Last to die

Eleven

The Harmattan winds were blowing right on schedule.

It was Rene’s third autumn in West Africa, and no one had to tell her that the dusty winds had returned in full force. Her dry eyes and stinging nostrils didn’t lie. The winds blew from the deserts of the north, starting as early as October, typically lasting through February. With the dust, however, came occasionally cooler temperatures at night, though cooler was indeed a relative concept in a place where a typical daytime high was ninety-five degrees and the weather on the whole was best described as gaspingly hot. In the next five months they’d have just five days with rainfall, but at least there would be no raging rivers of mud to wash livestock, children, or entire hillside villages into the valley. Life in West Africa was a trade-off, and Rene had learned to accept that. For the foreseeable future, she’d live with dust in her hair, dust on her clothes, dust on her toothbrush, and it was just too damn bad if her friends back home just couldn’t understand why the snapshots she sent them had such a flat lifelessness about them. Even under the best of circumstances, it was hard to do photographic justice to the endless grasslands of northern Côte d’Ivoire, unless you were a professional, and Rene was anything but that.

Rene was a pediatrician who had volunteered for a three-year stint with Children First, a human rights organization that was fighting against the forced servitude of children in the cocoa fields. The inspiration had struck her in her last year of residency at Boston Children’s Hospital. One night in the lounge, while wolfing down her typical dinner of a diet soda and a candy bar, she read an article about the reemergence of slavery. Studies by the United Nations and the State Department confirmed that approximately fifteen thousand children, aged nine to twelve, had been sold into forced labor on cotton, coffee, and cocoa plantations in Côte d’Ivoire. The situation was only predicted to get worse, as prices for cocoa continued to fall, and almost half of the world’s cocoa came from the very region that had stooped to child labor to boost profitability. Her candy bar suddenly didn’t taste quite as sweet. It just so happened that she was at one of those “Why did I go to med school?” junctures. Was it time to move to Brookline and wipe snot from the noses of kids who came to checkups in the company of their nannies, or did she yearn for something more? Before she had time to reconsider, she was on a plane to Abidjan, her ultimate destination being Korhogo, capital of the Senoufo country, a nine-hour bus ride north.

Côte d’Ivoire had been rocked by a military coup in 1999, and Rene arrived just in time to find it besieged by a host of medical problems-malnutrition, AIDS, infant mortality, even genital mutilation among some migrant tribes. She did it all, but she tried to focus on the mission that had moved her. Officially, the local governments denied that child slavery existed. Soon enough, however, Rene was able to put a face on the crisis, the faces of children who were routed to her clinic for assistance as they struggled to find their way home to the most impoverished of countries that neighbored Côte d’Ivoire. Children who told her of men luring them away from their families in bus stops and busy shopping markets in countries like Mali, Benin, or Burkina Faso. Many traveled by sea, packed in crowded old ships at ports like Cotonou, ironically a thriving center of slave trade in earlier centuries. Others came by land, trucking through the brush and canoeing across rivers until they reached plantations far from civilization, farther still from home. They stopped only when it was time for the men to get out and negotiate with cocoa farmers near Lake Kossou, when two or three or twelve children at a time would march off to meet other children of the same fate. They lived in overcrowded huts without cots, without plumbing or electricity, but with strict rules against talking, because talking led to complaining, and complaining led to revolt. They told Rene of twelve-hour workdays in the fields, sunup to sundown, and the hunger in their bellies from lousy food, mostly burned bananas, maybe a yam if they were lucky. They showed Rene the scars on their legs, arms, and backs, told her of the beatings when they didn’t work fast enough. The beatings when they didn’t work long enough. The beatings when they tried to escape. Beatings, beatings, and more beatings. All for no pay to the child, just a promise of perhaps a lump sum payment of ten or fifteen dollars to the child’s family, a payment that was frequently never made. No one wanted to call it slavery, but one of the first rules Rene had learned in med school was that if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…

Chickens clucked behind her, startling her.

