Last to die

by James Grippando

  Jack felt a chill. It was almost too convincing, the way Javier had acted out the pedophile analogy.

  “What did Gerry mean by a gold mine?” asked Kelsey. “Was he laundering money there?”

  “Nah,” Javier said, dismissing it. “Gerry was a total bullshitter. But his little song and dance worked. Sally gave her husband the go-ahead to buy the place. From day one it hemorrhaged money. Eventually it wiped them out.”

  “Is that why she hates Gerry’s guts?” asked Jack.

  “From what she told me, she saw this Gerry character as the start of all her problems. It was the end of her happy marriage and her life with her little girl. The beginning of nothing but worries about money. Then she started working at Hooters or some place like that, which was when that stalker started hassling her. You know about that, right?”

  “Yeah, Miguel told me. He thinks it was the stalker who murdered his daughter.”

  “Well, there you go. In Sally’s mind, all her problems, including that stalker, could be traced back to Gerry selling them that pig-in-a-poke restaurant.”

  “That’s interesting. Like I said, I don’t think Gerry is on Miguel’s short list of drinking buddies anymore, but he doesn’t seem to have the hatred that Sally had.”

  “If you could ask Sally, she’d say it’s because Miguel is stupid. He thinks their restaurant failed because of the flood that ruined all their improvements. He just didn’t want to admit that his own friend screwed him from the get-go.”

  Jack and Kelsey exchanged glances, as if something was still missing. Jack said, “Anything else come to mind, Javier?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Let’s talk about Tatum for a minute. Why is he a beneficiary under Sally’s will?”

  “Pretty obvious, don’t you think?”

  “You tell me.”

  “From what I understand, Sally set this up like a game-survival of the fittest.”

  “In a sense, yes. Last one living takes all.”

  “There’s more to it than that, right?”

  “How do you mean?” asked Jack.

  “Tatum says there’s two ways to get the money. One is to outlive everybody. The other is to be the only one who doesn’t-what do you call it-renounce his inheritance?”

  “That’s right,” said Kelsey. “Anyone can pull out, if they choose.”

  “There you go,” said Javier. “You either gotta outlive everybody, or you gotta persuade the others to throw in the towel. In that kind of game, doesn’t it make sense to have at least one person in the mix, like Tatum, who isn’t squeamish about blood?”

  Jack narrowed his eyes and said, “Are you saying that Sally intended to have these people fight over her money. I don’t mean legal battles. I mean fighting, literally.”

  “If her ex-husband and this Gerry are on the list, yeah, absolutely. I think she would have liked nothing better than for those two guys to end up killing each other trying to get her money.”

  “So she made Tatum a beneficiary to do what? Get the fists flying?”

  “All I can tell you is that one night, Sally asks me if I know any tough guys. Real tough guys. I say sure. That’s it. I don’t ask questions. I hooked her up with Tatum, and that was that.”

  Jack said, “Next thing you know, she’s shot dead, and Tatum’s a beneficiary under her will.”

  “About the size of it.” Javier checked his watch and said, “Look, I gotta get back to work. I work for tips, and filling these suites is my big take for the night.”

  “Of course,” said Jack, rising. “We’ll clear out.”

  “Unless you and the lady want to stay. It’s very private.”

  “No, no,” said Jack.

  “That’s quite all right,” said Kelsey.

  “You sure?” said Javier. “I’m full service here. Whatever you want, I can get. Drinks, breath mints, ecstasy, condoms.”

  Kelsey popped like a spring from the couch at his mention of condoms, as if propelled by the thought of what she might have been sitting in. Jack had a feeling that her awesome red dress was destined for Goodwill.

  “How about a rain check?” said Jack.

  They shook hands and said good night. Then Jack and Kelsey followed the stairs down to the main floor and continued out the exit to the sidewalk. It was almost midnight, and Washington Avenue was kicking into high gear, an eclectic mix of gays and straights, tourists and natives. A stretch limo cruised by, music blasting through the open windows. The back end was an outdoor hot tub bubbling over with twenty-something-year-old hard bodies who were laughing loudly and speaking Portuguese.

  “I’m real sorry about this,” said Jack as they reached the curb.

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I asked you to come because I thought it would be fun for you. A more exciting side of lawyering. I didn’t mean to throw you to a recovering porn addict.”

  “You didn’t throw me. I volunteered. I’m not going to shrivel up and die because some pathetic loser can’t look at my face without thinking about…well, whatever he was trying not to think about.”

  “So you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay. But as for the speech I gave in your office today-about how using your body is no different than using your brain?”

  “Yeah?” said Jack.

  “After meeting Javier, let’s just say my thoughts are evolving on that front.”

  “Fair enough,” he said with a smile. They stood in silence for a moment, a little awkward, as Jack debated the next move. The yellow light from Club Vertigo’s neon sign was playing against Kelsey’s eyes, drawing flecks of gold from the intriguing pools of hazel. The divorce had left him pretty rusty at dating, but he hadn’t completely lost the ability to read the expression on a woman’s face or interpret her posture, the little things that said, “What’s next on the agenda?” as opposed to “I’m tired and I want to go home.” Part of him wanted to take a shot and ask her out for coffee or something, but it just didn’t seem right to be hitting on Nate’s mom.

