Read This Life: A Novel Online
Authors: Maryann Reid
This Life: A Novel (18 page)
And if Blake somehow
managed to squirm out of this mess, Lang still had a mission for Brett and
schemes for Gabby’s participation in Blake’s reality television show. Yes, it
was a splendid time to be Lang Bertrand, and a miserable time to be Blake.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
June 14
Miami
,
Florida
Her police escort led
Blake into a small room with a wall-mounted video recorder and a table and four
chairs, two of which were already occupied. One occupant was a Detective Dixon,
a middle-aged man with a shiny bald spot, dressed as if he’d watched too much
Miami
Vice
as a child. The other man seated in the room was also middle-aged, but
he was a handsome Latino with graying temples and faded jeans. As soon as she
stepped into the room, the Latino gentleman stood and pulled out a chair for
her.
“I was warned you don’t
shake hands,” he said with a smile as he sat down again. “I’m Enrico Torres
with Elliott, Torres, Collins, & Rhodes, and I specialize in criminal
defense. Have you been advised of your rights, Ms. Bertrand?”
“Only by my bodyguards.”
She turned her attention from Torres to
Dixon
and asked, “Am I under arrest?”
“That hasn’t been
decided yet, ma’am,”
Dixon
drawled. “Now, where were you—”
“Excuse me, Detective,
but my client is under no obligation to answer your questions. Moreover, she
has not had an opportunity to consult with her legal counsel about whether it’s
in her best interest to do so.” Torres folded his arms across his chest and
fixed a cool stare on
Dixon
.
“So consult.”
“Now, don’t take this
the wrong way”—Torres flashed a toothy smile at
Dixon
—“but my client and I would like to talk
alone, and somewhere we can be sure we’re not spied on.” He gestured at the
camera.
“We’re not well
equipped that way, Mr. Torres.”
“I didn’t imagine you are.”
Torres leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtful. “You haven’t decided
whether to charge my client with a crime, and you can’t provide facilities for
her to talk with me before she chooses whether to answer your questions. Seems
to me that Ms. Bertrand here should be free to go, until such time as you
arrest her or she and I return at our convenience to speak with you
voluntarily.”
It took a few seconds
for Blake to realize the noise she heard was
Dixon
grinding his teeth. She looked at Torres
and wondered if he was somehow related to Suki, because he had that same
blank-faced expression she often wore.
At last
Dixon
grumbled, “Yeah. I
suppose you’re right, Torres.” He stood, nearly tripped over Torres’s
outstretched legs on his way to the door, and slammed the door so hard it
opened. “I’ll need you to stop on your way out and leave us your contact
information, Ms. Bertrand. We’ll probably want to talk to you soon.”
Torres stared at the
detective with frank astonishment, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows. “Really,
Dixon
. My client is filming a
new reality show for NBC, owns properties all over
Miami
, and has a residence on
Fisher
Island
. If you can’t find her
when you want to talk to her, it’s probably time you retire.” He walked side by
side with Blake to the front office, where Suki paced like a caged tiger.
“You okay, Boss?” Suki
asked.
“She’s free to go, for
now anyway.” Torres consulted his smartphone and said, “I’m in court tomorrow,
Ms. Bertrand, but I can see you after hours. Can you come to my office at
half past five
? We’ll order dinner
delivered and discuss your case.”
Blake frowned. “I can
be there, but the producers of
The Takeover
are going to be mighty
unhappy about delaying filming.”
“With all due respect,
Ms. Bertrand, those producers aren’t looking at a possible thirty years in
prison for first-degree felony arson. If it were me, I’d tell those people they’re
the least of my worries.” He waved to Blake and Suki as he opened the station
door. “See you tomorrow at half past five, ma’am.”
Blake ran a hand
through her hair, knowing she was making a mess of it and, it seemed, her whole
life. “Suki, would you do me a favor and call a taxi while I call Vanessa and
Vickie?”
“No problem, Boss.”
#
June 15
Miami
,
Florida
At five-fifteen Blake
and Suki climbed out of a taxi and knocked on the front door of Elliott,
Torres, Collins, & Rhodes. The law firm leased one of the oldest and most
distinguished buildings in
Coral Gables
, a Spanish colonial mission built of cut white stone, with a
cobblestone courtyard and a breathtaking view of the
Atlantic
. Ionic columns flanked
the arched door, which was made of some heavy dark wood and etched with elegant
patterns that resembled conch shells.
