Last to die

One

The rainstorm was blinding, and Sally was way behind schedule. She hadn’t intended to be late, fashionably or otherwise. She just wasn’t good with directions, and this wasn’t exactly her neck of the woods.

Sheets of water pelted the windshield, sounding like marbles bouncing off glass. She adjusted the wipers, but they were already working at full speed. She couldn’t remember rain like this in years, not since she and her first husband lost their restaurant to that no-name tropical storm.

Orange taillights flashed ahead. A stream of cars was inching down the highway at the speed of cooling lava. She slowed to somewhere below the school-zone limit, then checked her watch. Eleven twenty-five.

Damn. He’d just have to wait. She’d get there, eventually.

Their meeting had been arranged by telephone. They’d spoken only once, and his instructions were simple enough. Thursday, 11 P.M. Don’t be late. She didn’t dare reschedule, not even in this weather. This was her man. She was sure of it.

Just ahead, a neon sign blinked erratically, as if shaken by the storm. It was like trying to read an eye chart at the bottom of a lake, and she could only make out part of it: S-P-something-something-KY-apostrophe-S.

“Sparky’s,” she read aloud. This was the place. She steered off the highway and pulled into the flooded parking lot. Under all this water, she could only guess as to the exact location of the parking spot. She killed the engine and checked her face in the rearview mirror. Lightning flashed-a close one. It lit up the inside of her car and unleashed a crack of thunder that sent shivers down her spine. It frightened her, then triggered a bemused smile. How ironic would that have been? After all this planning, to get hit by lightning.

She took a deep breath and exhaled. No turning back now. Just go for it.

She jumped down from the car and started her mad dash across the parking lot in the pouring rain. Almost immediately a blast of wind snatched her umbrella from her hand and pitched it somewhere into the next county. Wearing no coat, she covered her head with her hands and just kept running, splashing with each footfall. In a matter of seconds she reached the door, soaked to her undergarments, her wet jeans and white blouse pasted to her body.

A muscle-bound guy wearing a Gold’s Gym T-shirt was standing at the entrance, and he opened the door for her. “Wet T-shirt contest’s not till tomorrow, lady.”

“You wish,” she said, then headed straight to the restroom to see if she could dry off. She looked in the mirror and gasped. Her nipples were staring back at her, right through her bra and wet blouse.

Good God!

She punched the hand dryer, hoping for hot air. Nothing. She tried again, and again, but to no avail. She reached for a paper towel, but the dispenser was empty. Toilet paper would have to do. She went to the stall, found a loose roll atop the tank, and proceeded to dab furiously from head to foot. It was single-ply paper, not terribly absorbent. She went through the entire roll. She exited the stall, took another look at her reflection in the mirror, and gasped even louder this time. Her entire body was covered with shredded remnants of cheap toilet paper.

You look like a milkweed.

She started laughing, not sure why. She laughed so hard it almost hurt. Then, with her hands braced on the edge of the sink, she leaned forward and hung her head. She could feel her emotional energy drifting up to that ever-present knot of tension at the base of her skull. Her shoulders started to heave, and the laughter turned to tears. She fought it off and quickly regained her composure.

“You are a total wreck,” she said to her reflection.

She brushed off as much of the toilet paper as she could, fixed her makeup, and said the hell with it. Nothing was going to stop this meeting from happening. She took a deep breath for courage and exited into the bar.

The crowd surprised her, not so much its makeup, which was about what she’d expected, but more the simple fact that there was such a big crowd on a nasty night like this. A group of truckers was playing black-jack by the jukebox. Leather-clad bikers and their bleached-blond girlfriends had a monopoly on the pool table, as if waiting out the storm. T-shirts, jeans, and flannel shirts seemed to be the dress code for a seat at the bar. These folks were hard-core, and this was clearly a place that depended on its regulars.

“Can I help you, miss?” the bartender asked.

“Not just yet, thanks. I’m looking for someone.”

“Yeah? Who?”

Sally hesitated, not exactly sure how to answer that. “Just, uh, sort of a blind date.”

“That must be Jimmy,” said one of the men at the bar.

The others laughed. Sally smiled awkwardly, the inside joke completely lost on her. The bartender explained, “Jimmy’s the umpire in our softball league. They don’t come any blinder.”

“Ah, I get it,” she said. They laughed again at this Jimmy’s expense. Sally broke away and continued across the bar before their interest could return to the lost girl in the wet clothes. Her gaze fixed on the third booth from the back, near the broken air-hockey table. A black guy with penetrating eyes and no smile was staring back at her. He was wearing a dark blue shirt with black pants, which made Sally smile to herself. Never before had she laid eyes on him, but his look and those clothes were exactly what he’d described over the telephone. It was him.

She walked toward the booth and said, “I’m Sally.”

“I know.”

“How’d you-” she started to ask, then stopped. There wasn’t a woman in the joint who looked like her.

“Have a seat,” he said.

She slid into the booth and sat across from him. “Sorry I’m late. Raining like crazy.”

He reached across the table and plucked a shred of toilet paper from her sleeve. “What’s it raining now, fake snow?”

“That’s toilet paper.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Long story,” she said. “It was all over me. Five minutes ago I looked like a milkweed.”

“With breasts.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, well. Some things can’t be helped.”

“You want something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

He swirled the ice cubes around in his half-empty glass. Rum and Coke, she guessed, since that was the special of the night. The Coke looked completely flat, about what she expected from Sparky’s.

“I watched you drive up,” he said. “Nice car.”

“If you like cars.”

“I do. From the looks of things, you do, too.”

“Not really. My husband did.”

“You mean your second husband or your first?”

She shifted uncomfortably. They hadn’t discussed her marital status on the telephone. “My second.”

“The French one?”

“What did you do, check up on me?”

“I check on all my clients.”

“I’m not your client yet.”

“You will be. Rarely do the ones who look like you come this far and back down.”

“How do you mean, look like me?”

“Young. Rich. Gorgeous. Pissed off.”

“You call this gorgeous?”

“I’m assuming this isn’t your best look.”

“Fair assumption.”

“What about the pissed-off part. That fair, too?”

“I’m not really pissed off.”

“Then what are you?”

“I don’t see how my feelings are at all relevant. The only thing that matters is whether you want to do business, Mr.-whatever your name is.”

“You can call me Tatum.”

“That your name?”

“Nickname.”

“Like Tatum O’Neal?”

He grimaced, sucking down his drink. “No, not like fucking Tatum O’Neal. Tatum like Jack Tatum.”

“Who’s Jack Tatum?”

“Meanest football player that ever lived. Defensive back, Oakland Raiders. He’s the guy who popped Darryl Stingley and turned him quadriplegic. They used to call him Assassin. Hell, he liked to call himself Assassin.”

“Is that what you call yourself, too? Assassin?”

He leaned into the table, his expression turning very serious. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

She was about to answer, but the bartender was suddenly standing beside their booth. He glared at Sally and said, “What you meetin’ with this guy for?”

“Excuse me?” she said.

“This piece of dirt sittin’ on the other side of the table. What you meetin’ with him for?”

She looked at Tatum, then back at the bartender. “That’s really none of your business.”

“This is my bar. It’s definitely my business.”

Tatum spoke up. “Theo, just put a cork in it, will you?”

“I want you out of here.”

“Ain’t finished my drink yet.”

“You got five minutes,” said Theo. “Then be gone.” He turned and walked back to his place behind the bar.

“What’s with him?” asked Sally.

“Tightass. Guy finds some lawyer to get him off death row, thinks he’s better ’n everyone else.”

“You don’t think he knows what we’re here talking about, do you?”

“Hell no. He probably thinks I’m pimping you.”

Her rain-soaked blouse suddenly felt even more clingy. “I guess I brought that on myself.”

“Never mind him. Let’s cut the crap and get down to it.”

“I didn’t bring any money.”

“Naturally. I didn’t give you a price yet.”

“How much is it going to be?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“How complicated the job is.”

“What do you need to know?”

“For starters, what exactly do you want? Two broken ribs? A concussion? Stitches? Mess with his face, don’t mess with his face? I can put the guy in the hospital for a month, if you want.”

“I want more than that.”

“More?”

She looked one way, then the other, as if to make sure they were alone. “I want this person dead.”

Tatum didn’t answer.

She said, “How much for that?”

He burrowed his tongue into his cheek, thinking, as if sizing her up all over again. “That depends, too.”

“On what?”

“Well, who’s your target?”

She lowered her eyes, then looked straight at him. “You’re not going to believe it.”

“Try me.”

She almost chuckled, then shook it off. “I’m way serious. You are really not going to believe it.”

Two

Her day had finally arrived.

