James Grippando - Blood Money

“Right,” said Jack. “I watched a recording of your interview on TV. You told Faith Corso that you and Celeste had just come from a Sydney Bennett look-alike contest. Of course, now we all know there was no such contest.”

“And you want to know why I lied.”

“That’s about the size of it,” said Jack.

She glanced at Theo. “Is he a cop?”

“Him? No. He’s my investigator. You can talk freely.”

Jenna drew a breath. “I lied because. . well, because that was the story Celeste gave me.”

“Say that again,” said Jack.

“We went out that night, and she looked so much like Sydney Bennett it was freaky. She said we were going to a look-alike contest on South Beach. I say, ‘Okay, cool.’ Then she started driving and I say, ‘Hey, aren’t you going the wrong way?’”

“What did Celeste say?”

“She says, ‘Jenna, can you keep a secret?’ I say ‘Of course.’ And then she tells me that there’s no contest. That we’re going to the women’s detention center.”

“Did she say why?”

She shifted nervously. “She said she was getting paid a thousand bucks just to be in the crowd, act like Sydney, and get on television.”

“Didn’t she realize how dangerous that could be?”

“Well, we knew people were a little crazy about this trial, but most of them were, you know, women who like a good soap opera. We didn’t think anyone would be crazy enough to hurt her. And this was a thousand dollars, for like an hour’s work. Celeste really needed money. Her dad lost his job, so she was getting no help from home.”

“I’m very aware of that,” said Jack, thinking of the health insurance problem. “But back up a second. I’m still not sure why you lied to Faith Corso. Why did you tell her you had just come from a look-alike contest?”

“I was scared. I wasn’t sure if what Celeste did was illegal. She lied to me, so I figured she was covering up something. It wasn’t up to me to blow any whistles on her. We were BFFs. I went with her story. I mean, like I said, she asked if I could keep a secret.”

“Do you know who paid her the thousand dollars?”

“No idea. She never told me.”

“Do you know if she got the money? Or was she supposed to get paid afterward?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Jenna’s phone chimed again, and she checked it. “My friend’s getting tired of waiting. Is there anything else?”

“Actually, yes,” said Jack. “Celeste’s dad e-mailed me some photographs of Celeste-about a half dozen or so from high school to the present.” He pulled them up on his iPhone, showing them to her.

“So?”

“I’m struck by the transformation,” said Jack. “She cut her hair. Changed the style. Darkened the color. The makeup got more noticeable. She seemed to favor tighter clothing. It seems like, over time, she was looking more and more like Sydney Bennett.”

She scrolled through the pictures. “I can see your point. But what of it?”

“That’s what I’m asking you,” said Jack. “Did you ever have a conversation about that? Was it something she was consciously trying to do?”

“I don’t know about that. I mean, she was definitely interested in the case. More than most people I know, anyway.”

“When you say ‘the case,’ do you mean the trial? Or was she interested before the trial?”

“Before.”

“Do you know why?”

“Not sure. She had a criminal-justice class she was taking. I figured it was that. She even went and talked to Sydney’s lawyer, the guy before you.”

Jack did a double take. “Neil Goderich?”

“I don’t know his name. The guy who died.”

“That’s Neil,” said Jack. “Celeste met with him? Do you know why?”

“Not really. Like I said, she had that class she was taking. Or maybe she wanted a job. Working for a lawyer is lot more interesting than flipping burgers.”

“When did they talk?”

“Six months ago, maybe.”

Jenna’s phone chimed again. Another text from her workout buddy. “I really have to go,” she said, rising.

Jack and Theo rose. “You’ve been helpful, thanks,” said Jack.

“No problem,” said Jenna.

Jack and Theo stayed at the table as she crossed the bridge to the main entrance and disappeared inside the wellness center.

“I take it you didn’t know she met with Neil,” said Theo.

“You got that right,” said Jack.

“What do you make of that?”

He glanced at Theo, then back at the entrance doors. “I need to dig for some missing notes.”

Jack spent the rest of the afternoon at the Freedom Institute. Hannah Goldsmith met them there.

“You gotta turn on the AC,” said Jack. A growing V of sweat pasted his shirt to his back.

“Sorry, not on the weekends,” said Hannah. “Not in the budget.”

Jack knew that rule. Hannah’s father had enforced it strictly up until the day he died.

In twenty-eight years, the old house on the Miami River that was the Freedom Institute had changed little. Four lawyers shared two small bedrooms that had been converted into offices. The foyer doubled as a storage room for old case files, boxes stacked one on top of the other. The bottom ones sagged beneath the weight of denied motions for stay of execution, the box tops warped into sad smiles. Harsh fluorescent lighting showed every stain on the indoor/outdoor carpeting. The furniture screamed “flea market”-chairs that didn’t match, tables made stable with a deck of cards under one leg. The vintage sixties kitchen was not only where lawyers and staff ate their bagged lunches, but it also served as the conference room. Hanging on the wall over the coffeemaker was an old framed photograph of Bobby Kennedy. Hannah’s father had often said that it was the former attorney general who had inspired him to move on from president of the Harvard Law Review to founder of the Freedom Institute.

“I honestly don’t know where else to look,” said Hannah.

They’d adopted a team approach, combing through box after box of archived attorney notes. Neil had never been a computer guy, so if any notes of his conversation with Celeste Laramore existed, they would have been in hard copy. After a dozen boxes, they were empty handed.

“I suppose it’s possible he didn’t keep any notes,” said Jack.

“Dad always took notes,” said Hannah. “The problem is that he used everything from legal pads to toilet paper, and only he knew where he put them.”

“It’s also possible that Celeste’s friend is dead wrong about Celeste ever having met with Neil.”

“Before you draw that conclusion, let me call my mom,” said Hannah. “Could be some boxes at home we can check.”

Hannah dialed. Jack went to the kitchen for a cold drink. The old refrigerator made a strange buzzing noise when he opened it. Jack silenced it with a quick kick to the side panel, the way Neil had taught him. He pulled up a chair at the table and checked in again with Andie.

“Anything more from Sydney?” asked Jack.

Andie had called several hours earlier and told him all about Sydney’s lecture to Andie as Jack’s fiancee, not to Andie the FBI agent.

“Jack, really. Don’t you think I would call you if I’d heard from her again?”

“I suppose so.”

“And the way she left it, the next call is to you, not me.”

“Can’t wait,” said Jack.

“When are you coming home?”

“Not sure. Just so much to do between now and Monday morning. Maybe we can do a late dinner.”

“Sounds good.”

“Love you, ’bye.”

Jack tucked away his phone and went back to the refrigerator. He wasn’t thirsty, but the chilly air felt good. It made him smile to recall the first time Neil had caught him cooling off in front of the open refrigerator, thwarting the no-AC-on-weekends rule. “My opposition to capital punishment has only one exception,” Neil had told him, “and you just committed it.”