Last to die

by James Grippando

  “How do you mean?”

  “Not everyone has to die.”

  “No one has to die.”

  “That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

  “No,” she said sharply. “Don’t put this on me.”

  “Don’t use that tone with me,” he said, his voice rising. “Or I might change my mind.”

  She reeled in her anger, taking the edge off her voice. “Change your mind about what?”

  “I have a story for you.”

  She fumbled again for her pad, her hand shaking as she put pen to paper. “What kind of story?”

  “It’s about Tatum Knight.”

  “That’s a good start.”

  “Here’s what I want you to write. Tatum met with Sally Fenning two weeks before she died. She drove to a bar owned by Tatum’s brother, Theo, called Sparky’s.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “She hired him to kill her.”

  For a moment she couldn’t speak. “She what?”

  “You hard of hearing?”

  “No. That’s quite a story. But I can’t write something like that without corroboration.”

  “You can, and you will.”

  “But I need two sources before the Tribune will print-”

  “Shut up and fucking listen! I didn’t tell you to run the story. I told you to write it.”

  She paused, confused. “Why write it if I can’t print it?”

  “You take the story to Jack Swyteck and you threaten to publish it.”

  “What’s the threat?”

  “Tell him that the story is going to run on page one tomorrow-unless his client instructs Sally’s estate lawyer to strike his name from the list of beneficiaries.”

  Deirdre had heard every word, but she’d written nothing on her pad. It was almost too bizarre to register. “What’s this all about?”

  “Like I said, not everyone has to die. If we can get some of the other beneficiaries to drop out, that’s as good as dead, right?”

  She thought for a second, recalling that Gerry Colletti had made the same point at yesterday’s meeting. “That’s right.”

  “So you write that story, Deirdre. Write it good. You make Tatum Knight think he’s about to jump to the top of the list of suspects in the murder of Sally Fenning. Because if he doesn’t drop out, then it’s back to my original plan. Somebody’s gonna die.”

  The line clicked. Her source was gone. Slowly, Deirdre placed the phone back in the cradle, then slumped in her chair, mentally exhausted. She wasn’t keen on the idea of extorting anyone, but threatening Tatum Knight with a phony story was certainly preferable to standing aside and waiting for her source to bump off one of her fellow beneficiaries.

  She drummed her fingers on her notepad, thinking. Sally Fenning hired Tatum Knight to kill her. Write it, but don’t print it. Just the words on paper would be enough to make Tatum Knight drop out of the race for forty-six million dollars. Just the words-

  No, she realized. Not just the words. The words alone had no power, or at least not power enough to intimidate two guys like Jack Swyteck and Tatum Knight.

  The words had that kind of power only if they were true.

  She looked across the sprawling newsroom, her gaze slowly passing over the bronze plaque on the wall in honor of the Tribune’s past winners of the Pulitzer Prize. Finally, her focus came to rest on the office door of the editor who had slapped down her proposal for an investigative piece on Sally Fenning.

  Sweet mama, she wondered. What if it is true?

  Forty-two

  South Coconut Grove is a maze of quiet residential streets that cut through a tropical forest. It’s no accident that the crisscrossing courts and lanes bear names like Leafy Way, Poinciana, and Kumquat. Shade, charm, and privacy are the neighborhood selling points, each little lot surrounded by a piece of the sprawling jungle. People live there because you could be on top of the house next door and never know it.

  People move away because you could be killed in your driveway and no one would see it.

  Detective Rick Larsen parked his unmarked Chevy behind the line of squad cars with the swirling blue lights. He grabbed his notepad, got out, and walked around the overgrown bougainvillea and a swaying stand of bamboo that lined the street. Evenings in the Grove were like midnight in the Black Forest, even darker when skies were overcast. It had been raining since sunset, and it was hard to tell if the precipitation was still falling or if the wind was simply blowing drops off the leafy canopy overhead. Typical Grove confusion.

  Larsen heard voices on the other side of the bushes. He ducked under the taut yellow police tape that was stretched across the entrance to the driveway. Pea gravel crunched beneath his feet as he entered the crime scene and asked, “What do we got?”

  Cameras flashed as the investigative team photographed the area. Others were slowly canvassing the yard, searching for anything and everything. The body lay facedown in the gravel. An assistant medical examiner was kneeling over it, examining it, while speaking into her Dictaphone.

  A young cop in uniform, the first to have arrived on the scene, gave Larsen the quick rundown. “White male. Fifty-something years old.”

  “He live here?”

  “No. Owner of the house found him when she was taking out the garbage. She called the police.”

  “She know him?”

  “No. Says she’s never seen him before.”

  “She see anything?”

  “No.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Any identification on him?”

  “None. He was wearing a T-shirt and exercise shorts with no pockets. From his shoes and outfit, looks like he was out walking or jogging. Except that he’s not in very good shape. Walking is more my guess, probably on a doctor’s orders to get off his ass and lower his cholesterol.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s about it. Medical examiner moved in and took over.”