Sally felt a rush of adrenaline as she sat at her kitchen table enjoying her morning coffee. No cream, two packs of artificial sweetener. A toasted plain bagel with no butter or cream cheese, just a side of raspberry preserves that went untouched. A small glass of juice, fresh-squeezed from the pink grapefruit that her gardener had handpicked from the tree in her backyard. It was her usual weekday breakfast, and today was to be no different from any other.

Except that today, she knew, would change everything.

“More coffee, ma’am?” asked Dinah, her live-in domestic.

“No, thank you.” She laid her newspaper aside and headed upstairs to the bedroom. The house had two large master suites on the second story. Hers was on the east side, facing the bay, decorated in an airy, British Colonial style that was reminiscent of the Caribbean islands. His was on the west, a much darker room with wood-beamed ceilings and an African motif. Sally didn’t like all the dead animals on the walls, so they used his room only when he wasn’t abroad, which was about every other month for their entire eighteen months of marriage. The arrangement had lasted just long enough for her to reach the first financial milestone of an elaborate prenuptial agreement. Eighteen months equaled eighteen million dollars, plus the house-big money for Sally, chump change for Jean Luc Trudeau. Lucky for her, she’d had the foresight to take the eighteen million not in cash but in stock in her husband’s company, which promptly went public and-kaboom!-she was suddenly worth forty-six million dollars. She could have earned another quarter-million for each additional month, and there were certainly worse men to be married to than Jean Luc. He was rich, successful, reasonably handsome, and plenty generous to his third and much younger wife. But Sally wasn’t happy. People said she was never happy. She didn’t apologize for that. She had her reasons.

Sally stepped into her dressing room, draped her robe over the back of a chair, and pulled on a pair of sheer panty hose. Naked from the waist up, she stood in silence before the three-way mirror. Slowly, she raised both arms, her twenty-nine-year-old body seeming to defy the pull of gravity as she turned. In the full-length panel she saw it, still visible after all this time. A two-inch pink scar at the base of the rib cage. She felt it with the tips of her fingers, lightly at first, then touching more firmly, and finally pressing until it hurt, as if she were trying to stop the bleeding all over again. Years later, and it was still there. Cosmetic surgery could have hidden it, but that would only have destroyed her most important daily reminder that she had in fact survived the attack. Sadly, her first marriage had not survived.

Tragically, neither had her daughter.

“Anything to iron today, Miss Sally?”

Instinctively, she covered her breasts at the sound of a voice, but she was alone in the dressing room. Dinah was waiting on the other side of the closed door.

“I don’t think so,” she answered, pulling on her robe.

As the sound of Dinah’s footsteps faded away, Sally opened the door and walked to the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup. She returned to the dressing room to select an outfit, which took longer than usual, as she wanted it to be just right. She settled on a basic blue Chanel suit with a peach blouse and new Ferragamo shoes, finishing the look with a strand of pearls with matching earrings. Her platinum and diamond wedding band-two rows of stones for a total of four karats-felt like overkill, as always, but she wore it anyway. She thought she’d put it away for good with the divorce, but today it served a purpose.

Sally stepped back and took one last look in the mirror-a good, long look. For the first time in ages, she allowed herself a trace of a genuine smile.

This is your day, girl.

She grabbed her purse and headed downstairs, leaving through the front doors to the porte cochere, where her Mercedes convertible was parked and waiting with the top down. Her hair was secure in a French twist, but she nevertheless donned the Princess Grace look, a white scarf and dark sunglasses. She climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, and followed the brick driveway to the iron gate. It opened automatically, and she exited to the street.

She drove at a leisurely pace through her neighborhood, the warm south Florida sun on her face. It was a glorious day, even by Miami standards. Seventy degrees, relatively low humidity, a cloudless blue sky. Growing up as a girl, she’d always wanted to live in the Venetian Isles. They sat side by side in the bay, like four giant stepping-stones between the mainland and the larger island of Miami Beach proper. Homes on the waterfront were a boater’s dream, many with drop-dead views of cruise ships in port and the colorful skyline of downtown Miami beyond. Technically speaking, it was her dream come true to have a nine-thousand-square-foot house in the midst of this urban paradise.

Be careful what you wish for.

Sally stopped to pay the toll, then continued across the Venetian Causeway. A couple of old Cuban men were fishing on the Miami side of the bridge, right beneath the sign that read ABSOLUTELY NO FISHING.

She was just north of downtown Miami, not exactly the safest part of town, but it was an area in transition. In the not-too-distant past, she would have driven miles out of her way to avoid cutting through here.

She crossed Biscayne Boulevard, made a couple of quick turns, and stopped at the traffic light. The entrance ramp to the interstate was just ahead, the lone escape route to about a dozen east-west lanes perched directly above her. She could hear the expressway traffic, the steady drone of countless cars and noisy trucks echoing all around her.She usually timed her approach so that she could breeze through with no red lights, especially at night, but that wasn’t always possible. Like clockwork, the homeless guys emerged from their cardboard homes beneath the on-ramp. Armed with tattered rags and plastic squirt bottles filled with dirty water, they seemed determined to clean the world’s windshields. There were two of them. One came toward her, and the other went to the SUV in front of her.

The SUV burned rubber and ran the red light, leaving Sally alone at the intersection, just her and the window washers. It was mid-morning, but in the dark shadows it seemed like dusk. Interstate 395 and the ramps that fed into it crisscrossed overhead like concrete ribbons. Sally’s window washer took a different strategy than the guy with the SUV, approaching not from the side but from the front of the vehicle. She couldn’t have run the red light without running over him.

“No thanks,” she shouted.

He kept coming, smiling, taking aim with his squirt bottle. The other washer returned to his home beneath the ramp, apparently having conceded the Mercedes to his competition.

“I said, ‘No thanks.’”

He walked all the way up to the front of her car, standing close enough to snap off her hood ornament. Suddenly, the darkness seemed to break. They were surrounded by scattered beams of sunshine, as if the clouds had shifted just enough to allow patches of daylight to break through the crevices in the maze-like expressway overhead. The longest, brightest ray seemed to fix on her big diamond ring. It was sparkling like fireworks. On any other day, she might have discreetly slid her hand from atop the steering wheel and dropped it in her lap. But not today.

The man was still staring at her through the windshield. Then, slowly, he raised his arm and took aim, straight at her face. She waited for the stream of greasy water to hit the glass, but it didn’t come. A moment later, she realized that he wasn’t holding a squirt bottle.

She froze, her eyes fixed on the black hole at the end of the polished metal barrel. It lasted only a split second, but it was as if she were suddenly floating outside her own body, watching the scene unfold. In her mind’s eye, she could see the flash of powder from the barrel, see the windshield shatter, see her head snapping back, her body slumping forward, and the spray of blood on the leather seats. She could even hear the horn blasting as her face hit the steering wheel and came to rest there. And for the second time in the same day, she saw herself smiling a genuine smile.

With the lonely crack of a revolver that echoed off concrete, her living nightmare was finally over.

Three

The sun was setting as Jack Swyteck pulled into his driveway. He lived on Key Biscayne, an island practically in the shadows of downtown Miami, but a world apart. Across the bay, beyond the sprawling metropolis and somewhere over the distant Everglades, fluffy bands of pink, orange, and magenta were slowly dissolving into the darkness of night. It wasn’t until all color had vanished from the sky that it suddenly dawned on him what day it was. Exactly one year to the day that he and Cindy began the separation that ended their five-year marriage in divorce.

Happy Anniversary, he told himself.

Jack was a trial lawyer who specialized in criminal defense work, though he was open to just about anything if it interested him. By the same token, he turned away cases that he didn’t find interesting, the upshot being that he liked what he did but didn’t make a ton of money doing it. Profit had never been his goal. He had spent his first four years out of law school at the Freedom Institute, a ragtag group of idealists who defended death row inmates. At the time, Jack’s father, Harry Swyteck, was Florida’s law-and-order governor and staunchly pro-death penalty. Jack’s job didn’t sit well with him, but that was sort of the idea. Four years of tweaking his old man proved to be plenty, and in case anyone had written him off as a bleeding heart liberal, he completely shifted gears and made a name for himself as a fair but aggressive federal prosecutor. He left the U.S. attorney’s office on good terms, but almost two years later he was still trying to find his stride in private practice. To be sure, everything from a messy divorce to a dead client in his bathtub had served as “distractions” along the way, and he was determined to give his own firm a fair shot before changing professional course again.

“Hey, Theo!” he called out across the lawn.