  “I really have to let the baby-sitter go,” she said. “Maybe another time.”

  “Another time what?”

  She smiled wryly. “For the past thirty seconds you’ve had one eye on me and the other on Starbucks across the street. So…maybe some other time.”

  He fumbled nervously for the valet ticket in his pocket. “Sure,” he said, wondering if he was really that obvious or if she was just that perceptive. “Some other time.”

  Sixteen

  At 1 A.M., the warehouse district west of the Palmetto Expressway had all the charm and personality of Leavenworth after lockdown. The buildings all looked alike, simple cinder-block and sheet-metal construction. Outside each establishment, every inch of ground was covered with nondescript stacks of inventory on pallets. Protecting it all was a nine-foot-high chain-link fence with coiled razor wire running across the top like a man-eating Slinky.

  A thick layer of clouds made the night moonless, and street lamps were few and far between. The little red Honda bounced and rattled across potholes so deep that the entire vehicle was coated with muddy splash. Street maintenance was a losing battle here, as countless trucks beyond the legal weight limit pounded the pavement from sunup to sundown, six days a week.

  Deirdre Meadows was a long way from home, but instinct told her that she was nearing her destination. She stopped at the end of a deserted street to get her bearings, squinting to make out the dimly lit sign ahead.

  “JJ’s Italian Tile and Marble,” she said, reading aloud.

  She checked her notes. That’s it. Finally, after driving around in circles and checking out at least a dozen other places named So and So’s Italian Tile and Marble, she’d found it.

  She killed the engine and switched off the car lights. The sudden blackness gave her pause. It was darker outside than she’d realized. She flipped on the dome light to check her purse. Pen and paper, of course. Dictaphone. Cell phone, battery fully charged. It was no panacea, but s
o long as she had her cell phone, Deirdre would go just about anywhere-anywhere for a story, that is.

  The phone call had come just before midnight. Deirdre was in her living room, watching Letterman on television, the cordless phone at her side. She had Caller ID, which told her only that it was coming from a pay phone. It rang twice before she answered.

  And one last time, she played it over in her mind.

  “Hello.”

  “You ready?” he asked. Again, it was a deep, mechanical voice that almost sounded underwater.

  “You bet,” she answered.

  “Go to JJ’s Italian Tile and Marble on One hundred thirty-second Court, west of the eight-twenty-six. Drive around back and find the gate entrance along the chain-link fence. There’s a padlock on it, but I’ll leave it open. Come inside and walk about a hundred yards straight toward the loading dock.”

  “Why there?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “Look, I’m not so keen about meeting a total stranger behind some building in the middle of the night.”

  “Then don’t come.”

  “You’ll still give me the story?”

  “Not if you don’t come. And by the way, when I say come, I mean alone.”

  “Why are you doing it this way?”

  “Because I want to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “How bad you want the truth about Sally Fenning.”

  “What makes you think I want it this bad?”

  “Because this story has a pretty good payoff. Like forty-six million dollars.”

  “How is the identity of Sally’s killer going to earn me forty-six million dollars?”

  “It won’t cinch it, but it will bring you one step closer.”

  “How?”

  “Sally’s killer can’t inherit anything from her estate. That’s the law, right?”

  Icicles went down her spine. She’d assumed that her caller was no genius, but apparently he was smart enough to know about the Slayer Statute. “That’s right,” she said. “Murderers are disqualified from inheriting anything from their victim.”

  “There you have it. One down, five to go.”

  “Are you telling me that Sally’s killer was one of her six named beneficiaries?”

  “I’m saying be at JJ’s Italian Tile and Marble in ninety minutes or less. End of story. For now.”

  Deirdre checked the clock on her dashboard. More than an hour had passed since that conversation, but the question still burned in her ear: How bad did she want the story?

  Almost as much as the money.

  Instinctively, she found herself reaching for the door handle. The door opened, and she stepped out of the car. The expressway was out of sight, somewhere beyond the block of windowless buildings, but she could hear the steady drone of traffic to the east. It seemed strange that hundreds of vehicles were racing by every minute, yet she felt so alone, not another car or human being in sight. Before shutting the door, she reached for the dash and flashed her parking lights. She checked over her shoulder and took a long look down the dark street. A set of orange parking lights flashed in response, then returned to darkness. Her boyfriend. It made her feel a little safer knowing he was just a hundred yards and a speed-dial away on her cell phone. She closed the car door, took a deep breath, and walked toward the gate, pea gravel crunching beneath each footfall.

  This had better be good, she told herself.