“They must do well to
afford this place,” Suki murmured as Blake knocked again.
A ruffled-looking
pretty young
Latina
opened the door then. “I’m
so sorry, I was on the phone with a client and had to ask him three times to
please hold.” She offered them a rueful smile and waved them inside. “I’m Mr.
Torres’s paralegal, Yolanda. He isn’t here yet, but he told me to expect you and
to make you comfortable. We’ll be in this conference room here. It’s the most
convenient place we’ve got for a business dinner.”
Yolanda showed them
into a long, narrow room with a brick fireplace and chandelier light fixtures.
A long banquet table dominated the room, surrounded by cushioned chairs that
proved to be a fluffy delight to sit in. “Can I bring you anything to drink?”
Suki arched an eyebrow.
“How about a pitcher of margaritas?”
It took Yolanda a few
seconds to decide Suki must be joking. She gave a nervous giggle and said, “I’m
afraid we’re nonalcoholic here. Would you like a soda?”
“Maybe a pitcher of ice
water instead, and some glasses?” Blake suggested.
“I’ll be right back
with that.” Yolanda vanished from the door.
Before she returned,
Mr. Torres entered with his phone pressed to his ear. He murmured greetings to
them as he settled into a chair, and a look of relief passed over his handsome
face as he sank into the cushions. “Yeah, I’ll have to get back to you on that,”
he told whoever he was on the phone with. “Got to consult with a new client
now, though.
Bueno
.”
Yolanda breezed into
the room carrying a platter with a pitcher of ice water and half a dozen
glasses on it. As she carefully set the platter on the table, Torres asked, “Is
Kenton still here, by chance?”
Kenton? Why is that
name familiar?
Blake stared at her hands, folded together on the table, and
tried to answer her own question.
“Yes, sir, but I saw
him packing up for the night. Do you want me to catch him?”
“Please do. I need to
consult with him.” Torres looked at Blake and explained, “I defended your
ex-husband on a DWI several years ago, and I need to make sure that
representing you won’t be looked at as a conflict of interest for any reason.
Kenton Rhodes is one of the best in all the Eastern states at procedural
questions like that.”
Even as Torres finished
explaining, the man who must be Kenton Rhodes entered the room. Tall, long
strapping legs, and a tailored gray suit and lavender tie.
About the time she finished
staring at his tie, she realized he was staring at her too, gray-faced as if he
were looking at a ghost. When she raised her gaze to his face, she understood
why. His light brown skin, his curly black hair, those eyeglasses exactly like
the ones worn by the actor who played Amy Winehouses’s boyfriend in the music
video for “You Know I’m No Good”… She knew that face from literally hundreds of
photographs taken by her private detective.
This is the man who
adopted my son.
“Kenton?” Torres waved
a hand in front of the man’s face, and at last the man looked at his law
partner. “What do you say? Any problem with me representing Ms. Bertrand, do
you think?”
“I…I’m sorry, I was
distracted.” Kenton Rhodes seated himself in the other chair next to Torres. He
listened intently as Torres explained about having once defended Lang Bertrand
from a DWI charge, but at the same time he pulled a phone out of his pants
pocket, tapped a few keys, and glanced at Blake again before putting the phone
away again.
“So?” Torres finished
his explanation for a second time and regarded Kenton curiously. “What’s the
verdict?”
“No problem with you
representing her. If the case ends up involving Lang as well as Blake, though,
you’ll either need to represent both of them or work in partnership with Lang’s
attorney. Otherwise, if Lang went to prison and Blake walked, Lang could accuse
you of selling him out.”
Torres nodded. “Got it.
Okay, man, go on home to your boy. Tell him Uncle Rico said hi.”
“You bet.” Kenton
Rhodes stood up, and Blake noticed that he was taller than six feet, maybe even
six-four, with longer legs and broader shoulders than average.
She watched the man her
son called “dad” go, hesitating just a moment in the door to look back at her
again before disappearing down the corridor. It took her a few breaths to
realize that Torres was asking what sort of food she’d like delivered.