“Ysugri, nassara,” said the man as he passed her on the street. Excuse me, white woman.

Rene stepped aside. The man had a long wooden pole across his shoulders, balanced on either end by live chickens unhappily hanging by their claws. The official language of Côte d’Ivoire was French, but few Africans spoke it, particularly in the north. Based on his tongue and dress, she guessed the man was from Burkina Faso, a desolate, landlocked country to the north that made Côte d’Ivoire glisten like a model of prosperity.

Rene flowed with the stream of cows, mules, and pedestrians to the city market. Some of the streets were paved, but others were just dirt trails that wound through the city like footpaths to centuries past. She knew her way, but it was easy enough for anyone to find it this time of year, as any gathering of this size stirred up a reddish-pink cloud of dust that was visible from across town. There wasn’t much to do in Kohorgo, and the afternoon market was a reliable source of entertainment, if you could stand the heat.

Rene stopped at the corner to sip water from her canteen. Two years earlier, she would never have gone out this time of day, but time had made her more durable. Or crazier.

“Wanwana, wanwana?” she heard the tourists ask. Travelers did indeed find Kohorgo, mostly on their way to someplace else, almost always in search of its crude and unusual painted toiles, a native form of art that found its way into just about every hotel and expat home in the country in the form of wall hangings, bedspreads, napkins, and tablecloths. The question at the afternoon market was always the same: “How much?”

“Good price,” she whispered as she passed a couple of hard-bargaining Australians.

“Thanks, mate,” said one of them, and then he went on haggling.

Bargaining was a way of life at the market, though Rene had stitched up more than one tourist who’d failed to realize that once you negotiated one of these artists down to a certain level, it was extremely insulting if you ultimately did not buy.

A blast of wind sent the dust swirling, and Rene covered her face with her scarf. This was a particularly noxious blast, carrying with it the stench of sewer. Perhaps some rain had fallen to the north last night, or the authorities had simply decided it was time to unload the overflow.

The wind eased back a notch, and Rene opened her eyes. Dust continued to swirl, and the market was suddenly a haze, as if she were dreaming. The labyrinth of brown walls and buildings made of mud-brick almost seemed to melt into the earth. Shawls and wraps flapped in the dirty breeze. Animals stirred at the more subtle desert odors blown in from the north. And the tourists kept haggling.

In a few moments she was able to focus once again, and her eyes fixed on a young boy standing on the corner, a boy like many others she’d seen. Skinny legs, muddy trousers, plastic sandals. The tattered shirt, eyes filled with fear. Anyone else would have thought he was lost. But Rene knew the look.

This boy was running.

Slowly, she started moving in his direction, careful not to scare him off. She kept watch without making eye contact, wending her way through the crowd, taking a circuitous route to the street corner that the boy seemed to have claimed-he and scores of other children who passed their days begging in the streets.

The onslaught began as she drew closer, child after child with outstretched hand.

“S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle. S’il vous plaît.” If you were white, even the street children knew enough French to say please in the official language.

It was hard to ignore them, but she couldn’t help all of them. Only the slaves among them.

Though surrounded by other children, she never lost sight of the boy. Just ten feet away, her suspicions were confirmed. She could see the blisters on his hands and the crisscrossing of scars around the calves and ankles. Boys in the field cut the cocoa pods with machetes. It took one or two good lengthwise whacks to break open the woody shell and scoop out the beans. A good boy could split open five hundred pods an hour, though with fatigue or lack of experience they often slashed themselves. At least this one still had all his fingers and toes.

Finally, after continuous effort, she managed to plant herself beside him.

“S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle,” he said with outstretched hand.

His French was remarkably good, so she replied in the same language. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’ve come to help you.”

He took a half-step back. Clearly he understood.

“I’ve helped lots of boys like you,” she said. “Boys who work in the cocoa fields.”

Other beggars tried to force their way between them, but Rene kept working him. “I’m a doctor.”

