Last to Die (30 page)

Mom, hi, it's me I know it's late, I'm sorry. But I just had to check on Nate. Is he okay? Thank God. She took a breath, her voice shaking as she added, I really think it's best if he stays with you for a while.

Chapter
Forty-One Deirdre Meadows was staring at a blank computer screen. Not even the buzz of the busy Tribune newsroom could get her crime reporting juices flowing. She couldn't blame it on lack of material - there was a dead hooker on Biscayne Boulevard, a circuit court judge caught taking a bribe, and it wasn't even lunchtime - but her mind was elsewhere.

What's cooking? her editor asked as he breezed past her messy cubicle.

Oh, the usual Miami spice, she said weakly.

She'd been moping around for the last twenty-four hours, ever since she'd left Vivien Grasso's office with a titanic knot in her stomach. It was all Jack Swyteck's fault. He returned from Africa and promptly warned everyone they might be in danger because of Alan Sirap. She'd been attacked by dogs and threatened by a madman who'd vowed that he would either kill her or kill one of the other beneficiaries - and she'd told no one about it. She didn't like to think she was motivated by money. It was a matter of her own personal safety.

But was silence really the only way?

To hell with it, she thought. It wasn't her responsibility to save the others. If they stayed in Sally's game now - after the note from Alan Sirap, after Swyteck's warning that Sirap was Sally's stalker, after Tatum Knight beat up Gerry Colletti, after Gerry offered to buy them all out for a quarter million dollars apiece - then whatever happened to them was their own damn fault.

Her phone rang, and she snatched it up. Meadows, she said.

How's my favorite reporter this morning?

Her grip tightened. It was that same mechanical voice - her source. I'm not your favorite anything, pal.

That's not true. I'm a man of my word, and your two weeks of silence makes you my partner. Hard to believe it's been almost that long since we talked last, isn't it?

What do you want from me? she asked.

Once again, I have to congratulate you. I understand you had another chance to tell the group about our partnership yesterday, and you did the right thing. You kept your big mouth shut.

How do you know about that?

I have my sources. Just like you.

Who?

Get real.

How do you know they're reliable?

They're reliable. The kind you'd love to have.

She reached for a pen and notepad. How much would I love it?

Enough to write this down.

She froze. Could he see her, or did he just know her well enough to guess that she'd gone for her pad?

He said, I've decided to reward you. Consider it a little bone in your direction for good behavior.

I'm listening.

I'm sure you haven't forgotten our little understanding - be the first to die, or be the one to inherit forty-six million dollars.

Her voice tightened. How could I forget that?

Good. Because I don't want you to think I've gone soft. I just want you to understand that if you do as you're told, it's in everyone's best interest.

How do you mean?

Not everyone has to die.

No one has to die.

That's up to you, isn't it?

No, she said sharply. Don't put this on me.

Don't use that tone with me, he said, his voice rising. Or I might change my mind.

She reeled in her anger, taking the edge off her voice. Change your mind about what?

I have a story for you.

She fumbled again for her pad, her hand shaking as she put pen to paper. What kind of story?

It's about Tatum Knight.

That's a good start.

Here's what I want you to write. Tatum met with Sally Fenning two weeks before she died. She drove to a bar owned by Tatum's brother, Theo, called Sparky's.

What did they talk about?

She hired him to kill her.

For a moment she couldn't speak. She what?

You hard of hearing?

No. That's quite a story. But I can't write something like that without corroboration.

You can, and you will.

But I need two sources before the Tribune will print -

Shut up and fucking listen! I didn't tell you to run the story. I told you to write it.

She paused, confused. Why write it if I can't print it?

You take the story to Jack Swyteck and you threaten to publish it.

What's the threat?

Tell him that the story is going to run on page one tomorrow - unless his client instructs Sally's estate lawyer to strike his name from the list of beneficiaries.

Deirdre had heard every word, but she'd written nothing on her pad. It was almost too bizarre to register. What's this all about?

Like I said, not everyone has to die. If we can get some of the other beneficiaries to drop out, that's as good as dead, right?

She thought for a second, recalling that Gerry Colletti had made the same point at yesterday's meeting. That's right.

So you write that story, Deirdre. Write it good. You make Tatum Knight think he's about to jump to the top of the list of suspects in the murder of Sally Fenning. Because if he doesn't drop out, then it's back to my original plan. Somebody's gonna die.

The line clicked. Her source was gone. Slowly, Deirdre placed the phone back in the cradle, then slumped in her chair, mentally exhausted. She wasn't keen on the idea of extorting anyone, but threatening Tatum Knight with a phony story was certainly preferable to standing aside and waiting for her source to bump off one of her fellow beneficiaries.

She drummed her fingers on her notepad, thinking. Sally Fenning hired Tatum Knight to kill her. Write it, but don't print it. Just the words on paper would be enough to make Tatum Knight drop out of the race for forty-six million dollars. Just the words -

No, she realized. Not just the words. The words alone had no power, or at least not power enough to intimidate two guys like Jack Swyteck and Tatum Knight.

The words had that kind of power only if they were true.

She looked across the sprawling newsroom, her gaze slowly passing over the bronze plaque on the wall in honor of the Tribune's past winners of the Pulitzer Prize. Finally, her focus came to rest on the office door of the editor who had slapped down her proposal for an investigative piece on Sally Fenning.