Theo didn’t seem to hear him. He was busily scrubbing down his twenty-four-foot sport fisherman, which at the moment was suspended by davits and hanging over the water. The one saving grace of Jack’s austere rental house was the fact that it was on the water with its own dock. This was his third rental since the divorce, part of his whirlwind quest to find the perfect digs for a divorced man with no kids, no addictions, and surprisingly little interest in dating. His latest experiment was a “Mackle home,” a simple three-bedroom, one bathroom, cinder-block structure with a small screened-in porch and, of course, no central air conditioning. In the early 1950s, the Mackle brothers built scores of these basic beach homes, mostly for WWII veterans and their young families. Back then, Key Biscayne was little more than a mosquito swamp, so Mackle homes were about the cheapest housing around, with a typical closing price of twelve thousand dollars. Today, the lot alone went for about twelve grand per foot of linear waterfront. It seemed that about every third or fourth day a developer would drop by, aching to enter Jack’s living room with a bulldozer and blueprints. His was the last of the waterfront Mackles still standing.

“Yo, Theo!”

Still no response. Working on a boat with the music blasting was enough to put Theo in another world. Since Jack didn’t own a boat, he let Theo dock his behind the house. It was perfect for Theo, who ran his bar at night, fished and slept all day on the boat. He was one of those rare friends who never seemed to age, which wasn’t to say that he didn’t look older from one year to the next. He just refused to grow up, which made him fun to have around. Sometimes.

Theo was hosing down the deck as Jack approached. “Catch anything?” asked Jack.

Theo kept cleaning and said, “Not a damn thing.”

“It’s like they say: That’s why they call it fishin’, not-”

Theo turned the hose on him, giving his suit a good splash.

“Catchin’,” said Jack. He was dripping wet but pretended that it hadn’t happened, wiping the water from his face.

“You know, Swyteck, sometimes you are just so full of-”

“Wisdom?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I was gonna say. Wisdom.”

“I guess it takes a real genius to taunt an ex-con who’s holding a garden hose,” said Jack as he brushed the water from his pinstripes.

Theo climbed out of the boat, smiled, and gave Jack a bear hug so big that his feet left the ground. Theo had the height of an NBA all star, the brawn of a football linebacker.

Jack took a step back, surprised. “What’s that for?”

“Happy Anniversary, buddy.”

Jack wasn’t sure how Theo knew, but he figured he must have mentioned something to him about the one-year milestone. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a happy anniversary.”

“Aw, come on. You gonna hold a grudge because I splashed you with a little water?”

“Exactly what anniversary are you talking about?” asked Jack.

“What anniversary are you talking about?”

“It was a year ago today that Cindy and I separated.”

“Cindy? Who the hell gives a rat’s ass about her? I was talking about us.”

“Us?”

“Yes. Ten years ago this week. You and me met for the first time. Remember?”

Jack thought for a second. “Not really.”

“Now you’re hurtin’ my feelings. I remember everything about it. It was a Friday morning. Guard comes and gets me from my cell, tells me I have a meetin’ with my new court-appointed lawyer from the Freedom Institute. Of course, I’m sittin’ on death row without a damn thing to do, except lay there and ask myself, ‘Theo, would you like the mustard sauce or drawn butter with your last meal of stone crabs and fried sweet potatoes?’ So I’m bouncin’ off the walls at the thought of a new lawyer. So I go down, and there you are, sittin’ on the other side of the glass.”

“What did you think when you saw me?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“Typical white Ivy League graduate with a save-the-black-man guilt complex.”

“Gee. And all this time I thought I’d made a lousy first impression.”

Theo narrowed his eyes, as if quizzing him. “Remember the first thing I said to you?”

“Probably something along the lines of ‘Got any money, dude?’”

“No, smart ass. I looked you right in the eye and said, ‘Jack, there’s something you need to know right up front: I am an innocent man.’”

“I do remember that.”

“And do you remember what you said?”

“No.”

“You said, ‘Mr. Knight’-you called me Mr. Knight back then-‘there’s something you need to know right up-front: I think you’re a big, fat, fucking liar.’”

“Did I really say that?”

“Oh, yeah. Exact quote.”

“Wow. You must have thought I was an asshole.”

“I still think you’re an asshole.”

“Thanks.”

Theo smiled, then grabbed him by the shoulders and planted a big kiss on his cheek. “Happy Anniversary. Asshole.”

Jack smiled. Theo and his kisses. A last-minute release from death row for a crime you truly didn’t commit could make you want to hug everyone for the rest of your life. Or it could have the opposite effect. It all depended on the man.

Theo said, “Grab that cooler, will ya’?”

Jack took it by the handles, and Theo gathered up the fishing poles with the other gear. Empty bottles rattled inside the cooler as the men crossed the lawn to the driveway. Theo popped the trunk. Jack put the cooler inside, then helped Theo break down the poles and mount them on the roof rack.

“Anything else?” asked Jack.

“Yeah, actually. I need a favor. Big one.”

“What?”

“Did you happen to see that story in the local section a few days ago? That rich woman who got shot in the head while waiting on the red light to get on the expressway?”

“I might have skimmed it. I’ve been in trial too long. Not seeing much news.”

Theo opened the car door, pulled something from the console, and handed it to Jack. It was a newspaper clipping. “Read this.”

There were only a few paragraphs with a photo of the victim. Jack read quickly. “Sad.”

“Is that all you can say?”

“It’s sad. What more can I say?”

“You could look at her picture and say, damn, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Okay, she’s beautiful. Does that mean I should be sadder?”

“Yes, Mr. Politically Correct, it does make it sadder. That’s what everyone wants to be. Young, rich, beautiful. And now she’s dead. Doesn’t get any sadder than that.”

“Theo, where are you headed with this?”

“Did you read how much she was worth?”

“Yeah. Something like…whatever it said.”

He took back the clipping and pointed to the figure. “Forty-six million.”

Jack read it again. “That’s a lotta dough.”

“Damn straight. Now, this is not a trick question, but I want you to try and guess when was the last time a bona fide babe worth forty-six million dollars came walking into my bar.”

“You saw her in Sparky’s?”

“About two and a half weeks ago.”

“What was she doing there?”

“Talking to a contract killer.”

“A what?”

“You heard me.”

“You mean she was meeting with someone who kills people for money?”

“I don’t mean someone who shoots contracts for a living.”

Jack scratched his head, thinking. “You sure it was her?”

“You think I’m gonna forget a face like that?” he said, showing the photo once more.

Jack saw his point. “So, she talks to a contract killer, and two weeks later, she’s the one who turns up dead.”

“That’s right,” said Theo.

“What do you make of that?”

“Smells bad.”

“I’ll give you that,” said Jack. “But what do you want me to do?”

“First off, there’s a letter I want to ask you about. It’s from the dead woman’s lawyer.”

“Written to you?”

“No. To the contract killer she was talking to in my bar.”

“You have the letter?”

“No. I seen it.”

“How?”

“Never mind that. Let’s just say I’m acting as a go-between here.”

“What exactly are you going between?”

Theo grabbed a pack of Kools from his dashboard, then lit one.

“You and…you know.”

“The contract killer? No way.”

“Hear me out. The whole letter is two sentences long. It simply tells him to be in the law offices of Vivien Grasso Monday for an important meeting about the death of Sally Fenning.”

“So, you want me to advise a contract killer whether he should go to this meeting or not?”

“No. I want you to go with him.”

Jack coughed, as if choking with disbelief. “What makes you think I’d be even remotely interested in that?”

“Because I asked.”

“Why are you asking?”

Theo took a drag from his cigarette, blowing smoke as he spoke. “Because I think this boy’s in a mess of trouble.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then give me one good reason why I should walk into another lawyer’s office representing a contract killer.”

“First of all, except for me and maybe a few badasses between here and Las Vegas, no one knows he’s a contract killer.”

“Give me another good reason.”

“Because you’re my buddy.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Because I’ve been playing payback ever since you got me off death row, and I ain’t never asked you for nothin’ in return.”

“Okay. We’re getting there. But lay another one on me.”

Theo lowered his eyes, as if reluctant to answer. Finally, he looked at Jack and said in a quiet, serious tone, “Because he’s my brother.”

Jack, too, turned serious.

“So, you’ll meet with him?” asked Theo.

Jack didn’t answer right away, but there was never any doubt what his answer would be. “Sure,” he said. “For you, I’ll meet with him.”

Four

He looked a lot like Theo, was Jack’s first impression. Theo in his badass mode.

Jack met Theo’s brother “Tatum” in the sunny courtyard outside the downtown public library. He was dressed semi-casual, a sport jacket with no tie, as if Theo had told him to try to look respectable. The jacket looked a little tight in the shoulders, a common problem for muscular men who bought off the rack. It was the lunch hour, and plenty of people were seated at the tables around them in the shade of broad white umbrellas. Some were reading, some were talking and sharing lunch with friends, a few were shooing away pesky pigeons. Tables were far enough apart to keep anyone from overhearing their conversation. It wasn’t the normal setting for an attorney-client meeting, but a hit man wasn’t exactly a normal client. Jack wasn’t worried, but he’d nonetheless followed his instincts and set up the meeting not in the solitude of his law office but in a public place with lots of potential witnesses. Just in case.

