Blood Money (29 page)
Authors: James Grippando
G
o!” shouted Merselus as he yanked open the apartment door.
Three clean-through bullet holes in the chest-high door panels marked his response to the police officer’s knock. He was certain that at least one of those shots had hit the mark. The fact that there was no body to step over told him that the downed officer had been dragged to safety by his partner. Merselus kept Sydney directly in front of him, his human shield, as they exploded through the open doorway and into the night.
“Run, run, run!” He was pushing her from behind, almost faster than she could move her feet, and with each word he squeezed off another round in the direction of the patrol car for cover. There was no return fire, surely for fear of hitting the hostage. As they approached the car, Sydney tripped at the curb and fell hard onto the asphalt. Merselus fired two more rounds at the squad car as he flung open the car door. Then he lifted Sydney from the ground, using the bindings behind her back like a handle as he shoved her across the driver’s side and over to the passenger seat. Sydney crouched low, her head below the dashboard.
“Stay up!” he shouted, pulling her toward him on the seat. A hostage in the line of fire was his best shot at getting the police to hold their fire.
The car started quickly, and the engine revved as Merselus backed out of the parking spot so fast that Sydney lunged forward and banged her head on the radio. Merselus pulled her up, back into her shield position. The tires screeched and the car raced across the parking lot toward the main exit. He was almost to Miami Avenue when a lone police officer jumped into the path of his vehicle and assumed the marksman’s pose. Merselus jerked the wheel from left to right, putting the car in serpentine mode to prevent the cop from getting a clear shot at the driver. He accelerated enough to send a message that vehicular homicide wasn’t just a bluff. Sydney screamed as the speeding car bore down on the officer, but at the final moment the cop dived behind a parked car without firing a shot. The car fishtailed as they squealed out of the parking lot and turned onto Miami Avenue.
An ambulance raced toward them as they sped away. If it was for the old man in apartment 102, they were too late. If it was for Officer Knock-Knock, they might arrive in time.
“Just let me go, please,” said Sydney.
Merselus almost chuckled. “Yeah. Like that’s gonna happen.”
T
he white sedan was a blur as it sped past the vacant warehouse on South Miami Avenue. The nearest law enforcement vehicle in the area was the FBI communications van, just two buildings downriver.
“Let’s go!” shouted Andie as she jumped into the passenger seat. She activated the siren and the blue police beacon on the dash. Her partner was behind the wheel. The van roared out of the parking lot, and the not-yet-buckled tech agent in the back of the van slammed into his wall of equipment as the van squealed around the corner.
“Shit, guys!” he said as he climbed up from the floor and into his seat.
Andie got on the radio, no time to apologize.
“In pursuit of late-model white Chevrolet sedan headed north on South Miami Avenue toward Flagler,” Andie said into the microphone. “Subject is armed and dangerous. Appears to have at least one adult female hostage with him. Identity unconfirmed, but possibly Sydney Bennett. Request perimeter control to block all arteries and expressway on-ramps east of I-95 between Northwest Eighth Street and Southwest Third Street. Raise all drawbridges between Northwest Fifth Street and Brickell Avenue.”
“Copy that,” came the reply.
Andie hung the mic in its cradle and then unbuckled her seat belt long enough to put on a Kevlar vest—just in case.
City blocks are short in downtown Miami, and the van raced through one intersection after another, the siren blaring. The western edge of downtown was definitely not a pedestrian area after midnight, especially on weekdays. Storefronts were dark, many of them barricaded with roll-down shutters of corrugated metal. Streets and sidewalks were empty, scarcely a parked or moving car in sight. North-south traffic signals were programmed for long green lights—not that a red light or anything else would have stopped Merselus.
Four blocks ahead of them, the Chevy made a sudden turn east on Flagler Street.
“I think we got him,” Andie’s partner said.
Unless Merselus planned to jump the curb and drive through Bayfront Park straight into the bay, he would have to go left or right at the T-shaped intersection at the east end of Flagler Street, taking Biscayne Boulevard either north or south. Just as Andie radioed for additional backup, the Chevy made a hard left turn into an empty parking lot, cutting north toward the Miami-Dade College campus. The FBI van did the same, maintaining pursuit due north, weaving around the concrete parking bumpers in the empty lot.
“He’s headed straight for a fence.”