Sweet mama, she wondered. What if it is true?

Chapter
Forty-Two South Coconut Grove is a maze of quiet residential streets that cut through a tropical forest. It's no accident that the crisscrossing courts and lanes bear names like Leafy Way, Poinciana, and Kumquat. Shade, charm, and privacy are the neighborhood selling points, each little lot surrounded by a piece of the sprawling jungle. People live there because you could be on top of the house next door and never know it.

People move away because you could be killed in your driveway and no one would see it.

Detective Rick Larsen parked his unmarked Chevy behind the line of squad cars with the swirling blue lights. He grabbed his notepad, got out, and walked around the overgrown bougainvillea and a swaying stand of bamboo that lined the street. Evenings in the Grove were like midnight in the Black Forest, even darker when skies were overcast. It had been raining since sunset, and it was hard to tell if the precipitation was still falling or if the wind was simply blowing drops off the leafy canopy overhead. Typical Grove confusion.

Larsen heard voices on the other side of the bushes. He ducked under the taut yellow police tape that was stretched across the entrance to the driveway. Pea gravel crunched beneath his feet as he entered the crime scene and asked, What do we got?

Cameras flashed as the investigative team photographed the area. Others were slowly canvassing the yard, searching for anything and everything. The body lay facedown in the gravel. An assistant medical examiner was kneeling over it, examining it, while speaking into her Dictaphone.

A young cop in uniform, the first to have arrived on the scene, gave Larsen the quick rundown. White male. Fifty-something years old.

He live here?

No. Owner of the house found him when she was taking out the garbage. She called the police.

She know him?

No. Says she's never seen him before.

She see anything?

No.

Any witnesses?

Not yet.

Any identification on him?

None. He was wearing a T-shirt and exercise shorts with no pockets. From his shoes and outfit, looks like he was out walking or jogging. Except that he's not in very good shape. Walking is more my guess, probably on a doctor's orders to get off his ass and lower his cholesterol.

Anything else?

That's about it. Medical examiner moved in and took over.

Larsen made a few notes in his pad, then walked over to the body. The examiner was in mid-sentence, speaking into her recorder, early nonfixed lividity, torso and extremities blanch with touch.

She switched off her tape recorder, looked up at the detective, and said, How you doing, Rick?

Better than him.

That good, huh?

He smiled just a little, about as much as he ever did. What happened?

With a fractured right femur, at least six cracked ribs, a hyperextended elbow, a broken neck, and God only knows the extent of internal injuries, I'd say it was probably more than a slip and fall.

Hit and run?

Pretty safe guess.

How'd he end up in the driveway? Fly or dragged here?

Flew. I marked off his flight pattern. Probably became airborne somewhere south of the driveway, shot like a cruise missile right through that busted-up banana tree over there. Landed in the front yard, where we put that flag right there, then skidded into the driveway.

Anybody checking for skid marks?

No one's found any yet. Street's blocked off all the way to Main Highway. You can look for yourself.

Think I will. He started away then stopped. It was a little ritual of his, always to get a look at the victim's face before marching off to do the drawing, the measuring, the detail work. It was a sure way to remind himself that this job was about people.

He bent over and shined his penlight on the face, then did a double take. Son of a bitch, he said softly.

You know him?

Don't you? He's an assistant state attorney.

I've only been with the Miami-Dade office a few months. Haven't worked with many of them yet.

Well, here's one you'll never work with, he said flatly. His name's Mason Rudsky.

Chapter
Forty-Three Jack was alone on his covered patio watching the brilliant display of lightning over Biscayne Bay, when the telephone rang. He hesitated, recalling how his ex-wife had been so paranoid about picking up the phone in a thunderstorm, as if a bolt of lightning might travel down the line into the house and fry you on the spot. She always said it took a complete and utter disregard for human life to expect someone to come to the phone when there's lightning.

Maybe it's her, he thought in a sarcastic moment. He picked up the phone. Hello.

Good evening, Mr. Swyteck.

Jack gave his phone a quick shake. It was a mechanical-sounding voice, and he was beginning to wonder if there wasn't something to that paranoia about telephones and lightning. Who is this?

Don't hang up. You'll be sorry if you do.

The voice was still distorted, but he knew there was nothing wrong with his equipment. What's this about?

Mason Rudsky.

What about him?

He's dead.

Jack suddenly needed to sit down. Dead?

Yes, very.

What do you know about it?

I know this much: The stolen car that ran him down will never be found.

Where's his body?

No need to worry about that. Cops are on the scene already.

Then why are you calling me?

Because you seem to be the one voice in the group of Sally Fenning's heirs that everybody listens to. And I have a message for them.

What is it?

Tell them this: The man who ran down Mason Rudsky knew that Rudsky had withdrawn from Sally Fenning's contest.

Jack rose, as if pacing might help him think. You're saying this was homicide?

Definitely. No one hit the brakes. They won't find any skid marks on the road.

Killed by whom?

Like I said, by someone who knows that Mason Rudsky accepted Gerry Colletti's offer.

You mean the two-hundred-fifty grand?

I mean Mason Rudsky was killed by someone who knew that he was no longer in the running to inherit Sally Fenning's forty-six million dollars.