#
Blake couldn’t tell
Torres much about the property she was suspected of burning down. She’d asked
Charles to round up all the information about the place and the deal for it
that he could find. That amounted to a file consisting of a single note:
acquired by Lang Bertrand, January 2008.
“You and Lang often did
business separately, while married?” Torres asked, as Yolanda typed essential information
from the conversation into a file on her laptop.
“We had such different
interests, it just made sense. I wanted a ripple effect—transform key
properties, and thereby transform the surrounding communities. He wanted to be
the biggest fish in every pond.” Blake shrugged. “Our finances were combined,
but our business projects were mostly separated.”
Torres nodded. “Since
the restaurant was awarded to you in your divorce, have you had any dealings
with the grounds or management?”
“I didn’t even know it
was mine. Lang and I had a lot of property to be divided between us when we
divorced. Slightly more than a billion dollars’ worth. Charles and I haven’t
finished going through the settlement, recording what’s mine and what’s Lang’s.”
“Now, if we can just
prove that, and/or prove you were elsewhere when the restaurant burned down,
the district attorney won’t bother you anymore.” Torres asked more questions as
they ate the Chinese food they’d ordered, working out what his strategy for
clearing Blake’s name should be.
It was late when Blake
and Suki emerged from the old Spanish building, and when Blake powered on her
BlackBerry, she discovered several messages waiting for her. Vickie and Vanessa
both wanted updates, of course, as did Edith and Blake’s mom.
There was also a text
message from Kenton Rhodes.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
June 15
Miami
,
Florida
“Wait for me,” Blake
told the taxi driver, when she pulled into a parking space at the
Hialeah
apartment complex,
where Kenton Rhodes lived with Blake’s son. “I don’t think I’ll be long.”
“As long as I’m paid
for my time, you can take all night,” the driver replied. The woman turned on
the cab’s interior lights and picked up a newspaper to read while waiting.
Since the bodyguard had
better night vision, Suki preceded Blake into the apartment complex playground.
There were stars out, but no moon.
True to his word, Kenton
sat in a swing. He wasn’t swinging, just gently rocking back and forth. After
getting home from work he’d changed into long khaki shorts and a basketball T-shirt.
He was wearing those eyeglasses Blake couldn’t help thinking of as nerdily
sexy. In fact, even with only dim starlight to see him by, she found herself
admiring the well-defined muscles of his arms and legs and the scholarly aura
he presented even in casual clothes.
“Hi, Ms. Bertrand,”
Kenton said, dragging his feet to bring the rocking swing to a stop. “I know it’s
late. I promise not to keep you out long.”
“It’s okay.” Blake
settled into the swing next to his. Suki, meanwhile, climbed the slide as if
gravity meant nothing to her, and seated herself cross-legged at the top.
Kenton took his
smartphone out of his shorts pocket and tapped a few keys, then showed the
display to Blake. A photograph of Lionel holding his French horn grinned at
her. “This is my kid,” Kenton said, and after Blake nodded he studied the boy’s
face. “You know, Ms. Bertrand, I’ve seen your face for years, but until today I
never noticed how much my son’s face looks like yours.”
“Please call me Blake.”
I know he wants to know, but how the hell do I tell him? All these years I’ve
planned to contact Lionel when he’s eighteen, but I never imagined talking to
the man who raised him…
“You came to the All
State Band concert.” Kenton still looked at his picture of Lionel. “You saw my
boy. We all got a good look at him during his solo.” Now Kenton turned his head
and leveled his thoughtful gaze at Blake’s face again. “He’s who you came to
see, isn’t he?”
Blake nodded again. It
hurt to return Kenton’s gaze, so she looked at her feet instead. She wore her
usual Gucci sandals, and her sandaled feet next to Kenton’s on the sandy
Miami
soil made her think of
romantic moonlit walks on the beach.
You’re done with all that, girl,
remember? Lang and Brett are proof you’ve got no sense about relationships.
“I know you’ve got
every right to tell me to mind my own business,” said Kenton, “but I need to
ask you this, and I hope you’ll answer and tell me the truth. Are you Lionel’s
birth mother?”
Ah, there it is.
Blake shut her eyes and whispered, “Yes.”