Just as the words crossed Andie’s lips, the Chevy crashed through a chain-link fence at the end of the parking lot and careened to the right. Broken metal fence posts and an entire section of chain link lay strewn across the asphalt, and the van bumped and rolled over it as they drove through the hole in the fence. They were suddenly on brick pavers, not asphalt, speeding down an empty pedestrian-only walkway in the heart of the urban campus. The FBI van was quickly gaining ground.
“I think he’s got a flat,” said Andie.
They’d closed the gap to less than a half block when the Chevy stopped so short that the orange taillights rose another foot from the ground. Merselus had reached a dead end: the three-foot-high, in-ground security posts that normally stopped vehicles from coming the other way, from the street to the pedestrian walkway. The driver’s-side door flew open, and Merselus fired at the van as he ran from his vehicle. There was a loud pop and starburst crack in the windshield as a bullet whizzed through the space between Andie and her driver, and the van screeched to a halt.
“Are you hit?” Andie shouted to the tech agent in the back.
“No.”
“Check on the hostage!” Andie shouted to her partner as they hopped out of the van.
With weapon drawn Andie ran past the school auditorium, past the half-block-long lecture hall, and down a narrow side street, pursuing Merselus on foot. She was closing in on him and had him in sight as he ran across the street. He stopped to try the door to the McDonald’s, and for a brief instant Andie feared a hostage situation, but the restaurant was closed and the doors were locked. He turned and ran up the block, then disappeared into an alley across from the campus. Andie’s legs were pumping at full speed, but she came to a quick stop at the alley’s entrance. It was a narrow opening, barely wide enough for a single vehicle to pass between the five-story buildings on either side. She stood to one side, her back to the wall. Winded from the all-out sprint, Andie had no choice but to breathe in the stench of an overloaded Dumpster that filled the warm night air. She was still wired for communication with the van, and as she caught her breath, she whispered an update on Merselus.
“Subject entered alley east side of First Avenue, twenty yards south of McDonald’s restaurant.”
With her back still pressed to the wall, she turned her head just enough to peer cautiously into the dark alley. It stretched less than fifty yards from end to end, with only two street openings—the entrance Merselus had taken, and the exit at the opposite end, which fed into a Metromover station. Andie spotted just one streetlight about halfway down, but it was burned out. The moonlight did little more than create confusing shadows in what seemed like a black tunnel. Slowly, Andie’s eyes adjusted, and the alley’s transformation from mere shadows to recognizable objects began. Keeping close to the wall and her gun at the ready, Andie entered with caution. She was ten feet into the darkness when she stopped and listened.
A siren wailed in the distance. Multiple sirens. Backup was on the way. But by the time they arrived, Merselus might be long gone.
Leading with her gun, crouched in the marksman pose, she stepped deeper into the darkness, one tentative step at a time. Bars covered the windows and doors that faced the alley, blocking off escape routes, telling her that Merselus was still somewhere in the alley. She heard a noise from behind the Dumpster. Quickly, without making a sound, she moved to the wall, took cover behind a telephone pole, and waited. Her heart pounded. The sirens in the distance grew louder. Suddenly, a squad car pulled up and blocked the opposite end of the alley. Flashes of amber from the police beacon bathed the dark alley, and Andie could hear the MDPD officer key the loudspeaker.
“Police! Put your hands up and—”
A barrage of gunfire echoed in the alley—Merselus’ response to the police command. With his intended escape route blocked by a squad car, his only way out was to turn around and exit the way both he and Andie had entered. Merselus continued firing at the police as he pivoted and ran down the alley—away from the squad car and toward Andie.
“FBI, freeze!” Andie shouted.
Merselus was squarely in her sights until, suddenly, she couldn’t see anything—not for the darkness, but for the burst of brightness from a police spotlight. It was from the same squad car that had sealed off the end of the alley and had sent Merselus running toward her. He was still coming at her, and the blinding beam of white light stretched like a laser all the way down the alley from the squad car, hitting him in the back and Andie squarely in the face. On the run, Merselus turned his fire in Andie’s direction. Andie had some protection behind the telephone pole, but the spotlight robbed her of any serious ability to hide. Chunks of the wood pole splintered off as Merselus fired without pause at the only law enforcement officer between him and his escape.
Andie wanted to return fire, but she couldn’t see well enough to take a shot at a moving target. Staring into the spotlight, she was more likely to miss Merselus and hit the police at the other end of the alley with a stray bullet.
