Last to Die (29 page)

Yeah, and I can't wait to pay you back. He slid into his seat, searching frantically for both ends of the seat belt as the plane soared into the night, climbing by the second.

Chapter
Thirty-Nine The mood in Vivien Grasso's conference room was even more tense than Jack had expected. As personal representative of the estate, Vivien was seated at the head of the rectangular table. To her left were Jack and Tatum, followed by Deirdre Meadows and her lawyer. Seated on the other side of the table were Miguel Rios, Gerry Colletti, and Mason Rudsky, each with his own attorney. All eyes were upon Jack, as if to say, This had better be good.

Immediately upon returning to Miami, Jack had called Vivien to arrange a meeting in her office first thing Monday morning. Naturally, Jack hoped that sitting down face-to-face with the other beneficiaries might lend some insight into who was threatening Kelsey. But that was a secondary objective, one that he'd have to approach subtly, as the attacker's warning had left Kelsey afraid to utter a word to the police or anyone else. Jack was far more direct when addressing the main point on his agenda.

Rene told me that Alan Sirap was Sally's stalker.

Silence fell over the room for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, Vivien said, So there really is an Alan Sirap?

No. According to Rene, it's a phony name he shared with Sally in one of their communications over the Internet. But it's the best information Sally had about him.

I'm not sure it's good enough, said Vivien.

Good enough for what? asked Jack.

To establish his entitlement to an inheritance. I'm not saying it's impossible. I'm sure that somewhere in the history of our jurisprudence a court has upheld a will where a nickname or perhaps even an alias is used to describe the beneficiary. But it would be up to that beneficiary to come forward and prove that he is in fact the person described in the will.

There was silence again, as each of them pondered the implications. Jack said, So by naming Alan Sirap as a beneficiary, Sally was inducing her stalker to come forward and say I'm the guy, I'm Alan Sirap. In effect, she was giving him a choice: Reveal yourself as a stalker and take your shot at forty-six million dollars, or just stay silent.

I'm not prepared to speak as to Sally's intentions in this setting, said Vivien.

Well, I am, said Miguel. You people seem to keep forgetting that I was married to Sally when this stalker first appeared, and if you ask me, he's the piece of shit who murdered our daughter. So let's clear up one thing right away: This Sirap character isn't going to come forward and reveal himself, not even for forty-six million dollars.

That depends, said Jack. Maybe he's convinced that no one can prove he did anything but send Sally a few e-mails.

The prosecutor piped up, as if this talk of proof was hitting too close to home. With all due respect to Mr. Rios, we already know that Mr. Sirap - whoever he is - isn't going to stay silent. Each of us received a letter from him that flat-out warned us to get out of the game.

That's right, said the others, a sudden chorus of agreement.

Rudsky continued, So now we know several key facts. One, each of us has a warning letter from a Mr. Sirap. Two, we know that Sirap is the name used by the man who was stalking Sally Fenning. Three, at least some of us suspect that he's the same man who stabbed Sally and murdered her daughter. Basically, it boils down to this, ladies and gentlemen: It appears that each of us is now caught in a game of survival of the greediest with a cold-blooded killer.

Again there was silence, the exchange of uneasy glances - a silence that was broken by the slow, sarcastic clapping of hands. It was Gerry Colletti offering mock applause. Very nice ploy, Swyteck, he said dryly.

What are you talking about?

He glared at Jack and then glanced around the table, as if courting support from the others. We all know there's two ways to be the one who inherits Sally's money. One is to outlive the others. The other is to persuade the others to withdraw. I think I've stated that correctly, have I not, Madam Personal Representative?

That's correct, said Vivien.

So, short of killing each other off, we all have to come up with a strategy. We could cut a deal, say each of us takes one-sixth. We haven't openly explored that route yet, but we're all posturing, aren't we? Each of us trying to get in a position to take a bigger share.

This meeting isn't about posturing, said Jack.

