Blood Money (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

I
t was Jack’s second visit to a hospital in as many days. This time, he was the patient—in the emergency room.

“How do you feel?” asked Andie.

It was just the two of them in the small patient bay. A privacy curtain separated them from the buzz of activity that was the nerve center of Mercy Hospital’s ER. The adjustable bed was in the upright position, forcing Jack to sit up.

“I’m totally fine,” he said. “Can we get out of here, please?”

With all the tests they were running, Jack knew he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. His visit to the ER was going on four hours, and Andie had been at his side almost that long. A security guard at the high school had found Jack in the bushes and called an ambulance. By the time paramedics arrived, Jack had regained consciousness, somewhat disoriented but lucid enough to realize that his attacker had removed the bindings before fleeing. His wrists and ankles were raw, however, red bracelets that confirmed his recollection. He’d already recounted the entire attack twice, once to the ER physician and again to Andie. He was tired of talking about it, tired of saying the name Sydney Bennett. He was especially tired of the neck brace.

“This thing has got to go,” he said as he tugged at the Velcro.

“Leave it,” said Andie.

Frustrated and exhausted, Jack let his head settle back into the pillow. The privacy curtain parted, and in walked a man who could have been straight out of an episode of
Law & Order
.

“Jorge Rivera,” he said in a voice that was just right for a police station, a little loud for a patient with a throbbing head. “City of Miami Police.”

The neck brace prevented Jack from turning his head, but he cut his eyes in Rivera’s direction, then toward Andie, who explained what the detective was doing there.

“I called him,” she said.

For a moment, Jack was speechless. “Andie, what if I didn’t want to involve the police?”

Andie paused, her turn to be speechless. It was one of those patented disconnects in their relationship, as if Jack had asked, What if I wanted to paint myself blue and run naked through the ER?

She rose and shook Rivera’s hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.” He said “no” like a cow, a long moo with an “n.” From Jack’s vantage point, the bovine analogy seemed to fit in more ways than one. He was a large man, undoubtedly muscle-bound in his younger years, simply thick in middle age. He wore a necktie with the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, not to be casual but because the jowls made it impossible to button it. Folds of skin on the back of his neck led like steps to his crew-cut head. He had a set of matching stairs on his forehead.

“I know you’re hurtin’,” said Rivera, “but I’ll be quick. I got most of what I need from Agent Henning’s report.”

Jack shot another look in Andie’s direction—more than just eye movement this time, despite the neck brace. “You did a report?” he said, incredulous.

“Yes, I had to.”

“No, you didn’t
have
to. This isn’t an FBI matter.”

“You’re wrong there, Jack. Your attacker threatened an FBI agent.”

Someone you love will get what Sydney deserves.
Andie had probably filled in the blank correctly, but other alarming possibilities came to mind.

“What about
Abuela
?” Jack said. “And my father?”

“Theo is spending the night at your grandmother’s. I spoke to your father. It was three
A.M.
his time, and he didn’t seem particularly concerned.”

Jack blinked, confused.

Andie said, “Your father and stepmother are vacationing in London. They’re five hours ahead of us. Six hours ago, your head was clear enough to remember that.”

Jack had completely forgotten, which told him that he wasn’t recovering from the attack as quickly as he had thought. “I’ll call them in the morning.”

“Anyone else you want to call?” asked Rivera.

“Let me think a minute,” said Jack. “My head’s a little cloudy, and I don’t want to forget if there’s anyone else I should—oh, hell yes. Sydney’s parents.”

Rivera looked confused. “You put Sydney’s parents in the category of ‘someone you love’?”

“No, no,” said Jack. “The threat wasn’t just against me and my loved ones. This guy is out to do harm to the Bennetts’ daughter—that’s his ultimate objective. They need to be made aware of that.”

Andie said, “I spoke to them. Neither one of them claims to have a clue where Sydney is.”

“Do you believe them?” asked Jack.

