Last to Die (31 page)

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.

Chapter
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, stopping 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.

What biases?

Jack stopped at the corner, almost fell off the curb. Are you kidding me? You are one of Sally's five remaining potential heirs. If the other four withdraw or follow in Mason Rudsky's footsteps, you stand to gain forty-six million dollars. Don't you think your article should have spelled that out?

No. The story wasn't about me.

This is all about you, and your readers should know it. Your article puts the heat on my client to withdraw from the game.

How does it do that?

You know how. And don't expect me to spell it out for you so that you can twist it into some nifty quote in tomorrow's newspaper.

I'm not being coy. I'm really at a loss. How does my truthful article about a meeting between your client and Sally Fenning put the pressure on him to renounce his inheritance?

Don't change the subject on me. You should have disclosed your bias.

This story was not inspired by bias. It came from a reliable source.

That's the whole point. The source could have had the same bias. Are you really that stupid, or are you just pretending to be?

Don't insult me, Swyteck.

Then get off your J-school soapbox and play straight.

I'm not going to tell you who my source is.

Fine. But you should at least consider the possibility that the whole story is a plant.

Planted by whom?

By one of the other potential beneficiaries. Any one of them could have simply made the whole thing up and manipulated you and the Tribune into printing something that would disqualify Tatum from inheriting under the will. It's like Colletti said at the meeting: It just improves everyone's odds.

My source is not another beneficiary.

Jack stopped at the crosswalk. He hadn't expected her to tell him anything, and he certainly hadn't expected that. How do you know? he asked.

I don't normally go to the police about my stories, but when Rudsky turned up dead last night, I made an exception. Now that I've told them, I might as well tell you.

Tell me what?

A man called me a couple weeks ago. He's my source.

I'll ask again: How do you know he isn't one of the other heirs?

Because he wants to split the pot with me if I win. Another beneficiary wouldn't need to strike that deal. They're already in the game.

Well, I'm not going to argue with that, but you're proving my other point. This person - your source - is clearly biased. He has a stake in your winning the jackpot, so naturally he would say anything that would hurt Tatum and force him to renounce his inheritance.

You're absolutely right.

I know I'm right. A newspaper like the Tribune shouldn't run a story based on a single source who has no credibility.

The Tribune would never do that. That's why I went out and got a second source.

He paused, almost afraid to ask. Who?

She let out a condescending chuckle and said, Normally I'd tell you to shove it in response to a question like that. But you and your cocky My Client Is Wholly Innocent' attitude have me pissed enough to tell you this much: If my source were any closer to you well, let me put it this way, I don't think there is anyone closer to you.

Jack was silent, as if she'd just punched him in the chest.

Deirdre said, Now if you'll excuse me, I have a deadline to meet.

She hung up, but Jack didn't move. He stared at his phone, still trying to comprehend what she'd just said, and the thought sickened him: No one closer.

A transit bus rumbled past him, leaving him in a black cloud of diesel fumes. He hardly noticed. Holy shit, he said as he slipped his cell into his pocket.

Chapter
Forty-Five The conversation with Theo did not go well.

He'd get over it, for sure, and Jack hadn't been all that accusatory anyway. The more thought Jack had given it, the more impossible it seemed. No way was Theo going to rat out his brother to anyone, much less an overly ambitious reporter. But Jack felt as though he had to at least touch base and completely rule him out as the source before confronting the person that Deirdre Meadows had assumed was closer to Jack than anyone else.

Kelsey? he said with surprise. I didn't know you were coming in today.

She hadn't been on the work schedule, but she was in Jack's office seated on the couch waiting for him when he arrived. Can I talk with you a minute? she asked.

Sure. Jack pulled up a chair and straddled it, facing her. He'd rehearsed his delivery during the drive into the office probably a dozen times, but he could see from the expression on her face that he was conveying some awkward vibes. Kelsey, before we go off in some other direction, there's something I need to know.

Please. I know what you're going to say. This morning - today's newspaper. The article about Tatum.

Yes? he said tentatively.

Kelsey took a breath, obviously struggling. I don't know how to say this to you.

Jack felt a pain in his stomach, sickened by the thought, but the words came out in anger. He looked her in the eye and said, Did you talk to Deirdre Meadows?

She blinked twice, then averted her eyes. And he knew. He wasn't trying to be judgmental, but he couldn't help shaking his head in disbelief.