Last to Die (15 page)

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.

Chapter
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 you'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.

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.

Chapter
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.