  Larsen made a few notes in his pad, then walked over to the body. The examiner was in mid-sentence, speaking into her recorder, “…early nonfixed lividity, torso and extremities blanch with touch.”

  She switched off her tape recorder, looked up at the detective, and said, “How you doing, Rick?”

  “Better than him.”

  “That good, huh?”

  He smiled just a little, about as much as he ever did. “What happened?”

  “With a fractured right femur, at least six cracked ribs, a hyperextended elbow, a broken neck, and God only knows the extent of internal injuries, I’d say it was probably more than a slip and fall.”

  “Hit and run?”

  “Pretty safe guess.”

  “How’d he end up in the driveway? Fly or dragged here?”

  “Flew. I marked off his flight pattern. Probably became airborne somewhere south of the driveway, shot like a cruise missile right through that busted-up banana tree over there. Landed in the front yard, where we put that flag right there, then skidded into the driveway.”

  “Anybody checking for skid marks?”

  “No one’s found any yet. Street’s blocked off all the way to Main Highway. You can look for yourself.”

  “Think I will.” He started away then stopped. It was a little ritual of his, always to get a look at the victim’s face before marching off to do the drawing, the measuring, the detail work. It was a sure way to remind himself that this job was about people.

  He bent over and shined his penlight on the face, then did a double take. “Son of a bitch,” he said softly.

  “You know him?”

  “Don’t you? He’s an assistant state attorney.”

  “I’ve only been with the Miami-Dade office a few months. Haven’t worked with many of them yet.”

  “Well, here’s one you’ll never work with,” he said flatly. “His name’s Mason Rudsky.”

  Forty-three

  Jack was alone on his covered patio watching the brilliant
display of lightning over Biscayne Bay, when the telephone rang. He hesitated, recalling how his ex-wife had been so paranoid about picking up the phone in a thunderstorm, as if a bolt of lightning might travel down the line into the house and fry you on the spot. She always said it took a complete and utter disregard for human life to expect someone to come to the phone when there’s lightning.

  Maybe it’s her, he thought in a sarcastic moment. He picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Swyteck.”

  Jack gave his phone a quick shake. It was a mechanical-sounding voice, and he was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t something to that paranoia about telephones and lightning. “Who is this?”

  “Don’t hang up. You’ll be sorry if you do.”

  The voice was still distorted, but he knew there was nothing wrong with his equipment. “What’s this about?”

  “Mason Rudsky.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Jack suddenly needed to sit down. “Dead?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “I know this much: The stolen car that ran him down will never be found.”

  “Where’s his body?”

  “No need to worry about that. Cops are on the scene already.”

  “Then why are you calling me?”

  “Because you seem to be the one voice in the group of Sally Fenning’s heirs that everybody listens to. And I have a message for them.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tell them this: The man who ran down Mason Rudsky knew that Rudsky had withdrawn from Sally Fenning’s contest.”

  Jack rose, as if pacing might help him think. “You’re saying this was homicide?”

  “Definitely. No one hit the brakes. They won’t find any skid marks on the road.”

  “Killed by whom?”

  “Like I said, by someone who knows that Mason Rudsky accepted Gerry Colletti’s offer.”

  “You mean the two-hundred-fifty grand?”

  “I mean Mason Rudsky was killed by someone who knew that he was no longer in the running to inherit Sally Fenning’s forty-six million dollars.”

  “I don’t understand. If he knew that, then what’s the motive for killing him?”

  “That’s the part I need everybody to understand. Especially you, because I hear rumors that your client is feeling pressure to bow out, too.”

  “I’m sure everyone’s feeling pressure. That’s the way the game is being played.”

  “Well, that’s not the way it’s going to be played anymore,” he said, his disguised voice taking on an edge.

  “Sally set it up that way,” said Jack. “You can win either by outliving the others, or by persuading the others to drop out.”

  “I don’t care how she set it up. You idiots might think you can win the game that way, but let Rudsky’s death send a message loud and clear. There’s only one person who takes the money, and there’s only one person who walks out alive.”

  “So, you’re saying what? No more dropouts?”

  “Exactly. No more dropouts.”

  “What is it then?” asked Jack. “A fight to the death?”

  “It’s personal now. New ball game. My game.”

  “What gives you the right to change the rules?”

  “Go to your mailbox.”

  Jack stopped pacing. “What?”

  “Just go to your damn mailbox.”

  Jack walked through the house with his cordless phone pressed to his ear. His mailbox was mounted on the wall outside his front door. He opened the door and stepped onto the porch, scanning the yard and checking across the street to see if someone might be watching.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  “Look in the box.”

  He reached slowly for the lid, wondering if a snake or rat might fly out. He stood as far away as he could, raising up the lid with the tip of his fingers. It flew open, but nothing popped out. Inside was an envelope.

  “What is it?” Jack said into the phone.

  “Open it.”

  It was unsealed. Jack opened the flap. Tucked inside was a gold locket in the shape of a heart. “It’s pretty,” he said. “But you don’t sound like my type.”

  “It was Sally Fenning’s, smartass.”

  Jack suddenly felt guilty for having joked about it. “How did you get it?”