Merselus was approaching hard and fast, so close now that Andie could hear the pounding of his footfalls on the pavement. The alley was ablaze with the high-powered spotlight, and Andie was within twenty feet of an armed serial killer, unable to see her target. In another moment he’d be on her, and if Andie didn’t act fast she knew she’d be his hostage or dead. Two more of his bullets grazed the wooden pole she was hiding behind. When a third round cracked the brick wall beside her, Andie dived from behind her cover and logrolled to the center of the alley, coming to a stop on her stomach. In one continuous motion, she raised her Sig Sauer and took aim from a worm’s-eye view—a completely different angle that took the blinding spotlight out of her line of sight—and squeezed off a single round. She heard one last gunshot, followed by an unmistakable thud on the pavement.
She was eye to eye with Merselus as the alley went eerily silent.
J
ack’s front lawn was aglow with the flash and swirl of blue and amber beacons. An MDPD squad car was behind Jack’s car in the driveway. An assistant deputy sheriff opened the rear door, and Ellen Bennett climbed into the backseat without resistance, her head down and her hands cuffed behind her back.
Parked on the street in front of Jack’s house was an ambulance, though it wasn’t needed. This was a job for the medical examiner’s office, and the ME’s team was already on the scene. A white sheet covered Geoffrey Bennett’s body on the lawn, and the ME’s gurney was on the walkway, ready to receive the so-called victim.
Jack avoided using that word—
victim
—in his witness statement to the police. He was standing on his front porch with the first officer on the scene, recounting the worst night of his life. Or at least one of them.
“Just to be clear,” said the officer, “you’re not Mrs. Bennett’s attorney, are you?”
“No. Definitely not.”
Jack’s cell rang. It was from Sydney’s iPhone—the same number that had started his run from Bayfront Park to the Metromover, and that had transmitted that final text message:
Check the bench.
Jack stepped away from the officer and took the call, bracing himself to hear Merselus’ voice. It was Sydney.
“Jack, where are you?” she asked, her voice filled with urgency.
“At home. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, pretty much. I’m with the FBI.”
“Is Andie with you?”
“No. She went—”
Sydney stopped in midsentence, which alarmed Jack. “Sydney, answer me. She went
where
?”
“She went chasing after Merselus,” said Sydney.
Jack’s heart sank. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“But I think I see her coming now,” said Sydney. “Yeah, that’s her. She’s—”
“See if she can come to the phone,” said Jack.
There was silence in Jack’s ear, but Jack could tell that the line was still active. A moment later he heard Andie’s voice.
“Jack?”
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God. Anyone hurt?”
“One officer from Miami-Dade was shot, but I’m told he’ll make it. A poor old man who lived in the same apartment complex as Merselus was not so lucky.”
Jack took a moment to absorb the bad news. “What about Merselus?”
“One bullet to the heart. Dead.”
“Sniper?”
“Uh-uh,” said Andie, “no sniper.”
Jack could hear it in her voice, so he didn’t need to ask the follow-up. But after a deep breath that crackled over the line, she told him anyway.
“It was someone you love.”
B
NN and the
Faith Corso Show
crammed a month’s worth of sensationalism into the next two days. The most surprising thing to Jack was how much of it they managed to get right. The least surprising—and most troubling—was what BNN refused to acknowledge: that the demise of Merselus and his Internet buddy Geoffrey Bennett was of no help to Celeste Laramore and her family.
Jack flew to New York to do something about that. Hannah went with him. The trip was in some ways déjà vu, reminiscent of Jack’s disastrous settlement conference with BNN’s lawyers on the eve of filing Celeste’s lawsuit against BNN. This time, however, Jack brought Sydney Bennett along.
For five days, the media had been hounding Sydney and her lawyer. They all wanted the same thing: the exclusive interview that would finally reveal the truth about Emma’s death, and even better, expose the darkest secrets of the Bennett family. On Jack’s advice, Sydney refused to speak to any of the TV talk-show hosts, with one exception: Faith Corso.
“Thank you so much for coming,” said Corso.
They were in the main conference room on the thirty-third floor, just like Jack and Hannah’s previous meeting with BNN. This time, however, there were far fewer lawyers in the room—most notably, no Ted Gaines. Corso sat with hands folded atop the polished walnut conference table, her back to a floor-to-ceiling window and the panoramic view of Midtown. To her left was Kay Dollinger, the energetic producer of the
Faith Corso Show
. To Corso’s right was the gray-haired Stanley Mills, BNN’s general counsel and vice president of legal affairs. Jack sat directly across the table from Corso, flanked by Hannah and Sydney.
