Last to die

by James Grippando

  “Turn this way,” said Miguel. “Slowly.”

  Jack turned, the gunman still behind him, the gun still at his head.

  Jack was staring straight at Miguel. He, too, was pointing a gun at Jack.

  “I knew it was you,” said Jack. “Sally cheated on you once, right before you were married. She admitted that much on the videotaped interview with the prosecutor. Was she cheating on you again, Miguel, is that what you were afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything right now, Swyteck.”

  He felt the gun press more firmly against the base of his skull. He needed to buy time, so he kept talking. “Interesting thing about that surveillance camera over the bed in your old house. There were no windows in the attic. It had to be installed by someone with access to the house-regular access, someone who could get up and down to change tapes. Got any ideas on who that might be, Miguel?”

  “Just like I told the police. I got no idea.”

  “I think it was someone who lived there,” Jack said, his glare tightening. “You were stalking your own wife, weren’t you. What was the plan, Miguel? Scare her so badly that she stops cheating on you?”

  Miguel met his stare, but his expression tightened with anger. “Is that too much to ask for? A wife who doesn’t cheat on you?”

  “That’s no excuse for killing your own daughter.”

  “Yeah,” he said, scoffing. “That.”

  The cold reaction confirmed Jack’s suspicions. “Call me nosy, but I checked this out when I was here earlier, and this second visit only confirms it. All the framed photographs around your desk, on the coffee table, hanging on the walls. I didn’t see a single one of your daughter.”

  Miguel didn’t answer, but he was still aiming his gun at Jack’s chest.

  Jack narrowed his eyes, giving him the look that had worked countless times on cross-examination in the courtroom. “She wasn’t yours, was she, Miguel?”

  It was almost imperceptible, but the gun was starting to shake. Miguel was furious.

  Jack said, “That’s how you passed the polygraph exam. The cops asked you, Did you kill your daughter? You said no. It was the truth. She wasn’t your daughter. How did it happen, Miguel? Was it the lover Sally took right before you got married?”

  The look on Miguel’s face only confirmed that it was true. “You think you’re smart, don’t you, Swyteck? The only one to figure it out.”

  “No,” said Jack. “I think Sally had it figured out, too. That’s why she flunked the lie detector test when the cops asked if she knew the man who murdered her daughter. She didn’t know in her mind. But somewhere, deep down in her heart, she knew. She knew in her heart that the killer was her husband. She was just too afraid of him to say it.”

  Miguel glared at Jack, then lowered his gun. For a brief instant, Jack thought that maybe he’d miraculously gotten through to him. But he seemed to look past Jack, focusing instead on the gunman standing behind him.

  “Shoot him, Tatum.”

  Jack flinched. It wasn’t really a surprise, but hearing Tatum’s name gave him a jolt anyway.

  Tatum said, “Actually, I think it’s your turn, boss.”

  “Turns?” said Jack. “You idiots are taking turns?”

  “Didn’t start out that way,” said Tatum. “But after I told Miguel that Colletti fucked his wife, literally, in the divorce, he couldn’t wait to smoke that dude. Which was okay by me. So long as we could make them all look like the work of this made-up psycho stalker, Alan Sirap, we were home free.”

  “Whose turn was it when it came time to shove a gun in Kelsey’s face?”

  “That would have been mine,” said Miguel, and at that moment Jack noticed that he was holding a revolver with a polished nickel finish. “No one ever wanted to hurt her,” said Miguel. “That was all about making people think that the killer wanted Tatum out of the game.”

  “Sounds like you were in charge of the threats, eh, Miguel? The phone calls to Deirdre Meadows, the call to me after the prosecutor was murdered, the phony message on your answering machine this morning. Those were all you, weren’t they?”

  “Does it matter? Could have been me, could have been Tatum. Go buy yourself a forty-dollar voice-altering gadget from a spy shop and it could be anybody.”

  “Do you really think you can get away with this?”

  “Maybe,” said Miguel. “Maybe not. But for forty-six million dollars, I say it’s worth the risk.”

  “But you’re both named as heirs. One of you has to pull out of the game, and then the two of you split the pot, right? Or one of you has to kill the other and take it all.”

