Last to Die (8 page)

Theo tightened the headlock. His brother grimaced and said, No lies, I promise.

I swear, bro. You lie and embarrass my friend - you blow this opportunity I'm giving you - I'll bust you wide open.

I'm not lying.

Did Sally Fenning hire you to kill her?

She tried.

Did you kill her?

No. I didn't touch the bitch.

Theo kneed him in the belly, then pushed him down to the canvas. She wasn't a bitch, he said as he walked to the ropes. She was a mother.

Theo used his teeth to unlace his gloves, then pulled them off and tossed them into the plastic crate in the corner. He swatted the line of hanging punching bags on the way to the locker room, a boxing rhythm that matched his walk. At his locker, he dug out his cell phone and dialed Jack's number, catching his breath as the phone rang five times in his ear.

Jacko, hey, it's me.

What's going on? said Jack.

Theo blotted away a smear of blood on his wrist. He was sure it wasn't his. You don't have to worry about my brother smokin' you no more.

What do you mean?

Let's just say Tatum passed a lie detector test. He didn't kill Sally Fenning.

You sure of that?

Sure as I can be.

Did she hire him to kill her?

Tried to. He sticks by that, yeah.

Theo took a seat on the bench, waiting for Jack to speak. He sensed that something was still troubling him. What now? asked Theo.

It's the same thing Kelsey and I were talking about last night. Here's a woman who goes through the worst nightmare imaginable, the brutal murder of her own child, but it takes five years, a new marriage, and a mega-million-dollar prenup settlement for her to decide that she can't go on living anymore.

Maybe it was just something that ate her up over time.

That, or maybe something else pushed Sally over the edge. Something more horrible than having your child murdered in your own home.

What could be worse than that?

I don't know. But I aim to find out.

Theo smiled thinly and said, As usual, boss, I aim to help.

Chapter
Eight At 1 P. M. Monday Jack was in the law office of Vivien Grasso. His client, Tatum Knight, was at his side.

Vivien had yet to make an appearance. Her secretary had simply escorted Jack and his client back to the main conference room, where three men and a woman were waiting at the long mahogany table. They were the other beneficiaries, Jack presumed, but he was reluctant to jump to any firm conclusions.

Jack introduced himself and his client to the group, which precipitated an exchange of names only. Everyone seemed cautious, if not suspicious, reluctant to divulge anything about themselves.

Deirdre Meadows, said Jack, repeating the final introduction as if he recognized the name. She looked familiar, too. Plain but potentially attractive, her simple clothing, minimal makeup, and efficient brown curls befitting of a woman who was perpetually on deadline.

Jack asked, Don't you write for the Tribune?

I do, she answered.

What, they got you covering this story from the inside?

No. I was invited to this meeting. Just like everyone else.

Did you know Sally Fenning?

Sort of. She looked away, as if catching herself in a lie. Not really.

Are you a beneficiary under the will?

I guess we'll find out.

Jack checked around the table. Does this arrangement strike anyone else as odd? I get the sense that everyone knows there's a lot of money at stake, but no one quite knows why they're here.

I know why I'm here, said the guy across the table. Miguel was his name, and he'd introduced himself only by his first name, as if he were under strict orders to be tight-lipped.

Be quiet, the older man next to him grumbled. He was short and stocky, like a fireplug in a double-breasted suit. His hair was slick and dyed black, his mustache perfectly groomed, his midsection soft and round, as if he spent all day looking in the mirror from the shoulders up. His name was Gerry - just Gerry, as he was evidently operating under the same brilliant first-name-only strategy.

You two together? asked Jack.

They answered simultaneously: Sort of, said Miguel; None of your business, said Gerry.

Jack said, Let me guess. Gerry, you're Miguel's lawyer.

Gerry didn't answer.

That's Geraldo Colletti, said the reporter. The divorce lawyer. I'm sure you've heard of him. Made quite a name for himself in family court by snaking other lawyers. First thing he tells his client to do is spend some money interviewing the five best divorce lawyers in town. That way, the other spouse can't go out and hire them, because Gerry's client has already revealed enough confidences to make it ethically impossible for them to represent the other side.

That's hogwash, said Gerry.

I have heard of you, said Jack. I don't do divorce work, but aren't you the same Gerry who got himself into trouble for running an ad that labeled you Gerry the Genius.'

Gentleman Gerry, he said, obviously annoyed. And the ad didn't get me in trouble. It was just ineffectual. Apparently, no one wants a divorce lawyer who's a gentleman.

I see. Tell me, Gentleman Gerry. What's your take on this?

We'll know soon enough.

Miguel made a face. Oh, what the hell are we being so coy about? I'm Miguel Rios, Sally's first husband.

Jack did a double take. What are you doing here?

I was invited, just like the rest of you.

I wasn't aware that you and Sally were on good terms.

I wouldn't say it was good terms. Don't get me wrong. It's not like I was expecting her to leave me a mile-high pile of shit and an extra large spoon. I just wasn't expecting her to leave me anything. But when you're worth forty-six million bucks, maybe there's enough to go around for everybody. Even your ex. So here I am.

For the money? said Jack.

The lawyer jumped in, as if pained by Miguel's words. That's enough information, Mr. Rios. We came here to sit and listen, remember?

Oh, put a sock in it, Gerry. You don't represent me here, so don't be telling me what to do.

Hold on, said Jack. Are you saying that Gerry the Genius is attending this meeting in some capacity other than as your lawyer?

Excuse me, said the attorney. That's Gentleman Gerry.

Miguel said, Genius here got the same letter I got. He's named in Sally's will, too.