“Actually, I do,” said Andie. “Lord knows that if they were in touch with Sydney, we would have heard about it on BNN by now.”

Jack sensed a hint of sarcasm. “Maybe I should follow up with them.”

“No,” said Andie. “They really don’t want to hear from you.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Jack. The defense hadn’t explicitly played the “abuse excuse” at trial, but they hadn’t portrayed the Bennetts as model parents, either.

“I’ll work that angle,” said Andie. “For now, I made it clear that they need to call me if they hear from Sydney. My message to them was that Sydney didn’t do anything illegal by going into hiding, but she could be doing something really stupid if she decides to come out of hiding.”

“Oooo-kay,” said Rivera, another moo. “My turn. Just a few questions for you, Mr. Swyteck.” He removed a pen and notepad from his pocket, then started down his checklist.

“First, Agent Henning said you’ve been getting threatening phone calls. Did any of those callers sound like the guy who attacked you?”

“No. First of all, the guy had some kind of voice distorter, like he had cotton or something in his mouth. But aside from that, every call I got was from a woman. You could ask my secretary if any of the calls she took were from men.”

“Already did that,” said Andie. “All women.”

Rivera put a check mark on his list, then stumbled through a few generic questions that could have fit everything from a dog bite to a terrorist attack. He was rambling, almost as if stalling, which was annoying. Finally, a police photographer arrived, and Rivera got to the heart of the matter.

“Mind if I take a look at your neck?”

“Sorry, Dr. Henning here says I have to leave this contraption on.”

Andie rolled her eyes and said, “I’ll check with the doctor.”

Rivera and the photographer discussed the shots they needed while Andie was away. Her quick return told Jack that she had definitely flashed her badge out there in the ER jungle. A doctor accompanied her. Jack had one of those feeling-old moments, struck by the way doctors seemed to get younger every time he needed one. This one looked like a teenager.

“I’m Dr. Cohen,” she said as she removed the brace. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

“Ouch!” said Jack.

“As long as you don’t turn your head,” the doctor added.

The photographer moved in quickly for the shots they needed—straight on, side angles, close-ups.

“Keep your head just like that,” Rivera told him.

Jack’s chin was raised slightly, but with a little effort he was able to see what was going on at shoulder level. Rivera held an eight-by-ten photograph below Jack’s chin for comparison. The tone of the discussion changed, as if Jack was no longer in the room, Rivera and Andie talking cop to cop.

Rivera said, “You see the bruising pattern that is emerging here, right along his carotid artery?”

“Definitely,” said Andie.

“Now look at the photograph.”

Andie paused, seeming to study it. “Bruising is virtually in the same spot,” she said.

“Same spot as
who
?” asked Jack.

Andie touched his hand, as if to reassure. “Celeste Laramore.”

Jack took a minute to absorb the comparison, but his skepticism bore out. “This is junk science, folks. Wouldn’t anyone who gets choked have a bruise like mine?”

“No,” said Rivera. “That’s the interesting thing. I asked our medical examiner to take a look at Celeste Laramore’s photos. He says the bruising pattern on her neck is more like a hanging, where the rope jerks up higher on the neck. It’s the simple force of gravity, the weight of the body pulling the victim down. Choking someone with your bare hands tends to produce a bruising pattern much lower than this. Unless you were lifting them up by the neck.”

“He didn’t lift me up. I was on the ground.”

“That’s my point. No one saw Celeste Laramore’s feet leave the ground, either.”

“You’re suggesting we had the same attacker?”

“It’s an assumption based on the M.O.”

“Strangulation?”

“More than that. It’s
the way
he strangles his victim. He seems to be trying to simulate the effects of a hanging with his bare hands.”

Jack gave it some thought. “Well, I don’t necessarily agree that you can ascribe an M.O. to someone in a mob who reached out and grabbed Celeste Laramore by the throat. But for the sake of discussion, let’s say you’re on to something. Why would anyone try to simulate a hanging?”

The doctor spoke up. “Possibly to involve the carotid sinus.”

