Last to die

by James Grippando

  “Are you telling me I paid you to do a worthless analysis?”

  “No. Purely from a statistical point of view, I don’t think it matters who the unknown is or what his score is.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “In all probability, your biggest worry is still going to be the newspaper reporter.”

  “Low score?”

  “Very low. She just had her twenty-ninth birthday last month. A vegetarian. Runs marathons. Doesn’t smoke. And she has amazing family history. Her parents are in their seventies and still alive. Both sets of grandparents are also still living. The oldest is ninety-two. If I was going to bet on who was going to win the longevity race, I’d put my money on her.”

  Gerry raised his glass and winked. “Don’t throw your money away, my friend.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Thanks for the help. I’ll call you if I need anything else.”

  Gerry laid a twenty on the table to cover the bar bill. Hanson gathered up his reports, shook hands, and headed for the front exit to Miracle Mile. Gerry’s car was in the back parking lot, so he headed out alone for the rear exit, past the men’s room and the wood-carved sign with the old Irish drinking toast: “May you be in heaven one hour before the devil knows you’re dead.” The final stretch of hallway was the John Martin’s walk of fame, two walls lined with autographed black-and-white photographs of probably every local celebrity who had ever tasted beer, from Roy Black, famous criminal defense lawyer, to Dave Barry, funniest man alive. It soured Gerry’s stomach to see it. Nearly a full year had passed since Gerry had presented the owner with a framed and autographed eight-by-ten of himself.

  Still not up there, you son of a bitch.

  The smell of garbage greeted him as he opened the door and stepped into the back alley. A gray cat leaped from the Dumpster, then scurried up the iron fire escape.

  The autumn night was unpleasantly warm. After midnight, and still it had felt cooler inside the smoke-filled pub. Gerry draped his sport coat over his shoulder and walked toward the parking lot. A weak street lamp illuminated the back of the pub and the rear entrances to several other businesses that had closed hours earlier. It was no darker than the dimly lit bar he’d just left, but the lighting was different, more yellow, and it took time for his eyes to adjust. He noticed that the striped wooden arm was up at the lot’s north exit. Apparently the parking attendant had abandoned all hope of collecting a toll from the handful of stragglers.

  Gerry reached for his keys as he approached his BMW. Counting his, just three cars and a van remained in the entire lot. Naturally, the crummy van was parked right beside his limited edition, paid-extra-for-it, emerald-black paint job. He walked to the front of his car and looked down the driver’s side, checking for fresh dings. It looked clean, but it was too dark to be certain. He considered etching a retaliatory scrape into the side of the van with his key, but just as he started down the narrow opening between his car and the van, the passenger door flew open and hit him squarely in the face. Gerry was knocked backward and fell onto the hood of his car. Someone jumped out and grabbed him by the shirt collar.

  “Stop!” Gerry screamed.

  The attacker whirled him around and landed a fist to Gerry’s right eye. A flurry of punches continued, one blow after another. The man wore leather gloves, but that in no way lessened the beating. His fists felt like iron, as if weighted by rolls of quarters. Gerry had no chance, no way to fight him off. A blow to the belly knocked the wind from him, followed by a direct hit to the side of his head that unleashed a sharp ringing in his ear.

  “Stop already!”

  There was a pause in the frenzy, and Gerry collapsed onto his back, splayed across the hood of his car. He wasn’t seeing or thinking clearly, and just as he raised his head and tried to focus, his attacker grabbed him by the hair and slammed the back of his head into the car hood. Dazed, Gerry slid down the side of the car and landed in a heap.

  He didn’t move, couldn’t even raise his head. A door slammed, and an engine rumbled. The van pulled out. Gerry lay with his cheek against the pavement, his battered eye throbbing as he watched the blurry van disappear into the darkness.

  Eighteen

  The sign on the metal gate read TILE DELIVERIES ONLY, as if to reconfirm that Deirdre was in the right place. The padlock on the latch was open, just as her caller had promised. The hinges squeaked as Deirdre pulled the gate open. She stepped inside the chain-link fence, then paused in the darkness and listened. She heard nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Goose bumps tickled the back of her neck, but it was a warm night, and she knew it was just nerves.

  This was risky, to be sure, but she’d taken bigger risks before for less important stories. Like the night she’d spent downtown, sleeping in a cardboard box beneath the expressway as part of her field research for a day-in-the-life piece on a homeless crack addict, which was never published. Or the time she’d crashed a teenage “rave” party and popped ecstasy so that she could write firsthand about the effects of the drug. She’d nearly fried her brain and ended up in the emergency room, all for eight columns of work that the editors cut to three paragraphs. In retrospect, those seemed like foolish risks. But this story was different. Much more than a byline was at stake.

  At first, Deirdre had dismissed Sally Fenning’s forty-six-million-dollar test of survival. She didn’t seriously think she’d ever see the money. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized: Why not her? There were six beneficiaries. One out of every six people die in accidents-drownings, car crashes, airplane disasters, hunting with morons who didn’t know their friends from a duck. Just like that, her odds were down to one-in-five. Florida had the death penalty, so if tonight’s source could eliminate yet another beneficiary as Sally’s murderer, that would reduce her odds to one-in-four. Who wouldn’t take that bet? She was young and healthy. She had a better shot than anyone. She’d be rich. Filthy rich.