She pulled a photograph of her clinic from her pocket. She’d found it useful in past cases to be able to show the boys something. “It’s just around the corner. Come with me. I can help you get home.”

He shook his head, as if he’d heard that one before.

She stepped toward him, then stopped, fearing that she was coming on too strong. “Please,” she said. “You don’t look like the other children, you understand? Come with me. Let me help you before the child brokers find you again.”

He looked into her eyes, and she didn’t dare look away. Being a woman was such a huge advantage when talking to a boy who’d been lied to by so many men.

He nodded slowly, and she immediately took his hand. It was the coarse and calloused hand of an old man, surely not of the boy he was. She led him back across the market, down a dusty shortcut she knew to her clinic.

“What’s your name?”

“Kamun.”

“How old are you?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Do you want some water?”

“Yes.”

They stopped, and she let him drink from her canteen.

“Thank you.”

She smiled and patted his head. “You’re welcome.”

At the end of the dusty trail was the Children First clinic, which didn’t look like much of a clinic. It was one of the older buildings in the neighborhood, thick walls of mud-brick and an adobe-style roof. But it did have a noisy air-conditioning unit sticking out the window, which seemed to delight the boy.

“Cool,” he said, smiling.

“Yes. It is. Come inside.”

He followed her in, and she closed the door behind him. He seemed nervous again, so she took him by the hand and let him stand directly in front of the A/C and turned it on full-blast. He smiled, even laughed a little as the cold air dried the sweat on his brow.

Through the holes in his shirt she saw scars across his back, and she wondered how long it had been since he’d laughed like this.

“Come in here,” she said. She took him into the other room-there were only two-and sat him on the examination table.

“I want to listen to your heart,” she said. She placed the stethoscope on his knee and listened.

“I don’t hear your heart,” she said.

Finally, he laughed. “That’s not my heart,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She put it on his elbow.

He laughed again, and she laughed with him. But if he thought this routine was funny, he was probably younger than she’d guessed. She placed her stethoscope on his heart and listened.

“Good strong heart,” she said.

“Yes. That’s what Le Gros said.” Le Gros-the Big Man.

“Is that who you worked for?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Six.”

“Months?”

“No. Harvests.”

Rene had been around long enough to know that most cocoa farms had a main harvest lasting several months and a mid-crop harvest lasting several more. Six harvests meant that Kamun had been working almost three years straight.

It’s not going to be easy to get this boy home.

“What did you do there?”

He didn’t answer, which was to be expected. It generally took them a while to warm up.

“May I take your shirt off?”

He shook his head.

“I noticed some marks on your back. I just want to take a look.”

He folded his arms, refusing.

“It’s okay. We can do that later.”

She paused, then prepared herself to ask the one question she always asked. She knew the answer she’d get, talking to a child who’d never known a home with milk and sugar in the cupboard. But she asked anyway, hoping the answer would help her see purpose in her work and strengthen her resolve, hoping that it wouldn’t simply dampen her spirits and break her heart.

“Kamun. Have you ever tasted chocolate?”

“Chocolate?”

“Yes, chocolate. Have you ever tasted it?”

He shook his head. “What is…chocolate?”

The main door opened, and a man and woman entered. “Post” they said with their usual cheery smiles.

Rene quietly assured Kamun that they were friends. It was Jim and Judy Roberts, nonmedical volunteers who ran the administrative side of Children First’s operation. Rene had liked them from day one on the job, a couple of down-to-earth Oklahomans who didn’t do charity just to get their mugs in the society pages and who’d found a meaningful way to spend their retirement together. They were back from their daily jaunt to the post office, Jim the former Iowa State football player having led the way. Rene stepped out of the examination room and asked, “The usual?”

“No,” said Mr. Roberts. “There’s actually something here for you today.”

“Really? Put it on the desk. I’m with a patient.”

“It’s from a lawyer,” he said.

That piqued her interest. She crossed the room and took a look. She didn’t recognize the name.

“Who’s the boy?” asked Mrs. Roberts.

“Sorry?” said Rene, still focused on the envelope.

