Blood Money

information and such, and I think under Florida law I could have gotten the mother’s first name, if I’d wanted it. But the birth mother’s identity was just something I never really wanted to pursue.”

Jack turned at the Twelfth Street exit, and they stopped at the red light at the end of the ramp. The hospital where Celeste lay in a coma was in sight. Jack glanced at her adoptive mother.

“I’m thinking it may be time to find out,” he said.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Ted Gaines’ flight landed at LaGuardia Airport a few minutes before nine P.M., just in time to see the Tuesday-evening edition of the Faith Corso Show. He didn’t like what he was seeing.

“Friends,” said Corso in a somber tone, “it was a dark day for this network in a Miami courtroom today.”

Dark day?

Confused, Gaines stepped closer to the flat-screen television that hung by a bracket from the ceiling. He was in Figaro’s, a bar directly across from the gate where his flight from Miami had deplaned.

Corso continued, “As her twenty-year-old daughter lay in a coma, Virginia Laramore was viciously attacked on the witness stand by prominent attorney Ted Gaines. The issue in the case was simply this: Who caused Celeste Laramore to go into a coma? Of course, we here at BNN deny any responsibility for that tragic course of events. But Mr. Gaines simply went too far. In the worst case of overzealous lawyering I have ever witnessed, he proceeded to accuse Mrs. Laramore of abusing her own child and causing the heart condition that resulted in her slipping into a coma. In support of his attack, he introduced into evidence a series of medical records showing that, before the age of two, Celeste Laramore had visited the emergency room more than two dozen times. Mr. Gaines should be ashamed of himself, and he should have done his homework. My own reporters have investigated this matter, and we have this exclusive story for you, and this important message for Mr. Gaines: Celeste Laramore was adopted, you moron!”

Gaines shuddered. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

“Yes,” said Corso, “adopted. Those medical records showing physical abuse were all before Celeste was adopted-‘rescued’ may be a better word for it-by the Laramore family. Now, friends, as I mentioned, Mr. Gaines is the attorney for this network. I’m risking my own job by saying this, but I pray for the sake of the Laramore family and for the sake of Lady Justice that Mr. Gaines will no longer be the lawyer for the network I am proud to call home, the network that prides itself on getting the story right and on doing the right thing-your Breaking News Network.”

Gaines ground his teeth together, clenched his fists tight, and tried to breathe. The anger inside was more than he could contain. He stepped out of the bar and found a quiet place by the kiosk for a “lids” vendor that sold baseball caps. His hand trembled with anger as he dialed Keating’s private line. The CEO answered as if he were expecting the call.

“How goes it, Ted?”

“You son of a bitch, you set me up.”

“Well, hold on there, counselor.”

“Hold on, my ass. It wasn’t my idea to go after Virginia Laramore as an abusive parent. You wanted it. You gave me the records. You said your investigator checked it out. That was all a lie. You knew all along that Celeste was adopted, didn’t you?”

“Now, why would I do that to you, Ted?”

“Why? What better reason to ruin a trial lawyer’s hard-earned reputation than to manufacture ten minutes of self-righteous glory for Faith Corso on national television?”

“That was awfully brave of Faith, wasn’t it?” Keating said smugly. “To risk her job and call on her own network to fire its high-priced lawyer?”

“It was staged.”

“It’s all staged,” Keating fired back. “You know that better than anyone.”

“I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing. But I’m done with it. I quit.”

“Too late,” said Keating. “Check your e-mail. A letter went out from my office two minutes ago dismissing you from the case.”

Gaines moved away from the kiosk and the businessman who was checking out a Yankees cap. “You are as low as they come,” Gaines said, hissing into the phone. “Is there anyone you won’t destroy in the name of entertainment?”

“My mother died six years ago. So the answer is no. Good luck to you, Mr. Gaines.”

The call ended.

Gaines shoved the phone into the pocket of his blazer and turned around to check the TV inside Figaro’s. He was standing too far away to hear, but it took little imagination to figure out what Faith Corso was saying. His photograph-not a flattering one-was on the screen directly above the BREAKING NEWS banner. Bold red letters ran diagonally across his face.

FIRED, it read.

He closed his eyes in disbelief. You fool, Gaines. You complete fool.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Sydney Bennett’s pulse pounded, her heart racing at better than two beats per second, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. Darkness was her friend, really. It made her harder to find. But each night her mind played tricks on her, the slightest noise setting her off in a fit of panic.

She crouched low behind the overgrown bushes, her back to a wall of rough stucco, her knees to her chin, all too aware of the sound of her own breathing.

Quiet!

She was soaking wet, shoeless, and wearing only a T-shirt and underwear. She’d sprinted all the way from the swimming pool, across a parking lot, and down the sidewalk a good two hundred yards before ducking into the bushes. Voices on the other side of the wood fence around the pool area had freaked her out in the middle of an improvised bath. For the past two days she’d been hiding in a vacant townhouse at Whispering Pines, one of those gated communities where all the units looked exactly alike. It was a brand-new development, but not a single one of the three dozen townhomes had ever been occupied. South Florida was littered with empty developments like this one, residential ghost towns, the remnants of a reckless build, build, build spree that had swept developers into bankruptcy, buyers into foreclosure, and big banks into bailouts. Much of Whispering Pines had fallen into disrepair, overrun by weeds and mold. Some units were at least minimally maintained, the owners apparently clinging to the hope that the market might someday rebound, but even after seven broken windows Sydney couldn’t find a single one that had running water. The developer or the bank or whoever owned the property was keeping up the clubhouse, however, so the slightly green pool was her bathtub.

What was that?

She heard the voice again, the one that had scared her off from the pool. A man’s voice.

Merselus?

She couldn’t tell if it was him, but she knew he was after her, that he’d never stop until he found her. The man was relentless. Obsessed. Maybe even crazy. Though he could also be convincing, even charming. He’d certainly fooled Sydney. He had a business card, a resume, and enough money to rent a private airplane. He also had a plan. He’d led her to believe that the plan was to sell her book, make a movie, and make Sydney Bennett a star. It was all a ruse. If she’d had Internet access in the detention center she could have probably figured out that his talent agency was nonexistent, that he’d never actually sold the books and movies he’d claimed to have sold, that his plan for Sydney was something else entirely.

There it is again!