Neither of them said
anything more, for how long Blake couldn’t be sure. She opened her eyes again
eventually, and found Kenton watching her. A patient compassion mellowed his
face. Blake realized that Kenton was waiting for anything else she might be
willing to tell him, but he’d ask no more questions.
She stared at her feet
again, because if she kept looking at him watching her with such kindness she’d
probably cry. “I was raped. I was so afraid that if I kept my baby I’d remember
that terror and pain every time I looked at my child. That’s why I gave him up.”
If I admit the rest, will he do something like get a restraining order
against me?
She took a breath and braved the confession. “I’ve regretted
that ever since.”
“That’s understandable.
Lionel is a great kid.” Kenton reached out and patted Blake’s shoulder. “Whoever
the oxygen-wasting sack of shit is that raped you, I promise your son is
nothing like him.”
Blake couldn’t hold
back the tears anymore. She buried her face in her hands and moaned, and felt
strong arms fold around her. Kenton held her until she was all cried out, and
for the first time since she was a little girl, Blake didn’t care that a man
saw her crying.
“Thank you,” she
whispered, when she pulled away from him. She didn’t want to, but she knew it
had to be done.
“No, thank you.” Kenton
smiled, and Blake noticed his eyes were shining with tears too. “My wife and I
were so happy together with him.”
Blake remembered Johnny
Capps telling her, a few years ago, that Lionel’s adoptive parents had
divorced.
She’s who Lionel will always think of, when he thinks of the word “mom.”
Not me.
Tears threatened to spill from her eyes again, and she stood up and
looked across the playground at the parking lot, seeing if the taxi was still
there. It was.
“Can I contact him when
he’s eighteen? I’ve always wanted to do that.” Blake hesitated, then added, “I
have a lot to offer him, and I’d like to.”
“Sure.” Kenton stood
too, and stretched from feet to fingertips of his upraised arms. “And thank you
for telling me. He’s asked about his biological parents, but I didn’t know
anything to tell him. Now I do.”
Panic swept through
Blake, and she whirled to fix her stare on Kenton. “Don’t tell him he’s a rape
baby, Kenton. I beg you.”
Kenton regarded her for
a few breaths, head tilted to one side. At last he took off his eyeglasses and
said, “I don’t think I’d do the boy any favors if I pretended such things don’t
happen. But I’ll wait until he’s older to tell him that part, at least. Or you
can tell him. For now, I’ll just let him know I found out that his birth mother
is a smart, successful businesswoman who looks forward to meeting him in a few
more years.”
Blake felt torn, but
Kenton made a valid point. She nodded and said, “I guess I’ll be in contact in
about four more years, then.”
As she followed Suki
back toward the waiting taxi, she heard Kenton call after her, “We’ll look
forward to that day, Blake.”
#
June 16
Miami
,
Florida
She spent a nervous day
in her condo on
Fisher
Island
, hoping for a progress
report from Torres. Preferably one with good news.
Just before
4
P
.
M
.
, she got her wish. Her
BlackBerry rang, and the caller ID told her it was Torres calling. No sooner
had she pressed the Talk button than Torres started speaking.
“Blake, hi, Yolanda has
been a busy girl today, and it’s paid off. Four people who traveled first class
with you from
New
York
to
Miami
recognized you as Blake
Bertrand. That puts you airborne when the restaurant fire started, so the
district attorney will have to agree you can’t have started the fire yourself.
We also examined your financial records all the way back to your divorce, and
we didn’t find any mysterious payouts or withdrawals that could mean you hired
an arsonist. I’m going to talk to the DA before office hours close for the day,
and you should be free to go back to
New York
as soon as you like.”
“That’s excellent news,
Mr. Torres.” Blake felt muscles she didn’t even know she had begin relaxing.
An hour later, Blake
and Suki and Matt were at the airport buying tickets for the next flight to
New York
, and Vanessa was
hastily making out a schedule for filming the rest of
The Takeover
. The
Delta was somewhere over
Tennessee
when Blake remembered Kenton Rhodes holding her while she
cried, and she wished she could tell the pilot to turn around.