“The what?” asked Jack.

“The carotid sinus is a dilatation of the lower end of the internal carotid artery,” Dr. Cohen said, gently putting her hand to Jack’s neck. “It functions as a baroreceptor, which is complicated, but basically it plays a key role in short-term blood pressure control.”

The doctor no longer seemed like a teenager to Jack. “So . . . you’re saying what? The carotid sinus comes into play in hanging but not in other forms of strangulation?”

“Not exactly. But there have been studies on this, partly out of morbid fascination with what actually causes death in a hanging, which isn’t fully understood. It’s safe to say that a hanging would more likely involve pressure above the carotid sinus—like your injury. Other forms of manual strangulation might involve pressure on or below the carotid sinus.”

“Above or below—what’s the difference?” asked Jack.

“Pressure above the carotid sinus can interrupt parasympathetic pathways between the brain and heart, which can result in anything from fainting to instantaneous death.”

“To coma,” said Jack, thinking of Celeste Laramore.

“Yes. Coma is possible. Depending in part on the duration and force of the compression. Don’t get me wrong. You can get the same end result with pressure on or below the carotid sinus. But there are researchers who posit that pressure above it—as in a hanging—is more, shall we say, efficient. Or maybe ‘expedient’ is the right word.”

The doctor refastened Jack’s neck brace, but Jack was watching Andie, almost able to feel her next question coming.

“Doctor,” said Andie, “how difficult is it for someone to know how much force and compression are needed to achieve a specific result along the continuum you described?”

“Are you asking me if someone could learn how to squeeze a person’s neck just long enough to make him pass out, how to apply enough pressure to make sure he’s dead, how to stop just short of death and induce a coma?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m asking.”

“Virtually impossible.”

“Well, you’re the doctor,” said Jack. “But isn’t controlled deprivation of oxygen the whole idea behind erotic asphyxiation?”

Andie’s mouth opened, but the words were on a few-second delay. “Not that he learned that from
me
.”

The detective snickered. “Henning, I knew you had a wild side.”

“No, no,” Jack said nervously. “I wasn’t implying . . . Actually, this was another woman I dated who used to like to—”

Jack stopped, frozen by a glare from his fiancée that said,
Way too much information.

An awkward silence hung between them. Finally, the doctor bailed Jack out.

“Mr. Swyteck raises a good point,” said Dr. Cohen. “The notion that oxygen deprivation is something you can manipulate with precision is a myth. Even when the participants know each other intimately, and the strangulation is intended only to enhance sexual gratification, mistakes happen. So you can only imagine what a guessing game it is when the victim is a stranger. There’s absolutely no way to know how far you can push it without fatal results. Too many different variables come into play. One person’s fainting episode is another person’s cardiac arrest.”

Jack was reluctant to say more on the subject, but it was worth pursuing. “There’s always someone who
thinks
he’s smart enough, who thinks he can play God and get whatever result he wants.”

Andie picked up on Jack’s point, apparently having forgiven his faux pas. “I see this in my criminal profiling. Predators with enough experience to fancy themselves experts on such matters.”

The doctor considered it. “That would be one very sick human being.”

Andie took Jack’s hand, her eyes clouding with concern. “I’ve known a few of them.”

Jack would have nodded, if not for the neck brace. “You and me both,” he said.

Chapter Twelve

J
ack left the ER just after midnight. He could have walked out on his own power, but the nurse insisted that “hospital policy” required him to remain in a wheelchair until they were through the doors and were completely outside the building. It was standard procedure for patients who have experienced any loss of consciousness.

“And for lawyers,” the nurse told him.

Jack did a double take.

“Kidding,” she said, only half smiling.

Andie held his hand a little tighter than usual as they started toward the stairs, making sure he was stable. From the top step Jack could see all the way across the parking lot to the bay. Not many hospitals shared a breathtaking stretch of shoreline with some of the most expensive waterfront homes in Miami, and the sparkle of the moon on Biscayne Bay reminded him why, year after year, the
New Times
survey of south Florida attractions rated Mercy Hospital as “best view from a death bed.” Jack stopped at the base of the stairs. A certain aspect of their conversation in the ER was weighing on his mind.