“What a pleasure it is to finally meet you,” said Jack. Hannah shot a quick glance in his direction, as if to see if his nose was growing.
“Let me tell you what we have in mind,” said Corso, quickly shifting from
we
to
me
. “I see this as a two-part interview. Part one will be live in the BNN studio, just Sydney and me. We’ll talk about her arrest, the trial, her release from prison, her short stay with Merselus, her escape from him and recapture, and then her rescue by the FBI. The live segment will end with her telling us where she was when her daughter drowned, how long she knew the truth about Mrs. Bennett’s role in Emma’s death, and why Sydney kept silent about it. We may bring in a psychiatrist at this point—an objective professional to talk about how common it is for children who are the victims of sexual abuse to refuse to name their abusers, how victims are silenced by their own sense of guilt and shame even after they reach adulthood, how this is especially true when the abuser is a parent, and doubly so when the mother is compliant in the abuse of a daughter.”
“No psychiatrists,” said Sydney.
Jack touched her arm, reminding her not to talk.
“The psychiatrist is optional,” said Corso. “Part two will be taped. We’ll visit the Bennett house, where Sydney can walk me through her life under the same roof with a monster like Geoffrey Bennett. We’ll go to the runway at Opa-locka Airport where Sydney met Merselus, the hotel where he attacked her, and the places where she went into hiding before he caught up with her at Bayfront Park. The final segment will be shot outdoors at the Bennett swimming pool.”
“No pool,” said Sydney.
Jack tugged her elbow, another reminder.
“The pool is not optional,” said Corso. “It’s the centerpiece of the story.”
“Here’s a possible solution,” said Jack. “No pool. Instead, we visit the exact spot outside the women’s detention center where Celeste Laramore was attacked.”
Corso made a face. “How is that a solution?”
“It gets us focused on the real story.”
The general counsel spoke up. “Excuse me, Mr. Swyteck. But we are not going to turn this television interview or this meeting into a showcase for your
other
client’s lawsuit against BNN.”
“I don’t see the two as separate,” said Jack.
“I don’t see the connection,” said Corso.
“The most basic connection is the cost.”
Corso narrowed her eyes. “The cost of what?”
“Of Sydney’s interview,” said Jack.
“We agreed to pay her a hundred thousand dollars,” said Corso.
“You
offered
a hundred thousand,” said Jack. “The cost is five million.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Payable to Celeste Laramore.”
The general counsel rose. “I don’t see much point in continuing this discussion.”
“You’re about to,” Jack said in his most serious tone.
“Faith, let’s go,” said the general counsel.
“Have a seat,” said Jack, “unless you have absolutely no interest in a two-minute explanation of why five million dollars is letting you off cheap. And by ‘you’ I mean your boss, Mr. Keating.”
Slowly, the general counsel lowered himself back into the chair. “Two minutes,” he said.
Jack focused his gaze mainly on Corso as he spoke. “Celeste Laramore was paid a thousand dollars to show up outside the women’s detention center looking like Sydney Bennett on the night of Sydney’s release.”
“That’s not news,” said Corso. “We were the ones who broke that story.”
“And you reported that it was Sydney’s defense team who paid her—to be a decoy for Sydney.”
“We stand by that story. We had a source.”
“A source? Really?” said Jack. “What’s interesting to me is that, so far, the only person to confirm that Celeste got paid to be outside the jail on the night of Sydney’s release was Celeste’s roommate. And I know she’s not your source, because I’ve talked to her.”
“I’m not required to divulge our source.”
“Agreed. But here’s my theory. Your ‘source’ is the person who paid Celeste the thousand dollars.”
“Like I said, I don’t reveal sources.”
“I guess that’s especially true when your source works for BNN,” said Jack.
“Excuse me?”
“Let me be more direct: Celeste was paid by BNN.”
The general counsel scoffed. “I’m losing patience for this.”
“Forget patience,” said Corso, shaking her head. “I’m insulted. But let’s put that aside for a second. Why on earth would BNN pay Celeste to be a Sydney Bennett look-alike?”