  And with this story, she might be famous to boot.

  She drew a deep breath and entered the back lot. Her caller had told her to go to the loading dock. She could see it straight ahead, fairly well lit by two glowing security lamps. Getting there, however, was a walk through a man-made canyon. The long driveway was just barely wide enough for two trucks to pass in opposite directions, and either side was lined with countless pallets of boxed ceramic tiles, some stacked twenty feet or higher.

  She took a step forward, then started at the sound of her cell phone ringing. She grabbed it quickly, recognizing the number as her boyfriend’s.

  “What are you calling for?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said.

  “I told you I’d call if I got into trouble.”

  “I know. But it’s too dark, too deserted. I don’t like the looks of this, baby.”

  Deirdre hated it when he called her “baby.” “Just stick to the plan, okay? Where would Woodward and Bernstein be today if they’d refused to meet Deep Throat in a dark parking garage?”

  “This isn’t exactly Watergate you’re breaking open. Come on. Let’s split.”

  “No, damn it. I’m not going to blow this chance. Now, sit tight until I call you.” She switched off the phone and shoved it in her purse. Strangely, the call from her boyfriend made her that much more determined to go through with this. She continued down the dark driveway toward the loading dock, passing one stacked pallet after another. Between each stack were narrow crevices, perfect hiding spots. As she passed each opening, she peered into the long, black tunnel to make sure no one was lurking in the darkness. With endless rows of stacked boxes, it was like staring into the entrance of a labyrinth.

  Her phone rang again, giving her heart a jolt. She snatched it from her purse and answered in an angry voice, “What now?”

  “Chill, lady.”

  Deirdre froze. It wasn’t her boyfriend. It was the deep, mechanically altered voice of her source. “Where are you?”

&n
bsp; “Never mind that.”

  “What do you mean, never mind? I’m here. Are we meeting, or not?”

  “We’re not.”

  “You son of a bitch. You said-”

  “I said you could see Sally’s ring first.”

  She reeled in her anger. “Is it here?”

  “Just keep walking toward the loading dock.”

  She was just a hundred feet away. She checked left, then right, searching for her caller in the dark crevices between stacked pallets. But she saw nothing. “Okay,” she said, putting one foot in front of the other. “I’m walking.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Are you watching me?” she asked.

  “Do you feel watched?” he said.

  She checked over her shoulder. “A little.”

  “Good. Maybe that will keep you from running off with the ring.”

  “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Look, but don’t touch.”

  “How will I know it’s really hers?”

  “The band is engraved on the inside. Read it. Then go check it out. You’ll see it’s the real thing.”

  Deirdre was fifty feet away as she entered the circle of light surrounding the loading dock. “When do I find out who killed her?”

  “As soon as we strike our deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “My piece of your forty-six-million-dollar inheritance.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to inherit it?”

  “Because you’re going to live longer than anyone else.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’m going to make sure of it.”

  Deirdre stopped. It wasn’t something she’d decided to do. Her feet had just stopped moving. “What are you saying?”

  “You and me. A team.”

  “I’m not interested in being on anybody’s team.”

  “That’s not the answer I want to hear.”

  “I don’t care. This is getting too weird.”

  “Don’t blow this, Deirdre. You get half, I get half. You get the story to boot.”

  “What kind of a sick bastard are you?”

  “A greedy, sick bastard. Just like you. Except that I lack your ambition.”

  Her grip on the phone tightened. “Look, I think I know what you’re saying, and let me make myself clear. I don’t want any part of any plan you might have to hurt any of those other potential beneficiaries.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  “For the story.”

  “And the money.”

  “You said you knew who Sally’s killer was.”

  “And I’m willing to tell you. But not without a deal on the inheritance.”

  “I’m not interested in making that kind of deal with you. So you can just keep your ring, keep your story, and keep away from me. Understand?”

  She waited for a response, and the silence on the line only heightened her sense of being watched. “I know you’re still there,” she said. “I’m hanging up now. Listen to what I’m saying. I don’t ever want to hear from you again. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” he said. His voice was especially deep, and the voice altering device only seemed to emphasize his anger. “I got it.”

  The call ended, and Deirdre immediately rang her boyfriend on speed dial. “Johnny, get over here right now.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just scared. Meet me at my car.” She disconnected, wheeled on one foot, and sprinted for the gate. It was a hundred-yard dash in the dark to the exit, and Deirdre was running full out, gobbling up in no time the same stretch of driveway that had taken several minutes to cover earlier in her timid entrance. Arms pumping, legs churning, she was flying by row after row of stacked pallets. She kept her eyes focused on the gate ahead, ignoring the dark crevices between boxes that had frightened her on the way in. She was at top speed when she reached the fence, and she practically slammed into the chain link.

  Outside, her boyfriend’s car pulled up next to hers. He jumped out and ran to the gate.

  Deirdre reached for the latch and yanked on the padlock. It didn’t budge.

  “Are you okay?” her boyfriend asked from the other side of the fence.

