutes before nine P.M., just in time to see the Tuesday-evening edition of the Faith Corso Show. He didn’t like what he was seeing.

  “Friends,” said Corso in a somber tone, “it was a dark day for this network in a Miami courtroom today.”

  Dark day?

  Confused, Gaines stepped closer to the flat-screen television that hung by a bracket from the ceiling. He was in Figaro’s, a bar directly across from the gate where his flight from Miami had deplaned.

  Corso continued, “As her twenty-year-old daughter lay in a coma, Virginia Laramore was viciously attacked on the witness stand by prominent attorney Ted Gaines. The issue in the case was simply this: Who caused Celeste Laramore to go into a coma? Of course, we here at BNN deny any responsibility for that tragic course of events. But Mr. Gaines simply went too far. In the worst case of overzealous lawyering I have ever witnessed, he proceeded to accuse Mrs. Laramore of abusing her own child and causing the heart condition that resulted in her slipping into a coma. In support of his attack, he introduced into evidence a series of medical records showing that, before the age of two, Celeste Laramore had visited the emergency room more than two dozen times. Mr. Gaines should be ashamed of himself, and he should have done his homework. My own reporters have investigated this matter, and we have this exclusive story for you, and this important message for Mr. Gaines: Celeste Laramore was adopted, you moron!”

  Gaines shuddered. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

  “Yes,” said Corso, “adopted. Those medical records showing physical abuse were all before Celeste was adopted—‘rescued’ may be a better word for it—by the Laramore family. Now, friends, as I mentioned, Mr. Gaines is the attorney for this network. I’m risking my own job by saying this, but I pray for the sake of the Laramore family and for the sake of Lady Justice that Mr. Gaines will no longer be the lawyer for the network I am proud to call home, the network that prides itself on getting the story right and on doing the right thing—your Breaking News Network.”

  Gaines ground his teeth together, clenched his fists tight, and tried to breathe. The anger inside was more than he could contain. He stepped out of the bar and found a quiet place by the kiosk for a “lids” vendor that sold baseball caps. His hand trembled with anger as he dialed Keating’s private line. The CEO answered as if he were expecting t
he call.

  “How goes it, Ted?”

  “You son of a bitch, you set me up.”

  “Well, hold on there, counselor.”

  “Hold on, my ass. It wasn’t my idea to go after Virginia Laramore as an abusive parent. You wanted it. You gave me the records. You said your investigator checked it out. That was all a lie. You knew all along that Celeste was adopted, didn’t you?”

  “Now, why would I do that to you, Ted?”

  “Why? What better reason to ruin a trial lawyer’s hard-earned reputation than to manufacture ten minutes of self-righteous glory for Faith Corso on national television?”

  “That was awfully brave of Faith, wasn’t it?” Keating said smugly. “To risk her job and call on her own network to fire its high-priced lawyer?”

  “It was staged.”

  “It’s all staged,” Keating fired back. “You know that better than anyone.”

  “I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing. But I’m done with it. I quit.”

  “Too late,” said Keating. “Check your e-mail. A letter went out from my office two minutes ago dismissing you from the case.”

  Gaines moved away from the kiosk and the businessman who was checking out a Yankees cap. “You are as low as they come,” Gaines said, hissing into the phone. “Is there anyone you won’t destroy in the name of entertainment?”

  “My mother died six years ago. So the answer is no. Good luck to you, Mr. Gaines.”

  The call ended.

  Gaines shoved the phone into the pocket of his blazer and turned around to check the TV inside Figaro’s. He was standing too far away to hear, but it took little imagination to figure out what Faith Corso was saying. His photograph—not a flattering one—was on the screen directly above the BREAKING NEWS banner. Bold red letters ran diagonally across his face.

  FIRED, it read.

  He closed his eyes in disbelief. You fool, Gaines. You complete fool.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Sydney Bennett’s pulse pounded, her heart racing at better than two beats per second, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. Darkness was her friend, really. It made her harder to find. But each night her mind played tricks on her, the slightest noise setting her off in a fit of panic.

  She crouched low behind the overgrown bushes, her back to a wall of rough stucco, her knees to her chin, all too aware of the sound of her own breathing.

  Quiet!

  She was soaking wet, shoeless, and wearing only a T-shirt and underwear. She’d sprinted all the way from the swimming pool, across a parking lot, and down the sidewalk a good two hundred yards before ducking into the bushes. Voices on the other side of the wood fence around the pool area had freaked her out in the middle of an improvised bath. For the past two days she’d been hiding in a vacant townhouse at Whispering Pines, one of those gated communities where all the units looked exactly alike. It was a brand-new development, but not a single one of the three dozen townhomes had ever been occupied. South Florida was littered with empty developments like this one, residential ghost towns, the remnants of a reckless build, build, build spree that had swept developers into bankruptcy, buyers into foreclosure, and big banks into bailouts. Much of Whispering Pines had fallen into disrepair, overrun by weeds and mold. Some units were at least minimally maintained, the owners apparently clinging to the hope that the market might someday rebound, but even after seven broken windows Sydney couldn’t find a single one that had running water. The developer or the bank or whoever owned the property was keeping up the clubhouse, however, so the slightly green pool was her bathtub.

  What was that?

  She heard the voice again, the one that had scared her off from the pool. A man’s voice.

