James Grippando - Blood Money

Merselus hit SEARCH.

It took a couple of minutes to populate the results, another minute for him to eliminate the extraneous hits. Then he found a match, though the one pictured on the computer screen appeared to be larger than the one fastened to Rene’s necklace.

“A gris-gris,” he read aloud. “An amulet originating in Africa which is believed to protect the wearer from evil or brings luck.”

That brought a smirk to his face. Not very lucky for the good doctor.

He closed the software program, impressed by its performance-and pleased, as always, to be one step ahead of the good guys on the technology curve.

With great care, Merselus carried the necklace across the room and opened the closet. Taped to the back of the door, right below a coat hook, was an eight-by-ten photograph. It was the image of Sydney Bennett that the prosecution had shown the jury at trial-the one of Sydney laughing off the effects of tequila, the hands of at least three different men pawing her tight body, her clingy white halter unable to hide her protruding nipples.

Of all his Sydney photographs, this one was Merselus’ favorite.

“For luck,” he said as he hung the necklace on the coat hook above the photograph. “See what good care I take of you?”

He closed the closet door and lay on the bed. Not nearly enough rest last night, with all the preparation. He could have nodded off in a moment and slept through till the next morning, but he forced himself to set an alarm: six thirty P.M. Barely time for a catnap.

There was more work to do. Tonight.

Rene’s death changed everything. Almost everything.

“This won’t change us,” said Jack. He had wanted to sound sure of it, but it probably hadn’t come across that way. “We can’t let it,” he added.

They were in Andie’s car, driving to Jack’s house on Key Biscayne. For five minutes and without a single interruption, Andie had listened to Jack’s full explanation-how Rene had contacted him after Celeste was admitted to Jackson, how she’d been his source for the Laramores’ lawsuit against BNN, how their coffees in Little Havana had had nothing to do with rekindling a romance. Jack was certain that Andie had heard it and understood, but whenever there was work to be done, Andie’s ability to put personal moments on hold was unmatched. At her behest, a couple of FBI agents were already on the way to Jack’s house-a tech guy, a surveillance expert. She was in full-fledged FBI mode, focused on stopping a killer.

“Jack, I don’t have it in my head that you were chasing an old girlfriend two minutes after I said we should take a step back, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She reached across the console and brushed the back of her hand against his face, a proxy for not looking him in the eye while driving. “I know you better than that.”

“Thank you.”

Her attention was on the road, and Jack’s gaze locked onto her profile. It was little more than a silhouette in the dark car, but against the sparkling Miami skyline in the distance, it was like a work of art. The views of downtown Miami and the financial district were killer from the causeway to Key Biscayne, especially at night-the south Florida version of Manhattan as seen from the Brooklyn Bridge.

“I also know the mind-set of Rene’s killer,” said Andie. “He didn’t leave that message because he thought Rene was ‘someone you love.’ He’s like a shark. He draws closer and closer to his prey, tighter and tighter circles. Each one of those circles allows him to live out the perfect fantasy he has created in his head. Eventually, he’ll move in for the ultimate kill, the fulfillment of the fantasy.”

“Someone I love?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“My take is that he probably believes all the BS on BNN that you and Sydney couldn’t wait to rip off each other’s clothes the minute she got out of prison. Yeah, he threatened to hurt someone you love, which could be anyone from me to an old girlfriend. But if you ask my professional opinion, he isn’t taunting you just because he thinks you know where Sydney is hiding. He could threaten her parents, if that’s all he wanted out of this. His anger-his hatred for you-is driven by his belief that you’ve actually had your way with Sydney.”

“Someone he loves.”

“Someone he’s obsessed with. Got nothing to do with love.”

That all made sense to Jack. Andie always made sense. “I love you,” he said.

“Of course you do,” she said.

That drew a little smile as they pulled into his driveway behind the “bucar”-FBI lingo for the bureau’s standard-issue sedans. The agents Andie had summoned were already there. Jack invited them inside, and Max greeted them at the door, wagging his tail and jumping up and down as if it had been five hundred years since he’d last seen Andie. Jack let him loose in the backyard, and the humankind gathered in the Florida room to take care of an entirely different kind of business.

Jack took a seat beside Andie on the couch. Special Agents Burns and Waters sat across from them. They were “tech agents,” which meant that Jack was the proverbial old man in the room. As a general rule, not many techies hung around till retirement age. A good one with a few years of law enforcement experience on his resume could make a fortune in the private sector, and Jack guessed that the bureau would have the services of these two crackerjacks for maybe another six months.

“Truth is, I should have listened to Andie sooner,” said Jack. “I resisted the idea of having the FBI monitoring my phones. Obviously, this changes things.”

Burns spoke for the tech team. “There are ways to make this work and still protect the privacy of your clients.”

“You may be right from a technical standpoint,” said Jack. “But good luck trying to convince my clients of that.”

Burns opened his bag of electronic toys and showed Jack his new cell phone. “Wireless is never the most secure option, but if you have to use a cell phone, this one is encrypted. Use it when you are not in the office and absolutely have to speak to one of your clients. Agent Waters and I will set up encrypted landlines for the calls you make from home and the office, which is of course the most secure option.”

“What about e-mail?”

“Best thing is to tell your clients no e-mail.”

“Can my clients call me on the encrypted lines?”

“If you give them the number, yes. But don’t do that. The basic rule you should live by is, ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’”

“That’s impossible. What if they need to reach me?”

“They should call your existing cell or landline. They should say nothing but ‘call me,’ and then you return the call on the encrypted line. I know that seems cumbersome, but the minute you give the phone number to anyone, you run the risk of compromising the security on the encrypted line.”

“Won’t they see the number when I call them?”

“Your encrypted phone is impervious to caller ID. That’s pretty basic, Mr. Swyteck.”

“It may be basic to you,” said Andie, “but you’re talking to a guy who started practicing law when Post-its were still a technological marvel.”

“Not quite, honey. But almost.”

Burns continued, “The overall objective here is for Rene Fenning’s killer to remain under the impression that your existing cell phone, landlines, and e-mail addresses are still in use, still fully operational. So long as he has that impression, we can intercept, trace, and react to any message he sends you.”

“How do I know the FBI won’t be monitoring the encrypted line?”