“Good to see you again, Mack.”

“It’s Jack,” he said as they shook hands.

“Sorry.”

Just what the world needs, thought Jack. A hit man who doesn’t know Jack from Mack.

They sat on opposite sides of the table. Jack had arrived early and had already finished his chicken salad on pita. There was no table service, and Jack offered to wait while Tatum went through the line, but he declined, seemingly eager to get started.

“How long’s it been?” asked Tatum. “Ten years?”

“Eight. Since Theo’s release from prison.”

“I assume Theo’s filled you in as to my goings-on since then.”

“Probably more than you would have liked.”

“And you’re okay with it?”

“Let me put it this way. I’m here because Theo asked me for a favor.”

“But you’re my lawyer, right? Everything we say is, you know-”

“Privileged, yes.”

“You gonna eat that pickle?” he said, pointing to Jack’s plate.

“Help yourself.”

Tatum grabbed it, bit off the tip, wagged the rest of it like an extra finger as he spoke. “Now, Theo did tell you that I’m not in the contract line of work anymore, didn’t he?”

“He said as far as he knew, you hadn’t done a job in three years.”

“That’s the truth,” he said, pronouncing it like troot. “That makes you feel better about this, right?”

“Look, my typical client is not a nun. I’ve even defended people who’d killed for money, just like you. I’m not judging you. I’m doing a friend a favor.”

“Theo says you’re good.”

“Good enough to get an innocent man off death row.”

“That’s not as easy as it sounds. Especially when everyone thought he was guilty.”

“Everyone except his lawyer.”

“And his brother,” said Tatum.

“And his brother,” said Jack, acknowledging it. “You were there, standing right with him.”

“I was the only one who stood by him.”

“Maybe this is his way of saying thank you. You got thirty minutes.”

Tatum popped the rest of his pickle into his mouth. “Where should we start?”

“Let’s start with Sally Fenning. How did you two hook up?”

“You gonna finish those chips?” he said, poking at Jack’s plate.

“Go for ’em.”

He spoke with a mouthful of Ruffles. “She called me.”

“Out of the blue?”

“Yeah. Totally.”

“She had to get your number somehow. What did she do, look in the Yellow Pages under ‘Problem Solvers’?”

“I got no idea how she found me.”

“Stop the bullshit, or your free thirty minutes are over.”

He was looking for a napkin to wipe his greasy fingers, then just licked them, one by one. “Friend of a friend hooked us up.”

“Which friend?”

Tatum leaned back, crossed one leg over the other. Jack felt a digression coming on.

Tatum said, “I don’t know how much you know about this woman, but she had some problems in her past.”

“You mean she was in trouble with the law?”

“No, not like that. Emotional problems. She was attacked, or something, I don’t know exactly. But she hired a bodyguard every now and then, when she was feeling scared, for whatever the reason. Anyway, her bodyguard knew me.”

“He called you?”

“No, we was playing pool together one night.”

“What did he say?”

“Said, ‘I got a client who wants to get in touch with you. Can I give her your number?’ I said sure.”

“What did you think it was all about?”

“Probably she needed me to beat the shit out of somebody.”

“I thought you said you were out of the contract business.”

“I don’t do hits anymore. Puttin’ people in the hospital, that’s another story.”

“You’re okay with serious bodily injury, but you draw the line at murder. Is that it?”

“Somethin’ like that. To be honest, it’s more about the money.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“It’s a tough business in Miami. These days, you got Colombians, Russians, Jamaicans, Arabs, Israelis, Cubans, Italians, Nicaraguans-everybody and his brother willing to do a job for a measly five hundred bucks. How’s a guy supposed to make a living?”

“Join the union?”

“You think this is a joke? This is business, pal, and it’s like everything else these days. You specialize. In my case, I turned myself into the guy who knows how to inflict just the right amount of pain, someone who can get results without killing the goose that lays the golden egg. That’s a real skill. And it pays real money.”

“So, you’re a shakedown specialist.”

“No. I’m in the art business.”

“The art of what? Face rearrangement?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “The art of persuasion.”

His glare tightened, as if he were trying to give Jack some sense of just how persuasive he could be. Jack didn’t flinch. “So, Sally Fenning wanted to make use of your persuasive powers?”

He settled back in his chair, taking some of the edge off. “That was my first impression.”

“And you went to meet her?”

“Right. I told her to meet me at Sparky’s.”

“Why there?”

“I always meet in a public place. Keeps the unexpected from happening.”

“But why Theo’s bar?”

“He’s my brother. He hates what I do for a living, sometimes he even threatens to throw my ass out. But if I go to Theo’s, I can be sure of one thing: Ain’t no nosy bartender gonna be listening in on my conversation. Theo don’t want to hear none of it. Can’t be so sure of my privacy if I go to some other bar.”

“Okay. You got to Theo’s bar. Then what?”

“She wanted to hire me.”

“To do what?”

“Like I says before. I thought she wanted me to work some guy over.”

“But that wasn’t it?”

“No. She wanted someone dead.”

“Who?”

He chuckled to himself. “This is where it gets…strange.”

“How do you mean?”

“She wanted me to shoot her.”

Jack hesitated. He’d heard plenty of strange stories in his career, but this one was up there. “Would you call that an unusual request?”

“Not unheard of. But yeah, like I said, strange.”

“Why would a person hire someone else to kill them? Why not just go home and stick your head in the oven?”

“You kiddin’ me? People always got their reasons. Buddy of mine did a guy once who lost big bucks in the stock market. Millions. Couldn’t go on, but he didn’t want his wife and kids to think he was a coward. So he hires a hit man to make his death look like a drive-by shooting. Worked like a charm. You should have read the obituary,” he said with a chuckle. “All about how much poor, departed John loved life.”

“Is that what Sally was concerned about? What other people would think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you shoot her?”

He looked away, laughing.

Jack stuck with it and asked again, “Did you shoot her?”

Tatum’s smile faded. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I told you: I don’t do that anymore.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“Told her lots of things. Mostly I told her she was being stupid. She’s a knockout, obviously loaded with money. I says, this is crazy. Get help, lady. This ain’t like changing your hair color or even gettin’ your tits done. You can’t go back. Know what I mean?”

“Is that how you left it, then? She asked you to shoot her, you said no?”

“That was it.”

“Did she ask for the names of any of your friends who might do the job?”

“No. But I don’t just give out names like that.” He seemed to catch himself, then added, “Because I don’t have friends like that anymore.”

“Tell me about the letter you got from Sally’s lawyer.”

“Not much to tell. Just says she would like me to be in her office for an important meeting relating to the death of Sally Fenning.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure. Got it right here.” He pulled it from his inside jacket pocket, then handed it to Jack, who gave it a quick study.

“Clarence Knight your real name?”

“Yeah. Not sure how she got it.”

“I take it you didn’t give Sally your real name.”

“No. Just Tatum, nickname.”

“Like Tatum O’Neal, huh?”

“Fucking-A, no, not like Tatum O’Neal. What in the hell planet do you white people live on? Jack Tatum, the meanest, baddest football player-”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Jack. “So, somehow Sally got your real name and passed it on to her lawyer.”

“Like I said, her bodyguard hooked us up together, so he could have given Sally my real name. Which is more proof that I didn’t kill this woman. You think my buddy would give her my name or that I’d give her my actual nickname if I was going to commit murder? I’d be doing aliases, big time.”

“In a normal hit, yeah. But maybe you don’t have to be so careful about throwing your name around when the person doing the hiring is going to be dead after the hit.”

Tatum flashed a peculiar smile and said, “You a pretty sharp guy, Swyteck.”

“Vivien Grasso,” said Jack, reading the lawyer’s name from the letterhead.

“You know her?” asked Tatum.

“Indirectly. She was a big supporter of my father when he ran for governor. Probate is her specialty. So I assume this letter has something to do with the administration of Sally’s estate.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Did you ask her?”

“I was hoping you would. As my attorney.”

Jack laid the letter on the table. “I promised Theo I’d meet with you. I didn’t say I’d take it any farther than that.”

“I can pay you.”

“It’s not the money.”

“Then what, you don’t like me?”

“This isn’t a date. I don’t have to like you.”

“Or maybe you think you’re Perry Mason and only represent innocent people. Well, let me tell you something: If someone’s trying to pin this woman’s murder on me, I am innocent. So what do you say, Perry? You my lawyer?”

“It’s not that easy. I’m pretty busy right now.”

“This has to be a lot juicier than whatever else you got on your plate.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Right. Take a look at this picture,” he said as he handed Jack the same newspaper clipping that Theo had shown him.

