Last to Die (6 page)

Can you stay a minute?

I - uh, yeah. I guess.

I found some interesting stuff on Sally Fenning. We could have some coffee and go over it.

Sounds good.

I'll be just a minute.

Jack turned and headed for the kitchen. Kelsey tried to get Nate into his pajamas without waking him, but it was a losing battle. No matter how gently you tried to pull a T-shirt off a sleeping child, it always seemed to want to take his head with it.

Mommy, stop.

Let me help you.

No, no. I'm a big boy. I can do it myself.

All right. You do it.

I need privacy.

He was cranky, obviously overtired. She handed him the pajamas. Take these in the bathroom with you. And so long as you're awake, be sure to brush your teeth.

He grumbled and marched off to the bathroom. Kelsey smiled to herself, though she was slightly saddened at the thought of her little boy all grown up and too embarrassed to get dressed in front of his mother. He was back in thirty seconds, wearing his pajama top backward.

Good night, Mom, said Nate, crawling into bed.

Where's my hug and kiss?

He came to her and squeezed tightly.

Oh, you're so strong. She broke the embrace and asked, Teeth all brushed?

Yes.

Let me see.

His mouth tightened, as if amazed by the way his mother always knew. He lowered his eyes and asked, Have you ever thought about you and Jack.

She lifted his chin and looked him straight in the eye. Me and Jack, what?

You know. Do you think he's handsome?

Yes. Jack is very good-looking.

He's nice, right?

Extremely.

Do you like him?

Yes, she said cautiously, seeing where his little mind was headed.

But there will never be anything romantic between us.

Why not?

Because She wasn't sure how to answer. It was a question she'd asked herself more than just a few times: Why not Jack? Because he's even worse than you are at trying to change the subject.

I'm not changing the -

Let me see those teeth.

His lips parted slowly. The Oreo cookies were a dead giveaway. Kelsey pointed him back toward the bathroom. March. And don't forget the ones in back.

He was groaning as he scurried down the hallway. He was a good kid who listened well, definitely the sole bright spot from her short-lived marriage. Her ex-husband was a smart and charming college professor who taught comparative studies. Unfortunately, the thing he liked to compare most was married sex to sex on the side.

Nate was practically sleepwalking when he returned from the bathroom. She put him to bed, and he was in dreamland before she left the room.

Jack was alone in the kitchen, enjoying the collage of photographs on the side-by-side refrigerator-freezer doors. It was a veritable time-line of Nate's life, from birth to third grade, pacifiers to baseball mitts. Some were of Nate alone, but most were of Nate and his mom. They had the same big, hazel eyes, the same smile. Nate was looking more and more like his mother as he grew older, which was a good thing. All ballerinas seemed to have a handsome air about them when up onstage, and Kelsey was one of the truly beautiful ones who didn't seem to dissolve into skin and bones when you got close.

Did you see the latest one of you and Nate?

Jack started at the sound of her voice. Kelsey entered the room, then pointed to a snapshot near the refrigerator door handle. It was Nate, Jack, and a life-size Tigger.

Wow. I made the fridge, said Jack.

No higher place of honor in this house.

Like getting a star on Hollywood Boulevard.

Well, let's not get crazy. It's only Scotch tape and magnets. Today Jack Swyteck, tomorrow Derek Jeter. Know what I mean?

Jack smiled and said, He is eight.

Yes, he is, she said, sounding almost as if it overwhelmed her. She crossed the room to the coffeemaker. Want some decaf? I made it just before you got here.

Yes, thanks.

Jack took a seat. She poured two cups at the counter and then brought them to the table. She sat opposite him, next to her laptop computer.

Jack stirred a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee and said, I ran into Vivien Grasso tonight. The lawyer handling Sally's estate.

And?

She wrote that letter to Tatum because he's named in Sally's will.

She coughed on her coffee. Jack had told her all about Tatum, as his discussions with her were protected by the attorney-client privilege, even though Kelsey was still only a law clerk. Kelsey said, Wait a minute. You're saying she hired a guy to kill her, and then she named him in her will?

That's what I'm told.

Doesn't that strike you as bizarre?

Yes. Assuming that Tatum is telling me the truth.

Well, let's assume that he is for the moment. Why would Sally name him as a beneficiary?

Could be his fee for having agreed to kill her, said Jack. But that's a really goofy way to do it.

Could be a setup, said Kelsey.

How do you mean?

He isn't really a beneficiary. Vivien Grasso is just saying that he is. Maybe she thinks Tatum killed Sally and she simply wants to get him in a room where she can grill him.

I didn't get that impression from Vivien.

Or how about this? Maybe Vivien thinks that someone else in the room - one of the other beneficiaries - hired Tatum to kill Sally. It could be that the lawyer just wants to test the reaction of each of the beneficiaries when Tatum walks into the room.

I like the way your mind works, but I think it's working overtime right now.

She opened the cookie jar and passed it his way. The Oreos were all gone but the crumbs, Nate's favorite. Jack was stuck with short-bread.

Kelsey closed up the jar and asked, So, what do you think's going on?

I'm pretty content to just go to the meeting and find out.

Aren't you worried about representing a scumbag hit man?

No. But I am worried about representing someone who lies to me.

So you'll represent a murderer but not a liar?

I didn't say that.

So you won't represent murderers or liars?

There's only one kind of person whom I will categorically refuse to represent. I may or may not represent a murderer. I may or may not represent a liar. But I absolutely, positively will not agree to represent anyone who lies to me.

