James Grippando - Blood Money

“I can’t breathe,” said Sydney.

She was sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, her wrists still fastened behind her. The problem was the double pillowcase Merselus had put over her head. He wasn’t trying to suffocate her-not yet, anyway. He just couldn’t take it anymore, the way she cried and carried on every time she caught an eyeful of the dead old man on the floor. He’d known women to find a way to peek out from behind blindfolds before. A couple of pillowcases, one on top of the other, were infallible. And he’d found it amazing how long a young woman in good health could go that way without actually suffocating.

“Just be still,” he said.

Merselus looked for a place to sit, but there was none. He’d turned the room into a makeshift fortress. Anyone trying to force his way into the apartment would have to pass through a mountain of furniture. The entire room had been cleaned out, except for the television. There was a crack of light at the edge of the wall and along the top of the window. The drapes were so old and worn that, in spots, the lining had lost its blackout quality. Merselus considered that a positive, since the room would brighten with the swirl of police lights in the parking lot-if and when they came.

“Quiet,” he said. He could have sworn he’d heard something. He had to move the mini-refrigerator to get to the door and put his ear to the hollow metal. He heard nothing, but he waited. Then he heard it again.

Pounding.

What the hell?

No, it was knocking. Distant knocking. They were knocking on apartment doors. From the sound of it, they were still several doors away. But no doubt about it: The police were actually going door to door.

Idiots!

Merselus switched off the television, and the room went black. Then he positioned himself at the doorjamb, held his pistol at the ready, and waited.

Jack listened, trying not to interrupt, as Geoffrey Bennett talked. They were alone in Jack’s living room, Bennett seated on the couch and Jack in an armchair. Bennett would occasionally look Jack in the eye, but for the most part, his gaze was cast downward at the coffee table.

“There’s another side to Ellen,” he said of his wife. “A dark side.”

The pause seemed to invite inquiry from Jack. “How dark?” he asked.

“Dark enough to get mixed up with a monster like this guy Merselus.”

Jack caught his breath. “When you say mixed up. .”

“I mean,” he started to say, then stopped, as if it were unspeakable.

“They were lovers?” asked Jack.

“Love had nothing to do with it.”

Jack moved to the edge of his seat, leaning forward. “Look, if you know something, you need to just come right out and say it. The FBI is working right now, trying to find Merselus and stop him from hurting your daughter.”

Bennett breathed in and out, then continued. “Ellen and this guy linked up on the Internet. I’m not exactly sure when, but it was definitely before Sydney got arrested.”

“Before or after Emma’s death?”

“Before,” Bennett said, swallowing hard. “Definitely before.”

“You say ‘definitely’ before. Why do you say that?”

He looked Jack in the eye and said, “Because he killed her.”

It was hard to comprehend, as many times as Jack had heard the world say his client was guilty. But something in Bennett’s voice almost made Jack believe it. “How?” Jack asked.

“Threw her in the swimming pool. Emma could swim as well as any two-year-old. You teach the little ones to go right to the side of the pool, grab onto the ledge, and do the hand-over-hand choo-choo train to the shallow end, where they can climb out. But every time she grabbed the ledge,” he said, his voice quaking, “Merselus would pry her fingers loose. She kept swimming back, and he’d pry her loose again. After a while, she got too tired to swim back.”

It was making Jack ill just to hear it, the thought of a two-year-old girl fighting to hang on, no match for an adult who knew she couldn’t fight forever. He thought of Emma’s little legs churning, too, and her feet scraping the bottom of the pool-exactly the way Jack’s forensic expert had described it.

“Why would he do that to Emma?”

“Because he’s one very sick bastard.”

“Yeah, he is,” said Jack. “But that doesn’t answer my question. There are lots of ways for sick bastards to get their thrills. Why Emma?”

“I don’t know.”

Jack could tell that he was holding back. “I think you do,” he said, his gaze tightening.

Bennett looked away, then back. “About a month before Emma died, Ellen hired a babysitter so the two of us could go out. When we came home, the babysitter was all upset. She said that Emma asked her to touch her privates. So, like I say, I don’t know for a fact. But I think Merselus killed Emma because she was getting old enough to, you know. .”

“To talk about who was abusing her?” said Jack.

Bennett nodded.

The sick feeling inside Jack was getting worse. But there was anger, too. “Why in the hell did you wait all this time to say something?”

“Ellen said they could pin it on me. You heard those rumors of me being an abuser, some people even saying I was the father of Sydney’s child. Where do you think that shit got started? Ellen and her sick son-of-a-bitch boyfriend could have sunk me.”

“So you let them pin it on your daughter instead?”

“I knew that would never stick.”

“I’m not sure how you could have known that. I was her lawyer, and until I heard Judge Matthews’ clerk say ‘not guilty,’ I thought we were looking at the death penalty.”

“Trust me. I knew Sydney was not going to be convicted.”

“Are you saying it was you who bought off juror number five?”

“No, no. They did. Ellen and Merselus. They let me in on it so I wouldn’t feel the need to save Sydney from the death penalty. The fix was in, so to speak. So I just. . went along. Kept my mouth shut. I shouldn’t have, I know. What Sydney went through is beyond horrible.”

He slumped back into the couch, as if drained, bringing a hand to his face. Then his shoulders heaved, two quick jerks, but he quickly brought the sobbing under control. Jack was certain that if Geoffrey Bennett had been of a constitution any less rich in testosterone, he would have seen a grown man cry.

That, or Sydney wasn’t the only member of the Bennett family who longed to be an actor.

“We need to get this information to Agent Henning right now,” Jack said. “I can try to reach her by phone, but I know I won’t get through. She’ll have to call us back. Meantime, you and I are going to take a ride right now to the FBI field office.”

Bennett nodded slowly, signaling acquiescence as much as agreement, and rose from the couch. Jack led him to the door, showed him out, and locked the door behind them. They stepped down from the landing and onto the sidewalk. Jack was a half step ahead of Bennett when the bushes rustled and a woman’s voice pierced the darkness.

“Stop right there.”

The men stopped, and Jack saw the gun.

“Ellen, no!” shouted Bennett.

“Don’t make a move,” said Mrs. Bennett, “neither one of you.”

Merselus stood at the door, listening.

He’d turned off the noisy air conditioner to hear better, and the dark room was becoming an oven. He was too focused to care or even notice. He knew that there were twelve units on each floor in this wing of the complex, all facing the parking lot. An old motor lodge was anything but soundproof and, judging from the direction the sound had traveled, he determined that the police officers had started with apartment 112 at the other end of the wing and were working their way down in order. He’d counted three distinct rounds of knocking so far. By his estimation, they were still at least six units away from apartment 102.