Jack took it but said nothing. Tatum said, “Here’s a gorgeous, twenty-nine-year-old woman. She’s just finagled forty-six million dollars from some rich, old fool she was married to for a year and a half. First thing she does is go around looking to hire someone who’ll blow her brains out. Don’t it make you wonder what’s the deal here?”

Jack stared into Sally’s eyes, looking for signs of trouble. Her photo stared right back.

“Don’t it, Jack?”

“It has a certain pull.”

“Tell me this much: Would you meet with this probate lawyer, if you was me?”

“Not without a lawyer of my own.”

“Then come with me. Worst that can happen, you make three bills an hour.”

“If it was all about money, I’d be working for the mob.”

Tatum leaned into the table, as if on the level. “Let me lay it on the line here. Yeah, I popped a few guys. That’s all in the past. Trust me, the world don’t miss the scum I did away with. I never killed no one like this woman here, this Sally Fenning.”

Jack gave him a hard look.

“Come on,” said Tatum, groaning. “I think someone’s trying to fuck me here. Sure, I did some bad shit in my life. But this time, damn it, I’m innocent. For a real-life criminal defense lawyer like you, that’s about as good as it gets, ain’t it?”

Jack nearly smiled. The guy had a point. “Just about.”

“So you with me?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Jack offered the letter back, but Tatum held up his hands, refusing.

“Keep it. You might need it.”

Jack folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. “Might,” he said.

Five

On Friday night Jack went back to high school. The Cavaliers of Coral Gables Senior High were battling Miami Lakes on the gridiron, and he thought it would be fun to take his Little Brother to cheer on his alma mater. Jack was part of the local Big Brothers Big Sisters of America program, and he liked nothing better than to take Nate places that his mother didn’t take him-like football games and more football games. It seemed like a nice thing to do for a single mother trying to raise a boy on her own, which was why he’d volunteered in the first place. Nate turned out to be a great kid, which was why Jack loved doing it.

Tonight, however, Jack had an agenda of his own.

As usual, there was a good crowd on hand. Jack and Nate flowed with the stream of excited fans through the turnstyle at the main entrance gate. The marching band was on the field, putting their collective heart into the familiar school fight song. The grandstands were filling up quickly, as a lighted scoreboard at the far end of the field blinked down to fourteen minutes and counting till kickoff. A long line of football players suddenly rushed past him and Nate. Their pregame warm-up was over, and they were hooting and hollering all the way back to the locker room for last-minute game prep.

It had been almost twenty years since Jack played varsity ball, and for a moment he could hardly believe that he’d ever actually looked that young in his gray and crimson uniform.

“Did they wear helmets back when you played?” asked Nate. He was eight years old and sometimes had a way of making Jack feel like eighty.

“Not always,” said Jack. “Which explains an awful lot.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing,” he said, pulling Nate along as they walked toward the stands.

“Why do you always say that?”

“Say what?”

“Whenever I ask what you mean, you always say ‘nothing.’”

“I don’t always do that.”

“Uh-huh. My mom says you do it, too.”

“Oh, she does, does she?”

“She says you’re afraid to let people know what’s really inside your head.”

“She really said that?”

“Does that sound like something I would make up?”

Jack smiled, though it troubled him to think that Nate’s mother saw him as someone who erected emotional barriers. Funny, but his ex-wife used to say the same thing. “Don’t want people inside my head, huh? What exactly is that supposed to mean, anyway?”

“Nothing,” Nate said smugly.

“Wise guy.”

It was the sixth game of the season, no losses so far, and Jack could feel the excitement around the stadium. They’d arrived too late to get prime seats, but Jack wasn’t in a hurry to sit anyway. He waited behind the bleachers at the fifty-yard-line entrance, watching the fans pass by. This section was where players’ parents usually sat, and the Cavaliers’ quarterback was Justin Grasso. His mother, Vivien Grasso, never missed a game.

Jack had intended to call Vivien before the weekend but was caught up in an arbitration proceeding in Orlando. Her letter to Tatum Knight had scheduled the mystery meeting for Monday afternoon. Jack figured he’d accidentally-on-purpose bump into Vivien at the game, find out what it was all about, and then decide whether it sounded interesting enough to offset the hassle of dealing with a loose cannon like Tatum as a client. Jack wasn’t overly picky, but it had been one of those weeks where it seemed that if it weren’t for clients, judges, and other lawyers, the practice of law wouldn’t be such a bad way to make a living.

“Let’s go,” said Nate.

“Just a minute,” said Jack. Vivien was headed toward them, and Jack had a bead on her in the crowd. He hadn’t seen her since his father’s farewell party as governor, but she looked the same-lean and athletic, little to no makeup, as if she’d gone for a twenty-mile run, jumped in the shower, and rushed over to see her son rip the visiting team to pieces. No one wondered where the star player for Gables High got his abilities.

“Jack Swyteck,” she said with a smile. “How’s your old man?”

“Doing great. I think he’s fishing in North Carolina this month.”

“Slacker. We need to get him out of retirement and run for Senate. Unless maybe his son is interested in politics.”

“My interest is limited to voting. Even then, it’s pretty much limited to voting for immediate family members.”

She laughed. Jack was about to introduce her to Nate, but the boy was already engrossed in deep conversation about Harry Potter with Vivien’s ten-year-old son. It was the diversion Jack needed.

“Funny I ran into you,” said Jack, lying. “I was meaning to call you.”

“What about?”

“Friend of a friend situation. A guy named Clarence Knight.”

She seemed to be searching her mind, then it registered. “Oh, yeah. One of the Sally Fenning heirs.”

“Heirs?” said Jack.

“I sent him a letter inviting him to the reading of the will. You’re coming with him?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“A will contest isn’t your cup of tea, huh?”

“There’s a contest?”

“I shouldn’t have said that. Could be, I suppose. But no one’s said anything. Yet.”

“Are you telling me I should or shouldn’t get involved in this?”

“Forget what I said,” she said, smiling. “Just a lawyer’s cynicism. Anytime there’s this much money at stake, you expect the heirs to fight.”

“You’re sure Tatum Knight is an heir?”

Nate spoke up, as close as he ever came to whining. “Come on, Jack, let’s go. We’re going to miss the kickoff.”

“Just a minute, buddy.”

Vivien said, “The boy’s right. We are going to miss kickoff. Call me in my office Monday morning. We’ll talk. And say hi to your daddy for me,” she said as she walked away.

“I will. Good luck tonight.”

“Go Cavaliers!”

Jack watched Vivien and her young son disappear into the crowd. The steady stream of spectators continued past him to their seats. Nate tugged at his arm.

“Hello up there!” said Nate. “Can we go watch the game now?”

Tatum Knight, an heir? Jack couldn’t get the thought out of his head.

Nate asked, “What’s that goofy look on your face for?”

“What goofy look?”

“You look like you just stepped in bat vomit.”

“I think maybe I just did.”

“Gross! Really?”

“No, I didn’t mean really.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, nothing, nothing. You did it again!” said Nate.

Jack smiled. “So I did. Come on, let’s go watch football.” He put his arm around Nate and led him toward the bleachers.

Six

Kelsey was getting to know Sally Fenning.

Kelsey Craven worked for Jack Swyteck. Her latest assignment was to pull together information on the two tragedies that punctuated Sally’s life, her own senseless shooting at an intersection and the murder of her daughter five years earlier. She wasn’t an investigator, so she’d gathered things that were publicly available, mostly from the Internet, such as newspaper articles and even an old Web site relating to Sally’s search for her daughter’s killer.

It wasn’t a full-time job, but a few hours a week was all she could give Jack. In addition to being Nate’s mother, Kelsey was a third-year law student at the University of Miami. Law was her second career, something she’d decided to do after divorcing the man who’d convinced her that a ballet dancer was too stupid to get into law school. She’d danced professionally for two years before a knee injury ended her career, then she’d gotten married and had Nate. From the day he’d walked it was clear that Nate would never be a dancer, but she followed her dream anyway and opened her own studio, sharing her passion with children, mostly little girls. She still taught dance but no longer owned the studio, having sold the business to pay for law school. She made a little extra money as a law clerk, doing legal research and writing for Jack Swyteck, P.A. Sometimes he sent her on fact-finding missions, like the one on Sally Fenning. This wasn’t the most intellectually challenging assignment, but it had turned out to be one of the more interesting ones.

Without a doubt, it was the only one that had ever made her cry. The doorbell rang. Kelsey put her notes and newspaper clippings aside, then rose from the table and went to the front door. Through the peephole she saw Jack with Nate’s head on his shoulder, the boy sound asleep. She opened the door and let him inside.

“Straight back to the bedroom,” she whispered.

Jack carried Nate down the hall, Kelsey right behind them. She hurried ahead to the bedroom, adjusted the dimmer switch so that there was just enough light to see, and pulled back the covers. Jack laid the boy on the bed, then spoke in a whisper.

