Burn (Michael Bennett 7)

CHAPTER 88

GUNNY STOOD AND TOOK a Post-it-flagged Us Weekly magazine off the top of the stack and folded it open in front of the judge.

“I’d like to direct your attention to this photo from the American Music Awards of last year,” he said. “As you see, in the top right-hand corner of the page, Mr. Bieth here is accompanying the celebrity pop singer Amora on the red carpet.”

“Magazines? Really?” Pendleton said. “This is silly. That Mr. Bieth is in a relationship with Amora Searson is common knowledge. Mr. Bieth worked for the celebrity singer as a backup dancer. They fell in love. Will we next be shown the Entertainment Tonight clip that chronicles their relationship? How does this matter, Judge?”

“Mr. Chung?” the judge said.

“Because of this,” Gunny said, peeling a printout from the stack. “This is a copy of a TwitPic and a tweet Amora sent out to her thirteen million followers three months ago. As in the magazine photo, again we see Mr. Bieth and Amora, but this time poolside with Amora’s two adopted boys from Rwanda, Alexander and Harry. The accompanying tweeted caption reads, ‘Just hanging with my boyzzz livin the good life finally after the tour. Though a pretty little girl would make my life even good-er I think…’”

“Which means?” Pendleton said.

Gunny turned toward the judge, who seemed to be losing his patience.

“Mr. Bieth’s claim is that he’s here for his daughter because he just found out about her existence. How curious it is to see this sudden revelation coinciding with his celebrity love interest’s desire to acquire a new human accessory—I mean, excuse me, to adopt a little girl.”

“Coincidences happen all the time, Chung,” Pendleton said. “The fact of the matter is, my client never knew of this pregnancy, let alone signed off on any adoption. Now trot out the DNA that proves paternity. This poor young man has been put through enough. He wants his daughter back.”

Gunny looked at Pendleton for a long beat. Then Gunny looked at me, and we both smiled. My fingers were crossed even tighter now. It was time to reveal our ace in the hole. Or was it the joker?

“Of course he does,” Gunny said, reaching into his jacket. “But first, there’s just one more thing.”

He laid a photograph on the desk in front of the judge.

“This photograph was found on Barbara Anjou’s memorial Facebook page, posted after her suicide three months after Chrissy’s birth.”

Instead of the red carpet or a mansion poolside, this last photo had been taken in what looked like a crummy hospital room. But Bieth was in this one, too. Along with Chrissy’s birth mother, who was holding a day-old Chrissy.

“If you want a magnifying glass to read the tag on Chrissy’s wrist, Your Honor,” Gunny said, taking one from his pocket, “I happen to have one right here.

“This photo proves the fact that Mr. Bieth knew about Chrissy from the very beginning,” he said. “He chose not to care about her in the slightest. That is, until now, when custody of Chrissy would provide him an opportunity to stay in the good graces of his wealthy paramour.

“This case hinges on the claim that Mr. Bieth had been kept in the dark. It’s obvious that was never the case. We move for you to dismiss this claim right now.”

Judge Ceyak looked through the magnifying glass for a long minute, then laid it down on top of the photograph. When he looked up, Pendleton and then Bieth both put their heads down. Pendleton raised his head and opened his mouth for a moment; then he closed his mouth and lowered his head again.

In the silence through the doorway, I could hear the glorious sound of my beautiful daughter humming happily and obliviously as she played her video game.

“I have one question for you, Mr. Pendleton,” Ceyak said.

“What’s that, Your Honor?” Pendleton said.

“With this rain, you’re going to find it difficult to get a taxi back to the airport,” Ceyak said. “Would you like the number of a good car service?”

CHAPTER 89

EARLY THAT FOLLOWING FRIDAY afternoon, I found myself back in the thick of things at work.

After several—at times heated—meetings between me, my boss, Miriam, and the chief of detectives, a proposal of mine had finally been approved concerning the diamond heist case.

With all the panache and boldness that the crew had already displayed, coupled with the fact that each score had been bigger than the one before, it was obvious they weren’t done yet. It was my theory that they would strike again in the splashiest way possible sometime during the International Diamond Conference, which had started on Wednesday. Also, considering how quickly the thieves had escaped in each robbery, I knew we needed to be right there on the scene when it happened.

So after much debate and volunteering my Harlem squad guys for the special assignment, a multilocation round-the-clock surveillance detail had finally been approved for Tiffany’s and Harry Winston and the Diamond District. Straws were drawn, and for the last three days, Arturo Lopez and I had been having our breakfasts at Tiffany’s.

Across from the famous jewelry store on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-Seventh Street, we sat in the back of a graffiti-co

vered white box truck watching the world go by on the surveillance vehicle’s hidden high-def camera. So far there had been no sign of the thieves. Or even Audrey Hepburn.