Everything we do is about posturing, said Gerry. Some of us are clever, some of us aren't. At least one of us is so transparent that he beat the crap out of me, he said, looking straight at Tatum, and tried to threaten me into withdrawing. But it now appears that Mr. Knight has managed to align himself with someone who has a more workable plan: Scare the daylights out of the other beneficiaries, make everyone think this mysterious Mr. Sirap is out to kill us, so that the weakest among us drop out of the race.

Are you suggesting that I staged this meeting purely as a scare tactic? said Jack.

What's your legal fee if Tatum Knight wins, Mr. Swyteck? One third of forty-six million? Not a bad piece of change.

That's pretty cynical of you, said Jack. All I can say is that I hope the others aren't nearly so myopic and that they'll take this seriously.

I hope they take it seriously, too, said Gerry. To that end, I'm prepared to make a blanket offer to everyone here, the same offer I initially conveyed to Mr. Swyteck's client. I'll pay two-hundred-fifty thousand dollars cash, right now. No strings attached. All you have to do is renounce your right to the inheritance.

A few of them exchanged glances, but no one spoke.

Any takers? asked Gerry.

Is this legal? asked Deirdre.

Vivien said, I don't see anything wrong with it. It's quite common for beneficiaries under a will to negotiate with one another.

There you have it, said Gerry. Straight from the mouth of the personal representative.

Deirdre made a face and said, Who would be crazy enough to give up a shot at forty-six million dollars?

I guess I would be, said Mason Rudsky.

All eyes shifted toward the prosecutor. Gerry said, Do I have a taker?

Rudsky's lawyer appeared to be on the verge of cardiac arrest, his voice shaking as he looked at his client and said, Now let's not jump into anything here, Mason.

Rudsky said, Nonsense. Somebody already beat the daylights out of Gerry Colletti. Now it looks like the sixth beneficiary is a suspected child killer. I don't see this contest ending in anything but tragedy.

Let's talk about this in private, his lawyer said.

No. I'm out. Ms. Grasso, as soon as Mr. Colletti's wire transfer comes through, I'll forward you whatever papers are necessary to renounce my inheritance.

Are you sure about this? she asked.

I'm sure.

Gerry had a gleam in his eye. Anyone else?

They looked around in silence, as if checking the collective pulse.

Gerry said, Well, that's progress. Mr. Rudsky just made himself a quarter million dollars. And the rest of us just improved our odds from one in six to one in five.

Just remember this, said Rudsky. He scanned the room, looking each of them in the eye. It could be a good result. It could be a disastrous result. Either way, what Mr. Colletti said is absolutely true: Your odds have just improved. For better, or for worse.

The prosecutor and his attorney rose. No one else moved, and the two men left without a single handshake. The door closed, unleashing an uncomfortable stretch of silence during which no one seemed quite sure what to say.

Jack decided to keep his thoughts to himself: I couldn't have said it better, Mr. Rudsky.

Chapter
Forty Kelsey couldn't breathe. At least it felt as though she couldn't. On some level of consciousness she could feel her chest swelling and lungs expanding, but her heart raced with panic as she nonetheless gasped for air. She drank it in. Cold, heavy air that singed her nostrils and burned her throat. She could inhale all she wanted, more than she wanted, but she couldn't get it out. It seemed to fill her lungs and stay there, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't exhale. Her eyes bulged, her arms flailed. She tried to scream, but it was no use. The air was too thick, too damp.

Water! She was sinking, fading fast, fighting the useless fight. Her legs felt dry but her head was soaked, submerged, trapped beneath something. She couldn't move, couldn't even turn her head. She could only suck harder, drink in the cold, black wetness that was suffocating her.

The room went black. Her mind was a blank. She was suddenly bone dry, her lungs completely clear. But her heart was still pounding as the images came back into focus, though it wasn't strictly a dream anymore. It was part dream, part memory - a horrible memory of Nate's worst day as a toddler, a day so frightening that her mind refused to take her back there, except when she was too tired to fight it, hovering in a semi-conscious state.