“Sorry I kept him out so late.”

“No problem. It’s not a school night. I’m sure he had a great time.”

“A total blast.”

“Thanks for taking him.”

“You’re welcome.”

Their eyes met and held. It was suddenly awkward, as if neither one knew exactly how to say good night when it was just the two of them in the bedroom, no crazy Nate buzzing all around them. Jack said, “Guess I better get going.”

“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.”

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 introuble, 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?”

“Shelby’s.”

“What’s that?”

“What’s that?” Lionel was smiling for no apparent reason. “That be your ticket, my man.” Lionel took a right turn off Flagler. The Chevy sped down a side street, then came to a quick halt at the dark end of an alley.

“Seriously, what is it?” said Theo.

“A convenience store.”

“What you want me to buy?”

“You ain’t buyin’ nothin’. Walk up that alley, turn left at the sidewalk. Shelby’s is open twenty-four hours. You goes in, grab the cash, get the hell out. I’ll wait here.”

“How I gonna just grab the money? What if he gots a gun?”

Lionel chuckled and shook his head. “Theo, man, don’t be such a pussy.”

“I ain’t no pussy.”

“You gettin’ the easy ticket, okay. It ain’t usually this easy to become a Grove Lord, but your brother, Tatum, well, he got pull. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

“No. What the hell’s so easy about robbin’ a convenience store with no gun?”

“You don’t need no gun.”

“What you want me to do, walk in and say please?”

“Ain’t no one to say please to.”

“Say what?”

Lionel checked his big sports watch. “It four twenty-five now. Shelby’s got one clerk from three-thirty to five-thirty. Every morning at four-thirty, that one clerk has to go out back in the alley and set up for deliveries.”

“He don’t lock the front door?”

“Sometime he do. Sometime he forget.” Lionel handed him a small crowbar and said, “Take this. In case he don’t forget.”

Theo stared at the crowbar in his hand.

Lionel said, “You want to be a Grove Lord, or don’t you?”

“Shit, yeah.”

“You got five minutes to prove it. Then I’m gone, wit or wit’out you.”

Their eyes locked, then Theo yanked the door handle and jumped out. He was no long-distance runner, but a hundred yards straight down an alley was quick work for him. The passageway was narrow and dark with just a lone street lamp at the front opening. He took it at full speed, zigzagging around a row of Dumpsters and leaping over a pile of garbage. At the sidewalk he slowed to a casual stroll, and turned left toward Shelby’s. The crowbar was tucked in his belt, hidden by his long, black jersey.

Shelby’s faced a parking lot, which it shared with a Laundromat that had closed hours earlier. To Theo’s relief, the lot was empty. He kept walking, briskly but not so fast as to draw attention to himself. Neon signs glowed in the plate-glass storefront. The trash can at the front door was overflowing, and little white plastic shopping bags dotted the sidewalk like a field of dandelions. It was only a few meters, but it seemed to take forever to reach the door. He glanced inside. No sign of the clerk anywhere. Had to be out back, just as Lionel had promised. The crowbar seemed heavier in his pocket as he reached for the door and pulled the handle. The latch clicked, and the door opened. Theo was almost giddy at the thought: the clerk had forgotten to lock it.

Dumbshit.

Theo walked inside, past the eight-foot-high display of canned soda, past the snack rack, past seven hundred different kinds of gum and mints. He stepped carefully but quickly, making not a sound in his sneakers. He reached the checkout counter and stopped. The cash register was right in front of him. He listened, straining to hear anything that might tell him where the clerk had gone, but he heard only the hum of the refrigerated units behind him.

Theo checked his watch. Two minutes had passed. He had three minutes to grab the cash and meet Lionel in back. His pulse quickened. He could feel himself sweating, and for a moment he couldn’t move, paralyzed by the voices in his head, his aunt telling him to high-tail it out of there, his older brother, Tatum, yelling, Pussy, pussy, pussy! Without another moment’s thought, he leaped over the counter, yanked the crowbar from his pants, and smashed open the cash register. The drawer sprang open, and he reached for the cash. But there was none. It was completely empty.

What the hell?

“Help me.”

Theo froze at the sound of the man’s voice. It was faint, so faint that he almost wondered if he’d imagined it.

“Please, somebody.”

The voice was coming from the back room. Theo’s heart was in his throat, his thoughts a total blur. He just went with his instincts, jumped over the counter, and sprinted for the door.

“God, please, help me!”

Theo stopped cold, just a few feet from the door. Lionel would be gone in just ninety seconds, but those pathetic pleas for help had snagged him like a fish on a gaffe. The man sounded like he was dying, and Theo had never let anyone die before. He wasn’t sure what to do, but if that was the sound of death, he was pretty damn certain he didn’t want to be a Grove Lord.

He turned, raced back toward the stockroom, then stopped cold in the doorway.

“Oh, man!”

The clerk was lying flat on his stomach, his chest heaving as he struggled for each breath. Stretched across the entire length of the room, from the walk-in freezer to the stockroom exit, was a dark crimson smear. It was exactly the width of his body, marking the path he’d crawled inch by inch on his belly, bleeding profusely.

The man looked up at Theo and reached out with his hand. His face was battered and bloody, his clothes soaked with blood. He didn’t look much older than Theo, practically a kid, maybe Tatum’s age. “Help me,” he said in a voice that faded.

Theo just stood there, frightened and not sure what to do. The man gasped, and his face hit the floor. Then, with a suddenness that chilled Theo, his chest stopped moving, his lungs no longer fighting for air. Theo looked on in horror, then trembled at the sight of the little crowbar in his hand, the one Lionel had given him-something about it that he hadn’t noticed earlier.

There was a smear of dried blood on it.

“Shit, man,” he said aloud, and then instinct again took over. He turned and raced for the front door, falling to the floor as he smashed into the snack rack and toppled over the canned soda display. His ankle turned, and he rolled across the floor in agony.

And then he heard it-the sound of approaching sirens.

On impulse, he picked himself up, burst through the front door, and made a mad dash for the alley, fighting through the pain of his twisted ankle, knowing in his heart that his friend Lionel would be long gone when he got there.

“Theo, my man!”

It was Tatum calling out from the ring, cocky as ever, sparring with a young Latino who was about half his weight. It wasn’t his style to box pip-squeaks, but it was always Mr. Machismo with the twenty-seven-inch waist who liked to taunt the baddest dude in the gym. It was as if these muscle-bound weeds had something to prove, like those annoying little poodles in the park that took on the rottweilers. Sooner or later, the big dog was gonna bite.

For Theo’s benefit, Tatum wound up like a windmill, toying with his opponent.

Theo just smiled. He didn’t love everything about his brother, but he had to love him. Jack Swyteck, his court-appointed lawyer, was the one who finally got him off death row for the murder of that store clerk. But through it all, there was only one other person who’d stuck by him all the way. In a lifelong give and take of sibling love and hate, this was the one great un equalizer, the debt he could never repay. At least that was the way Theo saw it.

Theo walked toward his brother’s corner and leaned over the ropes from outside the ring. The unmistakable odor of sweat and old leather tingled his nostrils. He could hear the fighters grunt with each jab, feel the intensity of their concentration. Only the intellectual snobs of the world thought that boxing wasn’t a mind game.

“Ever wonder why a boxing ring is actually a square?” asked Theo.

Theo could mess with his brother’s head better than anyone-distract him with extraneous thoughts, watch him take a beating. Even from across the ring, Theo could see that he’d broken Tatum’s rhythm.

“You got your three-ring circus,” said Theo, his tone philosophical. “Olympic rings. Onion rings. Smoke rings. Ringworms.”

“Shut up!” said Tatum.

The little guy was gaining confidence, moving around Tatum like a gnat on a lightbulb.

Theo snickered. “Diamond rings, toe rings, nipple rings, navel rings, scrotum rings, even ring around the collar. All them is circles.”

“I said, shut uuuuuup!”

Theo said, “Then there’s a boxing ring. I mean, how is it that a ring has corners?”

Tatum took a quick jack to the jaw, which startled him. “That’s it,” he said as he landed a left hook that sent the gnat flying across the ring. “Get your ass in here, Theo.”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Theo climbed through the ropes. The wounded Hispanic kid helped him strap on gloves. Then Theo stepped farther into the ring with his usual style, leaving the mouthpiece behind so as not to rob himself of his most effective weapon-verbal taunting.

“International rules?” said Theo.

“Uh-uh. Knight rules.”

Theo had always moved better than his older brother, and that was especially the case this morning, as he was completely fresh. And he seemed to be particularly on fire when it came to casting confusion to the enemy. “Hey, Tatum. How many times a day do you think lightning strikes?”