#
June 17
New York
,
New York
Back in
New York
, Blake still had some
mentoring sessions to finish. Vanessa’s plan called for those to be done
Wednesday, along with filming Blake presenting the third week’s challenge. The
second week’s elimination was still being decided. Thursday would be the only
day the contestants received to work on their second challenge, which was to
research competitors in the business each was interested in opening and
identify some beneficial way to make their own product different. Friday Blake
would eliminate a second contestant and mentor the remaining ten.
The
Takeover
would then be back on schedule.
One of her second week’s
leftover mentoring sessions was with Gabby Truitt, Lang’s girlfriend. Per the
randomly selected order, Gabby’s appointment was the last. Blake welcomed the girl
into her office and explained the revised schedule Vanessa had put together.
Unlike everyone else, Gabby protested.
“We’re supposed to have
from Wednesday through Sunday to do each week’s challenge! This is too much to
do in only one day. I don’t think it’s fair that some of us get one day to do
this research shit, while other people have had since Wednesday of last week.
Just because you went to
Florida
and got arrested—”
I expected someone
to say something about that. I should have known it would be Gabby. Lang has
probably been “coaching” her on what to say to me.
Blake remembered some
times when Lang had coached her, and found herself pitying the girl sitting
across the desk from her.
She doesn’t seem so bad. Young and too easy to
manipulate, like I used to be, that’s all.
Blake waved for the
cameraman to stop recording, and forced herself to stay calm. “I wasn’t
arrested, Gabby. I was questioned and let go.”
“Yeah, whatever. It
still isn’t fair for some people to have a week and other people a day.”
Blake motioned to the
cameraman to start recording again. “You’re right. It’s not fair. But guess
what? Things go wrong sometimes in business, and sometimes your partners have
unexpected obstacles or even abandon you. A successful entrepreneur tries to
foresee complications and plan for them, and always climbs back on if the horse
throws them.”
“Maybe that’s easy if
you’ve been in business awhile and know what can go wrong. But when you’re new—”
“When you’re new, you
watch what your competition is doing and learn from their mistakes as much as
possible, so you make fewer of your own. You should have been learning all you could
from the most successful production companies before I gave you an assignment
to do that.”
Gabby’s mouth was
curved downward in a pout worthy of a two-year-old. Blake took a breath and
said, “Now, listen, here’s what I’d suggest you do…”
#
June 19
New York
,
New York
After the filming of
Blake’s announcement that Brittany Nelson was the second contestant she’d
decided to eliminate, Blake conducted four mentoring sessions before
noon
. She was exhausted and
ravenously hungry. Rather than go out for lunch, she asked Antonio to go get
something from one of the street food vendors and they’d eat in her office.
“What’s the password I
should listen for this time?” She heaved herself out of her chair and realized
her butt was numb from so much sitting.
Hang in there, tush, you’ve got six
more hours of sitting to do today.
After a moment’s
thought, Antonio said, “If a bear market shits on Wall Street—”
“Oh, get out of my
office.” Blake laughed in spite of herself. “And stop hanging around Matt so
much. Your sense of humor is getting to be like his.”
He tipped his Ray-Bans
to her and swept out of her office. Blake shut and locked the door behind him.
She began doing some stretches to work the stiffness out of her muscles. As she
started feeling better, someone knocked on her door.
“Password?” she called,
grabbing her toes and holding for ten seconds.
“I didn’t know there
was one,” said Brett’s voice.
“Well, there is when my
bodyguard is away.” She stood straight and tried to think of a polite way to
ask the question, but she was too weary from the day’s frantic pace. “What do
you want, Brett?”
“I was just thinking
you’ve had a hell of a week, so maybe tonight is a good time for me to take you
out to dinner to thank you for my job.”
She hesitated to
answer, giving the idea some thought. By dinnertime she’d be ready to collapse
into bed, but then again a relaxing meal with… Well, she wasn’t sure she could
call Brett a “friend,” but he at least understood what it’s like to be under
police suspicion. It was true, what he said—it had been a hell of a week.
“Okay. Where should I
meet you, and when?”
“Do you like clam
rolls?”
“I don’t know, but I
like most seafood.”
I’d kill for clam rolls.
It was one of her favorite
foods. Her father used to take the family to a spot at
City
Island
where they made the
best ones outside of
Massachusetts
.