  “First things first, Swyteck. Shoot him, Tatum.”

  “No. I said it’s your turn.”

  “What the hell does it matter whose turn it is? Shoot him.”

  “It matters to me,” said Tatum.

  “Why?”

  “Because I know you can kill when your Latino machismo is on the line, like with Gerry Colletti. And I know you can dish out the threats, like with Kelsey. But I want to see you kill for money. Nothing but money. Like I did with Deirdre and Mason Rudsky.”

  “All right, you pain in the ass. I’ll shoot him myself.”

  Jack looked straight at him, hoping that direct eye contact might unnerve his would-be shooter. It seemed to work for a moment, as Miguel kept the gun at his side. But then he simply lowered his gaze, as if shifting the target from Jack’s head to his torso. His arm went up, and suddenly Jack was staring down the barrel of a gun.

  Before Miguel could pull the trigger, the window exploded in a barrage of gunfire. Four quick shots, all slamming into Miguel’s chest. He stammered backward, pelted by each projectile, and then fell to the ground in a pool of blood.

  Tatum dived for cover, pulling Jack down with him. He pressed the gun firmly against Jack’s head, keeping him as a hostage, his ticket out.

  Jack was nearly crushed beneath Tatum’s weight. He couldn’t move, and he didn’t dare move anyway with the gun nuzzling up to his skull. With his cheek to the floor, Jack could see the bottoms of Miguel’s shoes at the other end of the room. A rivulet of blood drained slowly down the grout line in the ceramic tile.

  Finally, there was a voice at the door. “Let him go,” said Theo.

  “Get your ass in here,” shouted Tatum. “Or I’ll blow his brains out.”

  Jack lay perfectly still. He wanted to scream out at the top of his lungs, tell Theo to get lost, go away, run for it. But he knew it would have been pointless. He knew that Theo wouldn’t leave him.

  Jack heard the door open, then the sound of Theo’s heavy footfalls on the tile. “Prize patrol,” said Theo.

  It was classic Theo, a line that they might laugh about someday, if they lived to tell the story.

  Tatum pulled Jack up from behind the couch, using him as a human shield, his gun to Jack’s head. Jack’s eyes met Theo’s, but only for an instant. Theo was staring down his brother.

  Tatum asked, “Did you call the cops?”

  “No. This is something I want to settle myself.”

  Jack’s eyes widened, as if to say “You better have called the cops.” But he could see the determination in Theo’s expression, see that this was something he wanted to settle himself.

  “Pick up Miguel’s gun,” said Tatum.

  The gun was lying on the floor beside Miguel’s body. Theo started across the room, and Tatum swiveled Jack’s body-the shield-as Theo passed by them on his way to the corpse. Theo stepped around the puddle of blood, then stooped down to reach for the gun.

  Tatum said, “Not with your bare hands, moron. Use your jacket.”

  Theo pulled off his windbreaker and wrapped it around his hand like a glove. He picked up the gun, then looked back toward his brother, as if to say, Now what?

  Tatum said, “We gotta kill him.”

  “We don’t gotta do anything.”

  “You’re right. You gotta do it. Do it with Miguel’s gun.”

 
Theo didn’t respond.

  “Do it, Theo. Shoot Jack right now. If you don’t, I will.”

  “You think I’m taking orders from you?”

  “I’m talking a deal, man. Forty-six million dollars. We split it. Don’t you get it? They’re all dead but me. It’s mine. Mine and yours. All you gotta do is pull the trigger, and we’re partners. It’s clean.”

  “Say what?”

  “Listen to me. Here’s the story. Jack, you, and me came over to confront Miguel the pussy here. He confessed to the killings and shot Jack. Then you shot Miguel. We’re home free, brother. All we gotta do is get rid of Jack.”

  Theo didn’t answer.

  “You thinking about it, ain’t you?” Tatum said through his teeth. “Half of forty-six million dollars. Come on, do right by your brother. Shoot Jack with Miguel’s gun.”

  Theo was stone silent.

  “Do it now, damn it!”

  Theo knelt down beside Miguel’s body. He pressed the gun into Miguel’s hand and raised it slowly.