  “Yes, yes. Just-I can’t get out of here!”

  He tried the padlock. “It’s locked.”

  “Damn,” she said. “That creep locked me in.”

  “Can you climb over?”

  She looked up at the tangle of razor wire that ran the length of the nine-foot-high fence. “I would say no.”

  Her boyfriend’s expression suddenly went cold. “I would say you’d better.”

  Deirdre turned and froze. A pair of Doberman Pinschers emerged from the darkness. They were approaching slowly, like lanky cheetahs stalking their prey, growling with teeth bared.

  “Don’t move,” said her boyfriend.

  The watchdogs inched closer. Deirdre looked at one, then the other. The bigger one barked and snapped, then pulled away. Deirdre threw herself back against the fence.

  “Don’t move,” her boyfriend said in an urgent whisper.

  “I’m scared!”

  “And don’t look them in the eye, either. They’ll think you’re challenging them.”

  “Johnny, do something!”

  “I’m calling the cops. Just don’t move a muscle.”

  “I have a can of mace in my purse.”

  “Leave it. These dogs are trained to go after people who reach for weapons.”

  The dogs snarled, saliva dripping. Deirdre’s voice shook as she said, “They’re going to kill me.”

  “Not if you don’t move.”

  “We have to do something!”

  “Just stay put.”

  The bigger dog barked again, six or seven quick bursts that rattled off like machine-gun fire. Deirdre screamed, which made the dog snap at her. Deirdre reached for her mace, and the other dog went for her leg. She kicked him away, but the big dog sank his teeth into her wrist and pulled her to the ground.

  “Deirdre!”

  She kicked and punched wildly, trying desperately to cover her head and roll away. Her arm shook violently in the dog’s teeth. Then, suddenly, it released her arm, and both dogs froze. Deirdre was shaking, too frightened to make a move. The dogs had stopped snarling, as if they’d completely lost interest in her. They seemed to be listening to someone or something, but Deirdre heard nothing.

  As quickly as they’d come upon her, they turned and ran toward the loading dock. Deirdre’s thoughts weren’t lucid, but it was as if they’d heard a dog whistle.

  Still on the ground, Deirdre checked her arm. The dog’s teeth had torn through her clothes and into her skin. She gasped at the sight of her own blood.

  “Stay quiet,” said Johnny, still on the other side of the fence.

  “Cops are on their way.”

  She started at the sound of her ringing cell phone. Her purse had flown off somewhere in the attack, but the noise was coming from behind her. She crawled on all fours, grabbed the phone, and answered.

  “Are we a team?” he said. It was that mechanical voice again.

  Deirdre grimaced, as her arm was throbbing with pain from the dog bite. “What the hell did you just do?”

  “A night watchman will do anything for a little extra cash. Even disappear and loan me his dog whistle. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think this is funny at all. Let me out of here!”

  “Relax. I’m giving you a choice, Deirdre.”

  “What choice?”

  “A very simple choice. You can be a winner, or you can be a loser. It’s that simple.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “We’ll talk later, after you’ve calmed down. In the meantime, you breathe a word about this to anyone-I mean anyone-and you’re definitely a loser. Big-time loser. You hear?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Do you hear?” he said.

  �
�Yes.”

  “Good. The key to the lock is taped to the light pole. Now get the hell out of here.”

  With a chirp of her phone, the call was over. Deirdre rolled onto her side and put pressure on her arm to stop the bleeding, fighting back tears in the darkness.

  Nineteen

  Probate Judge Leonard Parsons looked mad as hell. Worse, he was looking down from the bench and straight at Jack’s client.

  The phone call from the judge’s chambers had come at 9 A.M. A battered Gerry Colletti had filed an emergency motion, and the judge ordered each of the beneficiaries under Sally Fenning’s will to be in the courtroom at eleven o’clock sharp.

  “Good morning,” the judge said. His tone was cordial, but the eyes were two smoldering black coals beneath bushy white eyebrows. A scowling judge was a bad sign in any courtroom, but especially so in the relatively courteous world of Whisper Court.

  “Good morning, Your Honor.” The reply was a mixed chorus of lawyers and clients. Even Gerry Colletti, supremely confident in his own abilities, had retained counsel for this hearing. Counting Jack and his client, there were ten suits altogether. Eight of them-Colletti, Sally’s ex-husband, the prosecutor, the reporter, and their counsel-were crowded around a single table near the jury box, the opposite side of the courtroom from Jack and his client, as if they suddenly couldn’t put enough distance between themselves and Tatum Knight. Seated behind them was Vivien Grasso, the personal representative for the estate. She seemed to be staking out a position of neutrality, sitting at neither table, choosing instead a seat at the rail that separated the lawyers from public seating.

  The courtroom was otherwise empty, Jack noted, which meant that the sixth beneficiary was still a no-show.

  “Mr. Anderson,” said the judge, addressing Gerry Colletti’s lawyer. “Would you speak to your motion, please?”

  Colletti remained seated. The right side of his face was purple and swollen, and he had a large Band-Aid across his forehead. His lawyer rose, thanked the court, and stepped forward.