Tatum didn’t respond. Theo connected with a left-right combination.

“Take a guess,” said Theo, ever-light on his feet.

“Strikes where?” said Tatum, grunting. The mouthpiece made him sound thick.

“The whole world. How many times a day?”

Theo could see him thinking, see his loss of focus on the fight for just a moment of weakness. He led with a hard right this time, landing another combination that jerked Tatum’s head back.

“How many?” said Theo.

“I dunno. Fifty?”

“Hah!” he said as he delivered a quick blow to the belly. Tatum’s eyes bulged, as if to confirm the landing.

“Guess again,” said Theo.

Tatum was clearly hurting; Theo was holding nothing back. Tatum said, “A hundred.”

“A hundred times a day?” said Theo, scoffing. “That your guess?”

Tatum took a swing, but Theo quickly stepped aside and popped Tatum with another head shot. Tatum stumbled but didn’t go down.

Theo allowed him to get his footing, just to keep things interesting. “Try a hundred times a second,” said Theo. “That’s how many times lightning strikes every day.”

They circled one another slowly, sizing things up, looking for an opening. Tatum came at him, but Theo beat him back with a numbing blow to the forehead.

“Here’s the tricky part,” said Theo, still dancing in the ring. “How many people you think get killed by lightning?”

Tatum didn’t answer. He seemed to be struggling just to stay focused.

“About fifty,” said Theo, answering his own question. “A year.”

Tatum staggered. That last blow to the forehead had been a direct hit. Theo said, “Every second of every minute of every day, lightning strikes the earth a hundred times. But only a few people get a good, direct hit all year long. What does that tell you, Tatum?”

“Stand still and I’ll tell you.” He took another swing. Whiff.

“When somebody says the chances of Theo Knight getting off death row, or chances of Tatum Knight staying out of prison, are about as good as getting hit by lightning, what does that tell you?”

He unleashed another combination, then backed away before Tatum could answer.

“What the hell are you jabbering about, Theo?”

“Don’t you get it? It’s not that lightning don’t strike. You just gotta be standing in the right place.”

“You’re talking shit.”

“I’m talking about missed opportunities. There’s all kinds of ways to miss opportunities. Ain’t that right, Tatum?”

Tatum just grunted.

“You can blow them all by yourself,” said Theo as he landed another punch, then pulled away quickly. “Or sometimes you don’t have to do anything at all. Opportunities just pass right by you. Because your older brother went ahead and fucked up everything for you.”

Theo could feel the old anger rising from within. With a flurry of punches he came straight at Tatum and pinned him on the ropes. He kept swinging, and Tatum could only curl up and defend.

“Enough!” shouted Tatum.

For an instant, it was as if they were no longer in the ring. They were on the street corner outside their aunt’s apartment in Liberty City, and Theo was pounding on his brother for having hocked their aunt’s wedding ring to buy some dope. Theo abandoned the boxing mode and wrestled his brother to the mat, locking Tatum’s head in a two-handed hold that could have busted his neck. Theo spoke directly into his brother’s ear in a low, angry whisper, so that no one could overhear. “I vouched for you with Swyteck. I told him you didn’t kill that woman.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not lying, man. I didn’t kill her.”

“Swyteck was like lightning for me, you understand? You think a guy like me gets off death row without Jack Swyteck? You think a guy like me gets anywheres at all without a friend like Swyteck?”

“I hear you, okay?”

He shoved Tatum’s face into the canvas. “He’ll help you, too, man. If you let him. But the last thing he needs is another scumbag client who lies to him.”

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.”

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.”

Vivien said, “If you’re feeling abused, you can always opt out. Nothing prevents a beneficiary from rejecting his right to an inheritance.”

He looked around the room, seeming to be doing some quick computations in his head as to the odds of his outliving everyone else in the room. “No. I’ll play her little game. I’d be happy to take her forty-six million.”

“And she’d be happy for you to have it,” said Vivien. “And I mean that. Sincerely.”

“So all we can do is wait?” asked the reporter. “Just go on living our lives and wait for everyone else to die?”

“That’s exactly right,” said Vivien.

Gerry the Genius flashed his plastic grin. “And, of course, we should all rest a lot easier and live a lot longer knowing that none of us here is a trained killer.”

He laughed too hard at his own joke. They all laughed, but it only made the moment all the more uneasy.

“Yeah,” said Tatum, catching Jack’s eye as he spoke. “Thank goodness for that.”

Nine

Things were moving fast. On Tuesday morning, Jack and Tatum were in court already. The plan was to move things even faster. Jack didn’t often find himself in probate court, and it was a bit of an adjustment for him. In some ways it was the most uncivil of places in the entire civil court system, the bloody arena in which sisters fought brothers and sons betrayed mothers, all in pursuit of family fortunes. Yet it was regarded as a strangely courteous environment, at least among members of the bar. Lawyers held the door for each other, said good morning, shook hands, knew each other by their first names. They even seemed to talk softly when addressing the court, as if in respect for the dead. Here, the stakes were as high as in any courtroom, but the style was different. That was why they called it “Whisper Court.”

“Good morning,” said Judge Parsons from the bench. He was one of the more respected members of the Miami-Dade County judiciary, a wiry African-American with thick, gray eyebrows and a shaved head that glistened like a brand-new bowling ball.

“Good morning, Your Honor.” The reply was a mixed chorus of lawyers and clients. Since the meeting at Vivien Grasso’s office, the number of relevant players had grown appreciably. Evidently, none of the beneficiaries was willing to play Sally’s forty-six-million-dollar game without topflight legal representation. Ex-husband Miguel Rioshad hired Parker Aimes, the five-time chairman of the probate section of the Florida Bar and a distant relative of the late Will Rogers. (The joke was that he’d never met a decedent he didn’t like.) Reporter Deirdre Meadows was represented by not one, but two lawyers from Miami’s biggest firm. Assistant State Attorney Mason Rudsky had already dumped his first lawyer and replaced him with a former law professor who had literally written the book on Florida’s law of estates and trusts. With Vivien Grasso as personal representative of Sally’s estate, the introductions were starting to sound like a Who’s Who of the probate bar, with one notable exception.

“Your Honor, I’m Gerry Colletti…appearing on behalf of Gerry Colletti.”

There was a light chuckle in the background, which seemed to annoy Gerry. He was apparently the only person in the courtroom who didn’t find it goofy that the client was introducing himself as the lawyer.

The judge said, “Mr. Swyteck, it’s your motion that’s brought us here. Please proceed.”

“It’s really quite a simple motion, Judge. As you know, Vivien Grasso is the personal representative of Sally Fenning’s estate. The law gives her ten days from the date of Ms. Fenning’s death to deposit with the clerk of the court a copy of Ms. Fenning’s last will and testament. As of today, ten days have come and gone, and the will is not on file.”

“But according to Ms. Grasso, she read the entire will to you at her office.”

Vivien rose and said, “That’s exactly right, Your Honor.”

“That’s not exactly right,” said Jack. “She read the entire will to us, except for the identity of the sixth beneficiary.”

Vivien said, “If I may explain, Your Honor.”

“Please do.”

“We’re talking about a forty-six-million-dollar estate. Look at the interest this case is generating,” she said as she turned and pointed to the public seating behind her.

Jack turned and looked with everyone else. The gallery was nearly full, six rows of shoulder-to-shoulder seating.

The judge asked, “Where did the buzz about this case come from all of a sudden?”

Vivien said, “Obviously you didn’t see the paper this morning. Nifty little story about the missing heir in a forty-six-million-dollar game of survival. Doesn’t take long for word to get out when one of the beneficiaries is a reporter.”

Deirdre Meadows sank low in her chair.

Vivien continued. “Now, why do you think the courtroom is nearly full for a Mickey Mouse motion like this one? I’ll tell you why. Because every warm body sitting in the observation gallery this morning works for a lawyer. They’re chomping at the bit, just waiting for me to divulge the name of that sixth beneficiary, so that they go running after him with a business card.”

Jack took another look, panning across a sea of faces that looked guilty as charged.

The judge flashed a thin smile and said, “Funny, but I’m suddenly reminded of something I watched the other night on the Discovery Channel. A helpless deer was surrounded by a pack of hungry coyotes with teeth bared. The pack slowly closed in, jaws snapping, until finally one of them lunged forward and took hold of a hoof. The others piled on. In a matter of seconds the deer was on its back, limbs extended, drawn-and-quartered as the ravenous coyotes pulled mercilessly for a share of the meal. Anyway, I digress. I guess that’s my way of saying that one third of forty-six million dollars is a contingency fee worth fighting over.”

“You bet it is,” said Vivien. “And that’s why I don’t want to publicize the name of the sixth beneficiary until I’ve been able to locate him. If I’m forced to reveal the name, I’m afraid that one of these coyotes, as you say, is likely to reach him before I do. Frankly, I think that’s an utterly distasteful way for someone to find out they’re a beneficiary under a will.”