  “Even better,” said Tatum, his voice racing. “Let Miguel’s own finger pull the trigger.”

  It was as if the gun were in Miguel’s grasp. Theo held Miguel’s lifeless hand between his own huge hands, taking aim at Jack’s head.

  “That’s right, Theo. One little squeeze.”

  Jack’s heart skipped a beat. Theo was a friend. He’d never shoot his buddy, the lawyer who’d saved his ass on death row. Not in a million years. Not for anything.

  Except maybe twenty-three million dollars.

  “Theo,” said Jack. “This is crazy, pal. Tatum screwed you before, he’ll screw you again.”

  “Do it!” shouted Tatum.

  In a flash, the gun jerked, a shot whistled across the room. Tatum’s gun was airborne, and his head snapped back violently. Jack dived forward to the floor. Theo rushed to his wounded brother.

  Tatum was flat on his back, gasping and holding his throat. The bullet had passed through his neck. Blood was pouring from the severed carotid artery, pumping in surges with each beat of his fading heart until he was surrounded by a growing circle of red. His eyes glazed over with a helpless expression, a look that Jack hadn’t seen since his days of defending death row inmates, that unmistakable, almost incongruous look of fear and bewilderment in the eyes of a murderer who was suddenly forced to come to grips with his own mortality.

  Tatum looked up at Theo. He could barely speak, his throat filled with blood, but the bullet had passed through his neck off-center and had spared his voice. “You piece of shit,” he said in a thick, distant tone, choking on his own blood. “You shot your own brother.”

  Theo looked at Jack, then back at Tatum, his expression deadpan. “Wrong again, Tatum. I saved him.”

  Tatum’s head hit the floor, and his body was suddenly still.

  Sixty-three

  Jack watched from the helm as Theo walked alone to the bow of the fishing boat and scattered the ashes. It was early Sunday morning. The horizon was still orange from the rising sun, and a warm wind carried the ocean’s whispers from the east-from Nassau maybe, which seemed fitting, since Tatum used to love to go there and gamble. Seagulls trailed their boat across the deep blue swells, ready to steal a fisherman’s bait. One of them splashed into the waves, snatched up a floating fragment of bone in its beak, and then dropped it from mid-air.

  “Not even the scavengers want him,” said Theo, his voice falling off in the breeze.

  The burial at sea had been Theo’s idea. Fishing out on the boat was the one place he’d felt connected to his brother, miles of blue water between them and a world that hadn’t exactly welcomed the Knight brothers with open arms, a world that seemed to have known all along that it would be better off without Tatum. He was a badass, to be sure, but his death was no cause for celebration. Theo needed time, not so much to grieve but simply to come to terms with his brother’s betrayal. Jack was determined to give Theo the space he needed.

  The two of them had told all to the police at the crime scene. Jack took the media calls in the ensuing frenzy, not because he enjoyed the publicity but because Theo hated it even more. Within hours, it was all over the evening news that Tatum Knight had shot Sally Fenning to death in a strange murder for hire in which the victim was her own target, and that Miguel Rios had murdered Sally’s daughter in a crime of jealous rage that had gone unsolved for five years. The details played out differently depending on which newscast you watched, but the newspaper got it mostly right, thanks largely to the background work of the late Deirdre Meadows. The Tribune’s final, lengthy feature ran in the Sunday edition. It relied heavily on excerpts from Deirdre’s unpublished manuscript, which was preceded by a glowing tribute to Deirdre from her editor, and included dubious assertions that the editors were behind her pursuit of Sally Fenning’s story “one hundred percent from the very beginning”-all of which seemed just a wee bit calculated to set her up posthumously for the Pulitzer nomination she’d so desperately wanted in life.

  “I’m ready,” said Theo, wiping the salty sea spray from his brow.

  “Let’s go in.”

  “This is a good thing you’re doing,” said Jack.

  “Yeah. At least this way I won’t be tempted to come piss on his grave.”

