Last to Die (33 page)

A journalist with a wiretap on her telephone. Are they out of their minds?

She reached Johnny's townhouse in record time. The fear, the gin, the adrenaline all had her driving faster than usual. The parking spaces in front of Johnny's unit were full, and Carmen's comment came back to her. The creep could have at least given up his prime spot and parked his own car in guest parking so that she didn't have to walk five hundred yards in the darkness. She was inclined to bag it and go home, but she did feel safer sleeping with him. She zipped her car over to guest parking, found a spot, and jumped out.

Gables Point was a quiet condominium development, lots of trees, not very well lit. She followed the sidewalk past the pool area, which wasn't the most direct path to Johnny's unit, but the lighting was better, except for the last hundred yards, where the sidewalk snaked through a forest of droopy bottlebrush trees. The ring of light that shined from the pool area seemed to follow her for a while, but she stopped when she reached the faint edge of its farthermost reach. She'd walked this way at least a dozen times over the past month, never once giving it a second thought. Tonight, her instincts told her to turn and run the other way. It was late. It was dark. There were lots of big trees for someone to hide behind.

You're making yourself crazy.

She put one foot in front of the other, and she was on her way, gathering speed, her pulse quickening. She'd entered far more dangerous places in her career, night after night, as the Tribune's crime beat reporter. Interviews with killers, dead bodies galore - it was all in a day's work. This was nothing to be afraid of.

Halfway there. The sidewalk curved, but she went straight. No time for the scenic route, and there was no scenery in the black night anyway. She was cutting her own path through the grass when she heard it. She stopped and looked back, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. But she was certain that she'd heard something just a moment earlier. Footsteps. Behind her.

Or was she imagining it?

She turned and ran at full throttle, holding back nothing, brushing aside the tree branches that were lashing at her face. Her ankle turned, which made her yelp, but she ran through the pain. Twenty yards to Johnny's townhouse. She was back on the sidewalk, sprinting down the homestretch. She gobbled up the three front steps in a single leap, then searched frantically for her key in the darkness.

Jerk doesn't even leave the porch light on for me.

She got her key, used two hands to steady her aim, and shoved it home. The tumblers clicked, the deadbolt turned. She turned the knob and leaned into the door. It opened six inches, then caught on the chain.

Shit!

She shot a quick glance over her shoulder, and again she saw nothing. Or no, maybe a shadow. Johnny, open the damn door!

She pushed and pulled the door back and forth, shaking it violently against the chain to wake him.

Johnny!

She heard footsteps again, and her heart skipped a beat - then relief. The footsteps were coming from inside the townhouse.

Johnny, it's me!

The door closed, and the chain rattled on the inside. The knob turned, and Deirdre pushed her way inside. She rushed in, eager to see him, eager to see anyone. He grabbed her, she poured herself into his arms, the door slammed, and she was firmly in his grasp before she could realize what had happened.

It wasn't Johnny.

A cold knife was at her throat. Fucking bitch, he said in an angry whisper. You were told to write the story, not print it.

She screamed, but it was heard only in her own mind, as the sharp blade slid deeply across her throat, sinking all the way to the neck bone, silencing her forever.

Chapter
Forty-Seven At 4 P. M. Friday afternoon, Jack and Tatum were back in probate court.

It had been less than two days since Deirdre's murder, and everything had changed. Or at least everything had intensified, and Jack couldn't get away from it - media coverage, phone calls from lawyers for the surviving heirs, questions from investigators. It was a neighbor who'd spotted the blood seeping out from under the front door on Thanksgiving morning. The cops found her body in the foyer, and her boyfriend was tied up in his bedroom closet, unharmed but blindfolded. He hadn't seen a thing, a useless witness. Naturally, Detective Larsen turned to Jack and his client for answers, as the judge's restraining order had already labeled Tatum as the thug in the group. Mason Rudsky's hit-and-run death was still a mystery, and it didn't help matters that Deirdre Meadows had turned up dead the same day the Tribune ran her story that Tatum was hired to kill Sally Fenning.

All rise!

Judge Parsons entered the courtroom from his side chambers. The crowd rose on command, and the foot shuffling was noticeably louder than at most hearings. All fifteen rows of public seating were packed with spectators, mostly members of the media. This was the first court hearing since a state prosecutor and an ambitious reporter had met untimely deaths in a race for forty-six million dollars, and the local news geniuses had finally taken serious notice, even without a sex scandal.

Please be seated, the judge said.

Jack and Tatum returned to their seats, the two of them once again splintered off from the others. Miguel Rios, Gerry Colletti, and their lawyers sat at the table nearest the empty jury box. Vivien Grasso, as personal representative of the estate, took a seat alongside the edge of their table, not quite on their side, but definitely not aligning herself with Jack and Tatum.

Alan Sirap was still a no-show.

The bailiff called the case, In re the Estate of Sally W. Fenning, and the judge took over. He seemed overwhelmed at first, or perhaps he was waiting to make sure the television cameras were ready and rolling to catch his speech.

Good afternoon, he said in a voice suitable for a funeral. I'd be remiss if I didn't express my grave concerns over the tragedy that has befallen this matter. Especially on this day after Thanksgiving, I wish to convey my heartfelt sympathies to the friends and families of Mason Rudsky and Deirdre Meadows.

That said, I want to assure everyone that I come to this courtroom with no preconceived notions as to who is responsible for these terrible events. I say this because we have before us today a very serious motion by Mr. Colletti, one of the potential heirs. I want Mr. Colletti and everyone else here to understand that this court will not rely on emotion or outrage to adopt any extraordinary measures. I will insist upon proof, and if the proof exists, I will grant the requested relief. But not before then. Have I made myself clear?