“Andie, when Dr. Cohen and I started talking about erotic asphyxiation—”

“Jack, let’s not go there.”

“Please. I want you to know—”

“I don’t need to know anything about it. Really.”

“But I don’t want you to think that—”

“Jack, just stop.”

“It’s not that we were into strangling each other. She would just hang her head off the edge of the mattress when we—”

“La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la,” she said with her hands over her ears. “I can’t hear you.”

A camera flashed. Jack turned so quickly that not even the neck brace could stop him from hurting himself. Another flash blinded him. His vision returned in time for him to see the photographer leap over a small hedge and jump into the passenger side of a car that was waiting at the curb with the motor running. The tires squealed as it sped away.

The color had drained from Andie’s face. “Did we just get paparazzied?

“Is that a word?”

“I don’t care if it’s a word or not,” she said, then quickly lowered her voice so only Jack could hear. “Jack, I work undercover. The absolute last thing I need is for a magazine photograph of me to go viral over the Internet.”

She’d just flagged the proverbial white elephant in their relationship. “Andie, it’s not like I started working on this case yesterday. You knew how much media coverage it’s gotten.”

“I
knew
that my fiancé was attacked and ended up in the emergency room. I came to help you.”

“And I love you for that. But this is why I didn’t want to involve the police. No police report, no news coverage.”

“Oh, so you’re saying it’s
my
fault because I called Detective Rivera?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. Just, let’s not overreact.”

“Don’t tell me I’m
overreacting
,” she said, again realizing that she was too loud. She took it down a few decibels. “I’m not even allowed to have a Facebook page. How do you think the bureau is going to react when they see this?”

“See what? Some random guy snapped a picture. You’re acting like he works for Associated Press.”

“Sydney Bennett’s lawyer is walking out of the emergency room at midnight wearing a neck brace. It doesn’t take Pulitzer Prize credentials to sell that shot to Faith Corso. The woman will have an orgasm—with or without erotic asphyxiation.”

Jack had no rebuttal, but he needed to do something about the negative energy between them. He took a feeble stab at humor. “Don’t worry. Knowing BNN, they’ll Photoshop you out of the picture and insert Sydney Bennett.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

Andie breathed in and out, saying nothing.

Jack moved closer. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.”

“This will work out,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”

Andie didn’t answer.

“Let’s go home,” he said, taking her hand.

She didn’t move.

“Andie?”

Her gaze was fixed on the sidewalk, no eye contact with Jack.

“Andie, say something.”

Finally, their eyes met.

“I think I should stay at my place tonight,” she said.

That put Jack back on his heels. They hadn’t officially moved in together, but only because Andie’s lease had yet to expire. Even Max had come to expect her on a daily basis and whimpered when she was away.

“That’s not necessary,” he said.

“It’s the smart thing. You were exactly right: It’s not like you started working on this case yesterday. I should have taken this precaution a long time ago. As it stands now it’s just for a few days, until Sydney Bennett is completely behind you and the media coverage goes away.”

“And what happens the next time I handle a high-profile trial?”

“I don’t know.”

“Really? You
don’t know
? I thought we had talked about this.”

“We did, but on a whole different level. A little bit of local media coverage is one thing. This case is in the news nationwide, twenty-four/seven. The problems are on a different scale for me. I need to step back and think.”

“Step back? You mean from us?”

“No,” she said, struggling. “Just, step back from . . . things.”

Jack was having trouble seeing a difference, but her proposal didn’t seem negotiable. “Okay then. We’ll step back.”

Andie dug her car keys from her purse. “I’ll drive you home. I’m glad you’re okay with this.”

I’m glad you think I am.

“Sure,” said Jack. “Perfectly okay.”