“Because the entire media world knew that Sydney’s release would be anticlimactic. The expectation was that Sydney would be whisked away in the dark, and a parking lot full of Shot Mom haters would be left with no one to spit on. Not very exciting television. That’s why no other network planned to cover her release the way yours did. But BNN had an angle. For a measly thousand bucks, you were able to give the crowd what it wanted, give the TV audience something to watch, and give the BNN reporters on the ground something to talk about besides an eighteen-year-old redneck in a John Deere cap who wanted to ask Sydney to marry him.”
Corso put on her TV face, her most sanctimonious expression. “We would never stage anything for the sake of television entertainment.”
“Ted Gaines might have something to say about that.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” said Corso.
“Nothing. I digress.”
The general counsel shook his head. “Mr. Swyteck, are you suggesting that BNN somehow planned for Celeste to be attacked and end up in a coma?”
“No. The attack that put Celeste in a coma wasn’t your plan—but it was your fault, and it was your problem. So two days later, you shifted all responsibility from yourself by blaming someone else: me. Before anyone said one word about Celeste getting paid, BNN had the exclusive report that the defense team had hired a college student to be a decoy on the night of the release. You manufactured yet another reason for the American public to hate Sydney Bennett and her lawyer. And you had the whole world blaming someone other than BNN for what happened to Celeste.”
“That’s quite a theory,” said Corso. “But not much evidence.”
Jack glanced down his side of the table. “Hannah, show them.”
Hannah powered on her iPad and handed it to Jack, who then laid it flat on the table between himself and Corso. The image was right side up for the BNN team’s viewing.
“What’s this?” asked Corso.
“Celeste Laramore and three other contestants in a Sydney Bennett look-alike contest.”
“That contest was canceled, I was told,” said Corso.
“The one on the night of Sydney’s release was canceled. But for that whole week before Sydney’s release these contests were quite the rage. This one was at a bar called Pendleton’s in the Design District, five days before Sydney’s release. Celeste won.”
“Good for her,” said Corso.
“Good for BNN,” Jack said. With a touch of the screen, he brought up the next image. “This one is from the same night. It was taken by the security camera at Pendleton’s.”
“Some guy leaving a club,” said Corso. “So what?”
Jack touched the screen again, this time working it with his fingers the way Hannah had taught him. The zoom got tighter and tighter, until finally the only image on the screen was a man’s face.
The general counsel leaned into the table for a closer look. There was enough surprise in his expression to make Jack wonder if he was part of the bigger plan. “That’s Mr. Keating’s bodyguard,” he said.
“Roland Sharp,” said Jack. “I believe he’s affectionately known as the Shadow.”
Corso quickly dismissed the whole thing, which in Jack’s mind only confirmed her involvement.
“So the guy likes to go clubbing,” she said. “What does that prove?”
Jack ignored the question, staying on the offensive. “We found the money,” he said. “A thousand dollars in cash. Celeste hid it in her closet.”
Corso didn’t flinch. “That doesn’t even begin to prove that it came from BNN.”
Jack’s stare tightened. “It was inside one of those plastic dossiers you can buy at any office supply store. I’m told by an extremely knowledgeable FBI agent that plastic is an ideal surface when it comes to lifting fingerprints. That same FBI agent also told me that a certain bodyguard’s fingerprints were found on this particular dossier.”
Corso and the BNN general counsel exchanged uneasy glances, but they said nothing.
“Whoops,” said Hannah.
Jack rose, as did Sydney and Hannah.
“You think about our offer,” Jack said, standing behind his chair. “Five million. Payable to Celeste Laramore. The whole matter can be resolved with or without your interview of Sydney Bennett. Your choice. But Mr. Keating and his thousand-dollar blunder will be part of any interview that Sydney grants. That you can count on.”
Jack and his team headed for the door. Jack opened it, and Sydney stepped out first. Hannah was right behind her, and she was almost out the door when she stopped and did a quick about-face. The four-foot-eleven pit bull was apparently feeling another déjà vu moment.
“I
told
you we were gonna kick your—”
“Hannah,” said Jack, giving her the same down-girl expression that he’d given her at the conclusion of their ill-fated settlement conference.
“Sorry, boss,” she said.
Jack watched her all the way out into the hallway, but he didn’t follow. He stood in the open doorway for a moment, his hand on the brass door handle. It wasn’t that he was searching for something to say. It was simply a message that there was nothing more to be said.
Finally, he stepped out of the conference room, closing the door quietly on Corso, her producer, and one unhappy lawyer.