Yes, Your Honor, came the lawyers' reply.

Tatum leaned toward Jack and whispered, I like the sound of that.

Jack gave a little nod, hiding his concern. It was eerily reminiscent of the speeches he'd heard from the bench when he was a federal prosecutor, where the judge would rail against the government for some outrageous tactic that shocked the conscience of the court and then proceed to dispatch the defendant on a millennium-long tour of the land of the walking dead.

Mr. Colletti, proceed, please, the judge said.

His lawyer started up from his chair, but Gerry waved him off and stepped forward first, as if to say, I'll handle this. It was an obvious last-minute change in plans, and Jack knew exactly what was going on. The spotlight was shining far too brightly for Gerry Colletti to defer to another lawyer.

Gerry approached the lectern in the center of the courtroom, stealing one last look at the television camera before showing his back to the crowd and addressing the court. Your Honor is exactly right. This is a very serious motion that I've filed. And I have filed it with good reason.

I will be the judge of that, the judge said dryly.

You will indeed. As the court knows, the State of Florida has a law on the books that is commonly referred to as the Slayer Statute. That statute prohibits a murderer from inheriting under the will of his victim.

I'm familiar with the law. As I made clear in my opening remarks, I'm interested to know what evidence you intend to present to demonstrate the law's application to this case.

Tatum Knight is a beneficiary under Sally Fenning's will. This motion seeks to invoke the Slayer Statute to disqualify him from inheriting under her will.

Based on what evidence, Mr. Colletti?

Certainly you read the article in yesterday's newspaper. It appears that Mr. Knight is a contract killer who was hired to kill Ms. Fenning.

Objection, said Jack, rising. Since when did we start convicting alleged murderers based upon newspaper articles?

I'll sustain the objection, said the judge. Newspaper articles are admissible in certain circumstances, but if that's all you've got, Mr. Colletti, I'd say this motion is highly premature.

Judge, I concede that I'm not in a position at this moment to prove that Tatum killed Sally Fenning.

The judge snarled and said, Then what are we doing here?

In light of the deaths of Mason Rudsky and Deirdre Meadows, I thought it was imperative to get this issue before the court now, in an abundance of caution. He glanced across the courtroom at Jack's client and said, Just in case Mr. Knight kills me, too, before I have a chance to gather my evidence.

Objection, said Jack. This so-called serious motion is quickly devolving into a grandstand play without a shred of evidentiary support.

Mr. Colletti, do you have any evidence that you, personally, are in any such danger?

I do. That's why I've combined this motion under the Slayer Statute with a request that Mr. Knight be held in contempt of court for violation of the restraining order. The court previously ordered that Mr. Knight should not come within five hundred yards of any of the other beneficiaries, except for court appearances and official meetings with the personal representative of Sally Fenning's estate. As detailed in the affidavit filed with my motion, Mr. Knight assaulted me once again while I was outside my house walking my dog.

The judge took a quick look at the file, peering through his reading glasses. According to your affidavit, this happened almost a week ago. Why has it taken you so long to come forward with this evidence?

Frankly, this guy scares the daylights out of me. But now that two of my fellow beneficiaries have turned up dead, I decided it was incumbent upon me to bring this additional evidence to the court's attention.

The judge nodded, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. Mr. Swyteck, we've all read Mr. Colletti's affidavit. What's your response?

Jack rose and said, If I may, I would like to question Mr. Colletti about the photographs he attached to his affidavit.

Photographs? The judge thumbed through the file, apparently having missed them.

Gerry said, I submitted several photographs that show the severity of the blows I received from Mr. Knight in this second meeting. As I state in my affidavit, he became very agitated, grabbed me by the throat, threw me to the ground, kicked me several times.

Tatum whispered, That's bullshit.

Jack laid a hand on his shoulder, calming his client. Your Honor, I think I have the right to examine the witness about the authenticity of those photographs.

Authenticity? said Gerry in an indignant tone. Are you suggesting -

Swear the witness, the judge ordered.

Gerry shook his head, as if this were all a waste of time. Then he took a seat in the witness stand, and the bailiff administered the familiar oath.

Jack approached and said, Mr. Colletti, these photographs of your bruises - who took them?

I took them myself. I have a camera with a timer on it. You push a button, stand in front of it, and it takes your picture.

Exactly when did you take these photographs?

Immediately after my second encounter with Mr. Knight. The one described in my affidavit.

And the purpose of these photographs is what?

Well, I'm not one to brag, so I normally wouldn't put into the public record photographs of myself naked from the waist up. He smiled, clearly hoping that he'd just uttered the evening news sound byte.

The judge rolled his eyes, and the courtroom was silent. Gerry cleared his throat and said, I filed them to show the court the severity of the beating I took once again at the hands of Mr. Knight.

Jack walked back to his table and grabbed two more stacks of photographs. He handed up one stack to the judge and said, Your Honor, I have several zoom photographs we created from one of Mr. Colletti's originals. I apologize that I wasn't able to file these with the court earlier, but since we just received the affidavit this morning, I just a few minutes ago got these back from the photo lab.

Apology accepted.

Jack turned to the witness, handed him the first photograph from his stack, and said, Mr. Colletti, does this zoomed photograph appear to be a fair and accurate representation of your left arm as taken from your original photograph?

He examined it and said, It would appear to be my arm, yes.

Jack handed him another photograph and said, Here's a closer zoom. Does this appear to be a fair and accurate depiction of your lower left arm as taken from the original photograph?