Jack leaned back, thinking. Interesting. We've got an estate worth forty-six million dollars, but so far, the only people who appear to be in the running to inherit any portion of it are a newspaper reporter, an ex-husband, the ex-husband's divorce lawyer, and my client. All eyes shifted to the man at the other end of the table. Who are you, sir?

I'm an attorney.

Another lawyer, said Jack.

I'm here on behalf of Mason Rudsky.

Rudsky was a name that everyone but Tatum seemed to recognize immediately. Jack said, Mason Rudsky, the assistant state attorney?

That's the one.

Jack said, The same Mason Rudsky who oversaw the investigation into the murder of Fenning's little girl?

Yes.

Miguel glared at him and said, The same Mason Rudsky who in five freakin' years never brought an indictment against anybody for the murder of my daughter.

There was anger in the father's voice, and it cut through the room like an Arctic blast.

The door opened, and all rose as Vivien Grasso entered the conference room. Keep your seats, she said as she took her place at the head of the table.

Thank you for coming. Sorry for the late start, but I wanted to give everyone a chance to get here. I would begin by saying that there was one other invitee, but I have as yet been unable to nail down a current address for him. I'll assume he's a no-show.

Who is it? asked Jack.

Not important for present purposes. You'll see soon enough when the will is filed with the court. He won't lose any of his rights as beneficiary simply because he failed to attend the reading of the will.

Does that mean everyone here is a beneficiary? asked Jack.

Let's have the will speak for itself, shall we? Vivien opened her leather dossier and removed the last will and testament of Sally Fenning. Jack felt his heart thumping as she began, trying to imagine how the others must have felt. They - or at least one of them - might be just minutes away from the cushy side of a forty-six-million-dollar inheritance.

But why?

I, Sally Fenning, being of sound mind and body

Vivien read slowly, and Jack listened to every word. He was a lawyer, after all. Words were his business, and words were all you had when it came to dealing with the wishes of the dead. But he was beginning to think that whoever wrote this will must have been paid by the word. It went on for several pages, dry and repetitive as hell, about as bearable as a Swyteck family reunion without Zanax.

When do we get to the good stuff? asked Tatum. Jack glanced at his client. The big guy's eyes were about to glaze over.

I'm turning to that now, said Vivien as she slid another document from her dossier. The trust instrument.

Trust? said Jack.

Bear with me, said Vivien. This is a multimillion-dollar estate, after all. It's a little more complicated than leaving Uncle Ralph the rice maker and a pair of old bowling shoes.

Take your time, said Jack.

Vivien read on for another fifteen minutes. Although the language was just as dry and legalistic as before, she managed to hold the attention of everyone in the room. Especially at the end, when she mentioned each of the beneficiaries by name.

Jack scribbled down five names as she read them. The sixth?

I told you, you'll get the sixth after I've had a chance to meet with him. Vivien returned to the document, reading all the way down to the date and place of execution. When she finished, she laid the papers on the table before her, saying nothing further.

The others looked at her, then at one another, as if not quite sure they'd heard it correctly. Or perhaps they were just stunned into silence.

Finally, Sally's ex spoke up. Are you saying she actually left us her money?

Forty-six million dollars? said the Genius. He seemed dumb-founded, somewhere between giddy and on the verge of a panic attack, almost speaking to himself. I can't believe she left it all to us.

Vivien said, Well, technically, she didn't leave it to all of you. She's leaving it to one of you.

Tatum scratched his head, made a face. I'm not followin' any of this. Who gets what, and when do we get it?

Vivien smiled patiently and said, Mr. Knight, let me put this in terms that everyone here can understand. All of the assets of Ms. Fenning's estate will go into a trust. There are six potential beneficiaries. One by one, your rights extinguish upon your death. Until there's only one of you left. That's when the trust shall be distributed, principal and any accumulated interest. The last person living has all rights of survivorship.

Speak English, said Tatum.

Vivien looked at him coolly and said, Last one to die takes all.

The reporter looked up from her notes. Is that legal?

Sure, said Vivien.

Tatum said, Let me get this straight. If all these other jokers live eighty-nine years, and I live ninety years, I get the money, but I have to wait ninety years before I gets a single penny.

Exactly. But you get interest.

That's bullshit.

Let me give you another for instance, said the Genius. Let's say that we all walk out of here, and these fine folks get hit by a bus. And I don't. That means I'm a millionaire?

No. There is still one other beneficiary who's not here.

Him too, said the Genius. Let's say they're all on the same bus, and it rides over a cliff. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Then, yes, you've hit the jackpot. You inherit forty-six million dollars as soon as everyone else is dead. The only condition is that you're still alive when everyone else dies.

Doesn't matter how they die?

No. What matters is when they die.

A tense silence filled the room, which was prolonged by an anxious exchange of eye contact among a group of strangers who now, for some reason, seemed forever linked to one another. Finally, Gerry the Genius said, It's as if she's encouraging us to bump each other off.

More silence.

Vivien looked each of them in the eye, then said, I'm not suggesting that anyone here is so inclined, but if any of the beneficiaries under this will were to bump off the others in hopes of inheriting the whole pie - well, just forget about it. Your motive would be obvious, so you'd never get away with it.

Miguel chuckled, more philosophical than angry, as if the beauty of his ex-wife's scheme had suddenly come clear. So the joke's on us. She makes us feel close to the money, but no one can really get it. At least not soon enough for it to be of any use to us in our lifetime. We'll just go on living and hoping we'll be rich some day, but we're all just going to die as poor as we ever were.