  Jack started the engine and steered for home. The ride back took almost an hour, completely in silence. Jack thought it would do Theo some good to get out of the house, and Theo was always up for eating, so they went for a leisurely breakfast at Greenstreet, a sidewalk café in Coconut Grove. Before the Sally Fenning matter, Greenstreet had been a favorite Saturday lunch spot for him and his Little Brother, Nate, after rollerblading along the bicycle paths on Main Highway, a shady and windy way that emptied into the little shops and restaurants in a part of the Grove that still bore some resemblance to the tree-lined hippie village it had once been. Thoughts of Nate still saddened him, though he was optimistic. Kelsey no longer worked for Jack, and the budding romance between them was dead, but after the way Kelsey had helped out Theo in the end, everyone seemed cool with each other. Jack and Nate might be as good as new once Nate got used to the idea that Jack and his mother apparently weren’t meant for each other.

  All that was complicated, too complicated for a simple Sunday breakfast. Winter was just a couple of weeks away. The sun was shining warmly, joggers and cyclists everywhere; people wearing shorts and T-shirts were out window shopping and walking their dogs-all the telltale signs that life went on and that December in south Florida definitely didn’t suck. Jack was too wrapped up in the newspaper to notice that Theo had already finished his pancakes and was halfway through Jack’s. He skimmed through the rehashed material on page one A, then picked up the second half of the feature story on Sally Fenning with a mix of emotions, but mostly a sense of relief that it was all finally over:

  “Sally was dying of AIDS,” says her sister Rene Fenning, a pediatrician working for a charitable organization in Africa, who also served as the final personal representative of the estate. “She never really wanted to go on living after her daughter was murdered, and although I personally never found out for certain that she had the disease until I saw her autopsy report, I would imagine that she became even more despondent after her second husband infected her with the deadly HIV virus.” Rene denies claims that her sister’s second marriage was strictly “for money,” but the Tribune has confirmed that her ex-husband was one of the twenty-five richest men in France at the time of his death. A large portion of that money, eighteen million dollars that grew into stock worth some forty-six million, went to Sally upon their divorce after less than two years of marriage. “The money never made her happy,” says Rene.

  Eventually, that unhappiness led her to a murder-for-hire that was effectively a suicide. According to sources close to the investigation, Sally could apparently think of no better way to check out of this world than to let the people who had ruined her life fight for her millions-a deadly game of survival of the greediest in w
hich a hired killer and a stalker known only as “Alan Sirap” were sure to make things interesting.

  Jack skipped the lengthy description of Sally’s will, the game, the murders-things he already knew. He went straight to the end, picking up with a quote from Homicide Detective Rick Larsen.

  “She [Sally] probably hadn’t scripted it this way, but she had to have known that alliances would form, that some players might even go to the extreme measures that Tatum Knight and Miguel Rios had gone to-effectively a tag team approach to eliminating the other heirs, all done in a way to make it look like the work of a psychopathic stalker, the missing Alan Sirap.” Larsen shrugs, almost philosophical in tone as he unscrews the cigar plug from his mouth and adds, “The consensus view among Monday-morning quarterbacks is that Sally probably figured it would come down to a final battle between Tatum Knight and Alan Sirap, never knowing for certain that Sirap was actually her husband.”

  In the end, that gap in Sally’s knowledge had tragic consequences for Miami attorney Gerry Colletti, Assistant State Attorney Mason Rudsky, and Tribune reporter Deirdre Meadows. “Clearly this got out of hand,” says Rene Fenning. “I’m sure Sally expected some bickering and maybe even some lawsuits among the heirs. But I think she also expected people to drop out of the game before it came to physical violence. Never would my sister have put this thing in motion if she thought people were actually going to die over their own greed.”

  Editor’s Note: Tribune reporter Deirdre Meadows contributed to this report through articles previously published in the Tribune and materials from a book she was writing before her death.

  Jack pitched the newspaper aside. Theo was seated across from him at the little round table, chewing roundly, as if he were trying to swallow an entire pancake in the fewest number of bites ever recorded.

  “Something wrong?” he said in a muffled voice, his mouth completely full.

  “Pretty lame article.”

  Theo’s whole body jerked as he swallowed too much food. Jack half-expected to see the bulge in his neck, like a python having a bunny for lunch.