“I agree,” said Jack. “That’s why I haven’t asked the court to order Ms. Grasso to file the will with the court.”

“Then what are you requesting?” asked the judge.

“This is a peculiar situation,” said Jack. “Ms. Fenning’s will is structured so that the surviving beneficiary inherits the entire estate.”

“Which is exactly Ms. Grasso’s point,” said the judge. “Unless the beneficiaries are willing to wait fifty or more years for the money, they’ll either have to figure out some way to get the other beneficiaries disqualified or to work out a settlement. That means they’ll need a sharp lawyer, and I have little doubt that there will be plenty of them hunting down our mystery beneficiary once his name is revealed.”

“That’s one side of it, Your Honor. But consider another possibility. Immediately following the reading of the will at Ms. Grasso’s office, I believe it was Mr. Colletti who made a joke to the effect that it’s a good thing none of the beneficiaries is a trained killer, or maybe they’d all have to start looking over their shoulders. After leaving the office, it occurred to me: How do we know this unidentified sixth beneficiary isn’t a trained killer?”

“Do you have reason to believe he is dangerous?” asked the judge. Jack hesitated. He couldn’t very well inform the judge that Sally Fenning tried to hire his own client as a hit man, or that the real reason for his motion was to test his theory that beneficiary number six was the hired gun who hadn’t turned Sally down.

“I don’t know anything about him,” said Jack. “But for the sake of personal safety and peace of mind, each of the beneficiaries should know the name of the sixth beneficiary. So I ask the court to order Ms. Grasso to divulge the name to us immediately, under seal, for our eyes only. Then once she finds him, she can make the name public.”

“Ms. Grasso, what’s wrong with that?” asked the judge.

“In theory, nothing,” she replied. “But we have to look at reality here. If I were simply turning the name over to Mr. Swyteck, whom I know and trust, I wouldn’t be worried. But let’s face it. Once the coyotes sitting on that side of the rail realize that everyone sitting on this side of the rail knows who the sixth beneficiary is, there’s no telling how much money they might pay one of us for that information.”

Gerry jumped to his feet. “I resent that, Your Honor! Ms. Grasso was looking right at me when she made that implied accusation.”

“I was not.”

“Oh, what a crock.”

“Enough!” said the judge, throwing his hands in the air. “I won’t have lawyers sniping at each other in my courtroom.”

Heavens to Mergatroid, no, thought Jack. Not in Whisper Court.

The lawyers apologized, but the judge had already made up his mind. “Ms. Grasso, I appreciate your concerns, but I can’t suspend filing deadlines based upon your abstract fear that some lawyers may act unethically in pursuit of a hefty contingency fee.” He peered out over his reading glasses, scanning the public seating area. “That said, let me make myself absolutely clear to the peanut gallery. If anyone oversteps the bounds of ethics and good taste in pursuit of this sixth beneficiary, they’ll have me to deal with.”

“Does that mean I’m required to file the will with the court?” asked Vivien.

“Yes. By the end of the day. And in the interest of avoiding a mad stampede on the clerk’s office, let’s do it this way. Please announce the name of the sixth beneficiary.”

“Right here, in open court?”

“No time like the present.”

“All right. If that’s the court’s ruling.”

“That’s my ruling.”

“His name is Alan Sirap.”

A rumble emerged from the public seating behind Jack, as scores of courthouse spies reached for pen and paper to scribble down the name. Jack glanced at his client, but Tatum shrugged, as if the name meant nothing to him.

“Anything further?” asked the judge.

No one answered.

“Then we’re adjourned.” With the bang of a gavel, the judge stepped down from the bench and exited swiftly through a side exit to his chambers.

The lawyers and their clients rose and gathered their briefcases. Colletti took the long way around the big mahogany table, and he didn’t stop until he was standing within Jack’s personal space. He spoke firmly but in a low voice, so no one but Jack could hear. “If you think you got a leg up because you’re buddy-buddy with Vivien Grasso, think again. I’m not in this to lose. Especially to a client like yours.”

“I’d take him over your client any day, Gerry.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Jack watched as Colletti walked up the aisle to the main exit in the back of the courtroom, pushing his way through the crowd, as if he were determined to lead the pack of coyotes from the courthouse.

Ten

It was an hour before sunset and just minutes before tip-off as Jack threw together a tray of beer, chips, and salsa for the Knicks-Heat game on the tube. The stakes were high. If the Heat lost again, Jack would get a flood of calls and e-mails from friends in New York. Knicks rule, Heat suck, na, na, na-na, na. But it was one of those magical Miami nights when Jack would fall asleep to the soothing sounds and smells of Biscayne Bay right outside his open bedroom window, while his buddies up North had just one more day to decide which pair of long johns to wear under their Halloween costumes, so who were the real losers anyway?

“I got good news and bad news,” said Theo. He was peering through binoculars and standing on Jack’s patio beside the portable television he’d wheeled outside for the game. Jack adjusted the rabbit ears, then set up the goodies on the table beneath the umbrella. Nothing like beer, your best friend, and basketball under the stars.

“What now?” asked Jack.

Theo lowered the binoculars. “The good news is, your neighbor likes to prance around the house naked as a jaybird.”

“My neighbor is a seventy-eight-year-old man,” said Jack, wincing.

“Yeah. That’s, uh, kind of the bad news.” Jack chuckled as he grabbed a beer and fell into the chaise. Theo plopped down beside him and put the whole bowl of chips in his lap.

“You gonna leave some for me?” asked Jack.

“Get your own.” Theo reached for the remote control, but Jack snatched it away.

“That’s where I draw the line, buddy,” said Jack.

“I just wanted to see if Sally Fenning’s in the news again.”

“What makes you think she would be?”

“The name of the sixth beneficiary is out there now. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the media finds this Alan Sirap before the lawyers do.”

“You got a point.”

“Course I got a point. I always got a point. I don’t open my mouth unless I got a point. Unless I gotta burp.” He belched like a foghorn.

“Could you possibly be any more disgusting?”

“Only on a good day.” He put the bowl of chips aside and asked, “So, what are you gonna do about Tatum? You gonna represent him?”

“I already do.”

“I don’t mean this hourly bullshit you’re doing as a favor to me. Are you gonna jump in this case for the long haul or not?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Come on. Like the judge said, there’ll be plenty of legal back-stabbing to go around, with each of these beneficiaries trying to pick off the other ones. And it’s high profile, too. When’s the last time you had a case that was in the news like this?”

Jack shot him a wicked glare.

Theo coughed, as if suddenly recalling that the last high-profile case had nearly gotten Jack, himself, indicted. “Okay, forget the publicity angle. Let’s talk dollars and sense. You got pretty beat up in the divorce. The only thing Cindy didn’t take was your car and your best friend, and she probably could’ve had that too. Imagine me wearing a fucking cap and driving Miss Daisy all around Coral Gables in a Mustang convertible.”

“It wasn’t worth the fight. I just wanted to move on.”

“That doesn’t change the facts. You got a nice house here, Jack, but you don’t own it, and we’re sitting outside watching TV not because it’s such a beautiful night, but because you don’t even have an air conditioner.”

“What’s your point?”

“One third of forty-six million dollars-that’s my point.”

“You think I should sign on as Tatum’s lawyer?”

“If you don’t, someone else will. Why shouldn’t it be you? All the other beneficiaries are hiring topflight lawyers.”

“The other lawyers have the comfort of knowing that their client didn’t kill Sally Fenning.”

“So do you.”

Jack drank his beer, didn’t say anything.

Theo said, “I can’t give you a hundred percent proof Tatum didn’t kill her. But he gave me his word, brother to brother, in the boxing ring, and there’s probably no place more sacred to the Knight brothers than the ring. There’s no sure thing in life, especially when you’re talking about a shot at a one-third contingency fee on a take of forty-six million bucks.”

“I know what you’re saying.”

“I don’t think you do. I’m talking about more than just money. It’s who you are, and who you’re going to be the rest of your pathetic life.”

“Let’s not get carried away here.”

“This is no bullshit. Tatum and I used to have this saying. There’s two kinds of people in this world, risk takers and shit takers.”

Jack laughed, but Theo was serious.

Theo said, “Tatum might not be your ideal version of a client, but he’s giving you the chance to answer a very important question. So think real hard before you spit out an answer: What do you want to be the rest of your life, Jack Swyteck? A risk taker? Or a shit taker?”

They locked eyes, and then Jack looked away, letting his gaze drift toward the water and a distant sailboat running wing-and-wing toward the mainland. “Tell your brother to stop by the office tomorrow. We’ll sign a contingency fee agreement.”