Kelsey hurried up the sidewalk and didn't bother knocking on the front door. It was her older sister's house, and she could come and go as she pleased. Walking through the living room and into the kitchen, she could hear her sister and a group of her girlfriends laughing and playing cards at the table. She said hello, then walked to the family room where the children were playing on the floor. Kelsey counted five of them, three boys and two girls, each of them dwarfed by the tower of Lego they'd constructed.

Where's Nate? she asked.

The children were laughing and arguing at the same time, too focused on their tower to answer. An old woman was seated on the couch, one eye on the children, one eye on the television. He's in the kitchen, she said. With his mother.

No, I'm his mother.

He said he wanted his mommy.

Kelsey's heart fluttered. She started back down the hall, poking her head into the bedrooms along the way and calling out Nate's name, but she got no reply.

Where's Nate? she said as she reached the kitchen.

Her sister kept her eyes on her cards. He's in the playroom with the kids.

No, he's not.

What do you mean he's not?

He's not there. He's not anywhere! She called his name once more, loud enough to be heard anywhere in the house. Silence.

The women threw down their cards and dispatched in different directions - one to the living room, one to the garage, one to the front yard.

Nate!

Where are you, Nate?

Nate, honey!

Kelsey ran to the backyard, calling his name at the top of her lungs, racing from one end of the house to the other, checking the trash bins and behind the bushes. She was at a dead run when she rounded the corner, then froze. A wood deck ran along the side of the house. On the deck was a hot tub. It was covered with a big plastic lid that kept out the leaves and critters. It was supposed to keep out children, too, when it was padlocked. But the latch had no lock. She sprinted up the stairs, then nearly fell to her knees.

On the deck beside the tub lay Nate's blankie.

Nate! she cried, shooting bolt upright in her bed. She was breathless, her face cold and clammy with sweat as she looked around the room. It was her bedroom, she realized, which came as a relief. She was home. It had been that nightmare again, or more precisely the memory that came back to haunt her in dreams. Nate had been just two years old at the time. He didn't know how to swim, but thankfully the tub had been only half full.

Kelsey slid out of bed and walked silently to the kitchen. The light was still on, and the photocopies were still on the table, exactly where she'd left them. Since her own attack, she'd gathered additional information about the death of Sally's daughter. She'd studied her findings before bedtime, which had proved to be a terrible mistake.

Or maybe a very timely warning.

She took a seat at the table and thumbed through the collection of old articles. She stopped at the last one, the one reporting the medical examiner's account of how Sally's daughter had died. Suffocation caused by drowning. Kelsey skimmed the article one more time, though she couldn't bring herself to focus too intently. The very idea was too painful for any mother, for any normal human being.

This psycho - whoever he was - had rinsed his hands and knife in the bathtub, and then drowned a little girl in water made red by her own mother's blood.

Kelsey shuddered at the thought, and once again the words of her own attacker outside the law school library echoed in her mind: Tatum Knight drops out, or your little boy, Nate, goes the way of Sally's daughter.

The dream had left her so exhausted that she practically had to prop her head up to think clearly. She was still adamant about not calling the cops. If the man had wanted to rape her or hurt Nate, he could have done that easily. He wanted Tatum out of the game - and that was all he wanted. She had to believe him when he said that Nate would pay if she involved the cops. Still, someone, somewhere, was trying to warn her that she needed to do something. Why else would she have had the dream?

Unless the message was that she was already too late.

The thought chilled her. She rose quickly and grabbed the telephone. Her mother lived in a high-rise condominium with twenty-four-hour security, the safest place Kelsey knew of. She'd decided not to go with him, however, not wanting him or her mother to see the worry in her eyes. She dialed the number and spoke at the sound of her mother's sleepy Hello.