  Merselus?

  She couldn’t tell if it was him, but she knew he was after her, that he’d never stop until he found her. The man was relentless. Obsessed. Maybe even crazy. Though he could also be convincing, even charming. He’d certainly fooled Sydney. He had a business card, a résumé, and enough money to rent a private airplane. He also had a plan. He’d led her to believe that the plan was to sell her book, make a movie, and make Sydney Bennett a star. It was all a ruse. If she’d had Internet access in the detention center she could have probably figured out that his talent agency was nonexistent, that he’d never actually sold the books and movies he’d claimed to have sold, that his plan for Sydney was something else entirely.

  There it is again!

  Sydney held her breath, willing herself into silence. No movement. No sound. Completely still. She knew she could do it. She’d controlled her fears enough to fool him once before.

  It had been just their second night together. After a short flight to Palm Beach County, Merselus had taken her to a beach house in Manalapan that, he said, belonged to “a wealthy client” who was discreet enough never to tell the media where Sydney was hiding. It was paradise: her own room, a king-size bed, a view of the ocean, and a private bathroom that was bigger than the cell she’d lived in for the past three years. Merselus stocked the refrigerator with all her favorite food and whatever she wanted to drink. He was a perfect gentleman—until he woke her at three A.M. It was as if he’d written a script and somehow expected her to know it. He’d started with controlled aggression, but pure anger took over as she flubbed her next line, didn’t do what he’d scripted, didn’t go wild with excitement, didn’t play the part of the sex-starved jailbird who craved the way he ripped off her panties, grabbed her crotch, and rubbed her raw. The way he squeezed and pulled at the base of her breasts, as if he were trying to rip them from her body. The way he’d tried to force his whole hand deep inside her, as if she were yearning for more than any one woman could possibly handle. And when his other hand slipped up around her throat, she’d managed to strike back with what little nails she had, short prison nails, carving a deep red line across his face. It only made him crazier, angrier, more brutal. Suddenly, both of his hands were tight around her neck, there was no way to breathe, and Sydney was certain that she was going to die as the intense pounding inside her head and unbearable pressure behind her eyes gave way to blackness.

  I hear it.

  Footsteps on the abandoned sidewalks of Whispering Pines—they were getting louder. Someone was approaching.

  Don’t move, don’t run.

  It was the same strategy she’d employed in that bedroom in the beach house after she’d regained consciousness—lie there on the bed, completely still, pretending that she’d yet to recover from Merselus and his attack. And then when she was certain that he’d left the bedroom and gone to sleep . . .

  Run!

  Sydney leaped from her hiding spot behind the bushes and started to sprint down the sidewalk. A scream cut through the darkness, and Sydney ran even faster. There were footsteps behind her, but they were fading, not following. She stopped and turned.

  What the hell?

  She narrowed her eyes, struggling to see in the moonlight. It was kids—some punks on summer vacation looking for a secluded place to share a bottle of vodka and have a party.

  Sydney hunched over, hands on her knees. She was exhausted, tired of running, tired of living in fear of Merselus, tired of taking baths in a fucking green swimming pool.

  She caught her breath, stood up, and headed back to the pool area to collect her dirty clothes.

  Girl, you gotta find a pay phone.

  Jack stared at the television screen, speechless. The Faith Corso Show had reached a new low, if that was possible. Still, Jack had to dig very deep inside himself even to begin to feel sorry for Ted Gaines.

  “He deserves it,” said Andie.

  They were watching together on the couch, Andie leaning against his shoulder. Abuela was in the kitchen cooking enough ropa vieja to last him six months.

  “I need to call the Laramores,” said Jack. “They need to know the adoption is public.”

  “Try to make Mrs. Laramore see it as a positive,” said Andie. “I kn
ow this is something they didn’t want blasted all over the television. But it needed to come out, after the accusations Ted Gaines made against her.”

  “That’s the way to spin it, I guess.”

  “Don’t think of it as spin. You’re just doing the best you can.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jack reached for the phone, then paused. Andie herself had been adopted, and even though they’d talked about it before, Jack had been reluctant to mix the Laramore situation with hers. But any insights into shortcuts on finding a birth mother would be useful at this point.

  “I have this long-shot theory about Celeste,” he started to say, but it was interrupted again by what was becoming a familiar string of profanities with rhythm—Theo’s ringtone. Jack still had his phone. He picked it up and checked the number.

  UNKNOWN, the screen said, which gave Jack even more reason to answer.

  “This is Jack.”

  “It’s me,” she said, and he knew immediately it was Sydney.

  “Are you on a cell?” he asked.

  “No. Pay phone.” Jack could hear the traffic noise in the background.

  “Do you have a cell?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Merselus gave me an iPhone when he met me at the airport, but I’m sure that’s just so he could listen to every call I make.”

  “That’s perfect.”

  “No, it’s not perfect,” she said, her voice trembling. “I don’t even turn the damn thing on because I know he can track me with GPS.”

  “Listen to me, Sydney. I’m going to put Andie on in a minute. She can tell you how to disarm the GPS tracking. And then you’re going to turn that phone on.”

  “What? No! He is going to find me, and he is going to kill me!”

  “Merselus is not going to find you. We are going to find him.”

  “How?”

  “You need to do exactly what I tell you to do,” said Jack.

  Chapter Forty-Nine