  Seventeen

  It was last call at John Martin’s on Miracle Mile, the closest thing in downtown Coral Gables to an authentic Irish pub. Dark-paneled walls, Harp lager on tap, and classic pub grub like shepherd’s pie or bangers and mash were hardly the norm in south Florida, but John Martin’s was a nice diversion. The long, mahogany bar carved by local artisans was a beauty, and every now and then, the owner would book an authentic Irish band that was sure to get feet stomping and hands clapping. Even pretty waitresses with red hair and freckles, however, couldn’t completely obscure the fact that this was not exactly County Cork, especially at happy hour, when John Martin’s was affectionately known as “Juan Martino’s,” serving largely a Latin business crowd that, even on St. Paddy’s Day, would rather have a mint-colored mojito than a pint of green lager. It might sound strange, but to taste it was to love it.

  “Another Jameson’s and water?” asked the waitress.

  Gerry Colletti swirled the ice cubes in his near-empty glass, then decided that he’d had enough. “No, thanks. We’re about done here.”

  He watched her ass move from side to side as she walked away, then turned his gaze toward the work papers on the table. Seated across from him was Bill Hanson, a man with the look and demeanor of an accountant on April 14, just coffee in his cup. Hanson was an actuary trained in the science of expressing the proverbial length of one’s lifeline in terms of mathematical probabilities. Once Gerry realized that he had to outlive the other named beneficiaries in order to inherit the entirety of Sally’s estate, he hired Hanson to provide a statistical analysis of how he might fare in the test of longevity that Sally’s will had created.

  Gerry glanced at the charts and graphs one more time, then pushed them aside. “This all looks impressive, but I hate interpreting this stuff. Just explain it to me, will you, please?”

  Hanson seemed disappointed, as if charts and graphs were his pride and joy. “You want the long or short version?”

  “I want an answer to the question I hired you to analyze. We got six beneficiaries under Sally Fenning’s will. The one who lives the longest gets forty-six million dollars. So, let’s just apply the normal criteria that insurance companies use to evaluate the risks posed by any applicant for life insurance. Who’s going to live the longest?”

  “I can’t tell you who is going to live the longest. All I can do is rank them according to the actuarial score I gave them.”

  “And the score means what?”

  “The higher the number, the higher the risk for the insurance company. Which, in your context, means the greater the likelihood of experiencing early death.”

  “That means I want all these other jokers to have big numbers.”

  “Exactly. Mind you, this is not as reliable as something I would put together in the case of an actual insurance application. Applicants are required to disclose all kinds of information relating to their family background and health. Here, I’ve used only what I’ve been able to dig up on these people.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ve also thrown into the mix a few factors that I couldn’t legally consider in an insurance application. Things that, frankly, might get an insurance company sued.”

  “But I’m not an insurance company, and anyone who’s stupid enough to sue me ought to have their head examined. Just give me what you’ve got.”

  “Okay.” He cleared his throat, checking his notes. “The highest score goes to the prosecutor. High-stress job, smokes like a chimney, looks to be about forty pounds overweight. He’s fifty-eight and his father died of a heart attack at age fifty-five.”

  “Beautiful. He could go at any time.”

  Hanson shot him a curious look, seemingly uncomfortable.

  Gerry asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I guess I’ve never done an analysis where my client is actually rooting for the big bony man with the black hood and sickle.”

  “I’m not rooting. I just want you to tell it like it is.”

  “I’m glad you said that. Because the second-highest score goes to you.”

  “Me? I don’t even smoke.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Socially.”

  “That aside, the biggest thing working against you is something I can take into consideration only because you’re a friend of mine and I know your lifestyle. Basically, you’re a horny divorce lawyer who hoses half the women who come through his door.”

  “Say what?”

  “Sorry, Gerry. You asked for my honest analysis. As many sexual partners as yo
u’ve had and will continue to have, I put you at a high risk for HIV.”

  “But I use condoms.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I saw those pictures that Lisa Bartow put on the Internet. You remember your old client Lisa, right? You sued her because she wouldn’t pay your bill, and so she retaliated by posting those photographs on the Web of you and her doing-”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I remember.”

  “Funny, I never heard anything more about that dispute. I guess it settled, huh?”

  Gerry wasn’t smiling. “For an accountant, you seem to think you’re one funny guy.”

  “Just dealing with the facts.”

  “Fine. So you got me in second place.”

  “Right. Third is the ex-husband.”

  “That’s ridiculous. How is it that both Miguel and me are at a higher risk for early death than that black guy, Tatum Knight.”

  “Good point. In all fairness, I had trouble assigning any score at all to Mr. Knight. I don’t have any real reliable information on him. For example, family medical is real sketchy. His father is unknown.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “He was raised by an aunt. His mother was a druggie, and I haven’t been able to nail down whether she’s alive or dead.”

  “Don’t waste your time pursuing it. For my purposes, I’ll just assume he’s the kind of guy who could get blown away next week holding up a liquor store.”

  “You may be right about that.”

  “So, bottom line is what?” asked Gerry.

  “Hard to draw firm conclusions. Like I say, Tatum Knight is somewhat of a wild card. And then there’s that sixth beneficiary who didn’t show up for the reading of the will. Until you get me a Social Security number, I can’t pull any information to rank him.”