  “Look inside,” he said, ignoring the question.

  There was a latch on the side of the gold heart. Jack opened it like a book. Inside the locket was a photograph of a young girl. Jack had seen enough photographs to know that it was Katherine, Sally’s four-year-old daughter.

  Jack felt a lump in his throat, but he talked over it. “Was Sally wearing this when you shot her?”

  “I never said I shot her.”

  “Was she wearing it the day she died?”

  “No,” he answered. “Not possible.”

  “Then how did you get it?”

  There was silence on the line. Lightning flashed in the distance, and the phone line crackled. Finally, the man answered, “Sally was wearing it the night I stuck my knife inside her and drowned her little princess.”

  Jack heard a click on the line, followed by the dial tone. For a moment he couldn’t move, but another clap of thunder gave him a start. He gently placed the locket back in the envelope, hurried back inside the house, and locked the door with both the chain and deadbolt.

  Forty-four

  The following morning Jack was first in line to see Detective Larsen

  Jack had called him immediately after the phone call from the man with the disguised voice. He wished he had tape-recorded it, but the police wouldn’t have been able to use a tape anyway, since in Florida it was illegal to record conversations without a warrant or consent. Jack recited the conversation as best he could from memory, and his memory was dead-on when it came to the locket. He was totally forthcoming to the police, and he asked for only one favor in return. He was back in Larsen’s office at 9:30 A.M. to collect.

  “We think it’s for real,” said Larsen.

  Jack was seated in the uncomfortable oak chair on the visitor’s side of Larsen’s cluttered metal desk. “It was Sally’s?”

  “When Sally’s daughter was murdered, she reported only one thing missing, a gold heart-shaped locket that she was wearing around her neck.”

  “Could this be a duplicate?”

  “Not likely. According to the file notes, Sally said it was fourteen karats and purchased at Latham’s Custom Jewelry in the Seabold Building downtown. We talked to the store’s owner first thing this morning. This is fourteen karats, and he’s positive this is one of his products.”

  “So there’s pretty much only one way my caller could have gotten it.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the info.”

  “No, thank you, Jack. I really appreciate you coming in with this. When you didn’t deliver on that interview of your client after I gave you that tidbit about Deirdre Meadows’s book, I was beginning to think you didn’t love me anymore. But I’d say we’re square now. Of course, now I fully understand why you didn’t want me talking to Tatum. This morning’s paper and all.”

  “The paper?”

  “Page one of the Tribune. You know-” His phone rang. He grumbled, apologized, and answered it.

  Page one? Jack wondered. Larsen was getting deeper into some intraoffice confrontation that didn’t interest Jack in the least. He caught the detective’s eye, but Larsen just shrugged and continued his heated argument, managing to use the F-word as a noun, a verb, an adjective, and an adverb in a single sentence, a verbal testimonial to his veteran status on the force.

  Jack needed to see a newspaper, and he wasn’t inclined to wait around for Larsen to finish his stupid tiff. He gave a little wave and silently excused himself from the detective’s office. Trying not to look like a fugitive, he walked to the exit as quickly as practicable, stop
ping at the little newsstand outside the station.

  The Miami Tribune was staring right at him, practically screaming its message from halfway down the front page: MILLIONAIRE MURDER VICTIM MET WITH CONTRACT KILLER it read, BY DEIRDRE MEADOWS.

  It wasn’t the banner headline, but it was prominent enough. And the tag line in only slightly smaller font was even worse: HIT MAN IS HEIR TO $46 MILLION ESTATE. Jack purchased a copy, sat on the public bench, and devoured the story.

  He could hardly believe what he was reading. It was all there, everything he and Tatum had talked about. His meeting with Sally at Sparky’s. Her desire to die. Their discussion about hiring someone to shoot her. And, of course, there was a lengthy digression into the latest developments in the case, including the restraining order the judge had entered against Tatum for his alleged assault against Gerry Colletti, followed by a strong finish that referenced a separate article about last night’s hit-and-run, which had left Mason Rudsky dead.

  One thing, however, was conspicuously absent from the article: Not a word was mentioned about Tatum’s refusal to do the job.

  Nice piece of unbiased journalism, Deirdre.

  He shoved the newspaper into his briefcase, grabbed his cell phone, and dialed Deirdre at the Tribune. It took a minute or two for the switchboard to get the call routed properly, but finally he heard her voice.

  “Meadows,” she said.

  “This is Jack Swyteck. I just read your story about my client.”

  “I’m so glad you called. Do you confirm or deny?”

  He could almost feel her gloating over the phone lines. “Does it matter? You didn’t even call me for a comment.”

  “I was on deadline. There wasn’t time.”

  “Better to be first than right, is that it?”

  “No. But it is nice to be first. Particularly when I know I’m right.”

  Jack rose from the bench and started walking toward the street, suddenly feeling the need to distance himself from the police station.

  “Who’s your source?”

  “Why in the world would I tell you that?”

  “Can’t really think of a reason. At least not from a reporter who didn’t even bother to reveal her own biases to her readers.”