You sound like someone who's been burned.

You could say that.

Personally or professionally? She seemed to reconsider the question, then said, Sorry. That's none of my business.

It's fine. The answer is both.

Do you think Tatum Knight is lying to you?

That's what I'm wrestling with.

For what it's worth, I hope you do get involved in this.

Why?

I don't even know this woman, so it seems almost silly to say I care. But on some level, I feel drawn into it. Her whole life's a tragedy, really.

He glanced at her computer and said, Sounds like you found a few things on Sally Fenning.

You told me she was attacked a few years ago. But there's more to it than that.

That's all Tatum told me.

He left out the most important part. She flipped through her notes, then took a moment to bring him up to speed on the original attack, the death of her daughter. Jack listened in silence, wondering why Tatum hadn't shared these details. Assuming he knew.

That's horrible, said Jack.

Yes. It is.

But it might help explain some things, said Jack. Maybe she couldn't cope with the murder of her only child. She marries some rich older man, thinking maybe money would make her happy. But it only makes her more miserable. So she finally hires someone to kill her.

Which means that perhaps Tatum is telling you the truth. She did ask him to kill her.

Or maybe he's only telling me a half truth. Maybe she asked him to kill her. And he didn't say no.

Possible, said Kelsey. Except that I don't totally buy it.

Why not? said Jack. If something happened to Nate, God forbid, don't you think it would at least cross your mind that life isn't worth living?

Not under Sally's circumstances.

How do you mean?

If something horrible like that happened to my child, I wouldn't rest till the day they nailed the guy who did it.

You mean they never caught the guy who killed Sally's daughter?

Never even an arrest. This afternoon I called to see if I could pull the file out of police archives, but I got nowhere. It hasn't been archived. It's still technically an open investigation.

Interesting, said Jack, the wheels turning in his head. This woman suffers the worst tragedy imaginable. Her four-year-old daughter is murdered viciously in her own home. Five years go by, she's just gotten her hands on forty-six million dollars, compliments of her second husband, and that's when she decides that life isn't worth living.

Assuming Tatum is to be believed.

That's the big assumption, said Jack.

So what are you going to do?

The meeting with Vivien Grasso is Monday. That doesn't leave me a lot of time, so I guess I'll do the only thing I can.

Dump the case, move on?

No way. He took one last hit of coffee, then looked her in the eye and said, I'm going to find out if Tatum Knight is believable.

Chapter
Seven First thing Saturday morning, Theo Knight drove to Mo's Gym on Miami Beach.

The Beach had a long boxing tradition, dating back even before a young and overconfident Cassius Clay trained and fought there to snatch the world heavyweight title away from the most feared champion of his era, Sonny Liston. Mo's was a no-frills facility that catered strictly to amateurs. Not the kind of amateurs who flocked to self-defense classes after the September 11 terrorist attacks. These were serious tough guys, amateurs only in the sense that they had no license to box and didn't at all aspire to be the next Muhammad Ali. They just loved to go at it, man to man, and Mo's was good training for the more important fighting they did outside the ring. Anyone who walked into Mo's had better know the ropes, so to speak, and he had better not freak at the sight of his own blood.

Theo found a chair near the center ring, where his brother, Tatum, was beating the holy hell out of someone who obviously had no idea who the Knight brothers were.

Theo and Tatum had fought plenty, no ring, no gloves, no glory. Toughing it out with gangs wasn't exactly the life Theo would have chosen for himself, but the illegitimate sons of a drug addict didn't have many choices. Their aunt did her best to raise Theo and his older brother, but with five of her own, it wasn't easy. Tatum was always in trouble, and Theo inherited a bad-boy reputation and a slew of enemies without even trying. Not that Theo was a saint. By the time he'd dropped out of high school, he'd done his share of car thefts, small-time stuff. Compared to Tatum, he was the good brother - until the night he'd decided to help himself to a little cash in a convenience store and walked into a living nightmare. It was the kind of trouble people expected of Tatum, not Theo. Over the years, he'd managed to push that night into a corner of his brain that he never visited. But as he sat there watching his brother pulverize his opponent, he found his mind slipping back in time, the memories spurred on by the smells and sights of Mo's, the fighting all around him, the gang graffiti on the walls, the walk and talk of dead-end kids.

Four o'clock in the morning, and the city sidewalks were still hot. It was mid-July in Miami, and for three consecutive days there had been no afternoon rain to cool things down. Fifteen-year-old Theo sat in the passenger seat of a low-riding Chevy, the windows rolled down, the music blasting from rear speakers that filled half of the trunk. He wore his Nike cap backward, the price tag still dangling from the bill. Sweat pasted his black, baggy Miami Heat jersey to his back. A Mercedes-Benz hood ornament hung from a thick gold chain around his neck. It was the required uniform of the Grove Lords, a gang of badass teenage punks from Coconut Grove led by chief thief Lionel Brown.

The car stopped at the red light on Flagler Street, a main east-west drag that ran from downtown Miami to the Everglades. They were just beyond the Little Havana neighborhood, outside the Miami city limits, in a rundown commercial area that catered to shoppers in search of used tires, stolen jewelry, or a good porn flick. On weekends it was always congested, but in the wee hours of Wednesday morning traffic was light.

Chug it, said Lionel from the driver's seat.

Theo took the half-pint of rum, exhaled, and sucked it down. It burned the back of his throat, then his senses numbed and he felt the rush. He got every last drop.

My man, said Lionel.

Theo suddenly felt dizzy. Where we going?