“The patient. Who is he?”

“His name is Kamun. I’ll introduce you in a minute. This looks kind of important. Maybe I should open it.”

Mr. Roberts handed her an opener. She quickly sliced the envelope from end to end, then removed the letter. It was one page long. Her eyes shifted from left to right as she read, then her lashes fluttered and her hand began to shake.

Mr. Roberts asked, “Is everything okay, Rene?”

Instinctively, she brought a hand to her mouth. “It’s my sister,” she said.

“She’s okay, I hope.”

Rene looked up from the letter and said, “She’s dead.”

Mrs. Roberts came to her, put her arm around her. “Oh no.”

Rene lowered herself onto the edge of the desk, the quickest place to sit down. “She was shot. A robbery or something. They don’t know exactly. In Miami.”

Mr. Roberts took her hand. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

Mrs. Roberts said, “She was such a sweet girl. I mean, it seems like she was just here with us.”

“It’s been over two years since she left.”

“Really? That long? Oh, time flies. But she was still so young. I think I’m going to cry.”

“Please, don’t,” said Rene.

Mr. Roberts glanced at his wife, as if telling her to be strong for Rene. She cleared her throat and quickly toughened her resolve.

“Thank you,” said Rene.

Mr. Roberts grimaced and said, “She really was such a nice person.”

“Would you like a minute alone?” asked Mrs. Roberts.

“I’ll be fine, really. But thank you both. It’s kind of you to say such nice things.”

Mrs. Roberts said, “We can arrange for some time off, if you would like.”

“I don’t expect I’ll be going anywhere.”

“It’s no problem, if you want to go home.”

“Sally was the only family I had left. Now she’s gone. There’s nothing to go back to.”

The older woman smiled flatly, as if she were trying to understand. “It’s up to you, dear. Whatever you want to do.”

Rene returned a sad smile, then started back to the examination room. She stopped in the doorway, then turned and looked at both of them. “I don’t want you or the organization to be at all worried about me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Like we said, Rene. It’s totally up to you.”

With a final nod, she tried to convey that this would be the end of the matter. Then she stepped into the examination room and turned her attention back to Kamun.

Twelve

At noon on Thursday, Jack took Sally Fenning’s ex-husband to lunch.

He’d spent the morning in court at the Criminal Justice Center, so they met just a few blocks down the Miami River at the Big Fish Restaurant, one of Jack’s favorite lunch spots. For all its miles of breathtaking waterfront, Miami offered amazingly few places that actually allowed you to sit by the water and eat seafood. The Big Fish was right on the Miami River, nothing fancy, just a relaxing place to score fresh dolphin, tuna, or shrimp ceviche while soaking up a historic stretch of river where ninety-foot yachts bound for the West Indies shared the right of way with rusted old container ships filled with stolen SUVs destined for South America. It was a landmark of sorts, a piece of old Miami where mariners from houseboats at the west end of the river sidled up alongside bankers and lawyers from the office towers to the east, where the mouth of the five-and-a-half-mile river emptied into Biscayne Bay. Jack was sentimental about the place, too. It was over broiled grouper and french fries that, as a federal prosecutor, he’d talked his first mobster into testifying for the government.

Jack didn’t think he’d ever duplicate the sense of symmetry that came from nailing Tony “the Big Tuna” Dilabio at a place called the Big Fish. But he still felt a rush of adrenaline as he shook hands with Sally’s ex-husband.

“Thanks for coming,” said Jack.

“No problem.”

They took a small table by the window, which overlooked an old fishing pier that had been half-submerged in the river for as long as Jack had been coming here. Miguel was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and blue, form-fitting bicycle pants. He’d joined the City of Miami Police Department near the tail-end of his marriage to Sally, and he was now part of the downtown bicycle brigade, a small team of officers who patrolled the parks and streets by pedal power on twelve-speeds.

Miguel’s full name was Miguel Ortiz Rios, a first-generation Cuban-American. Jack’s mother had actually been born in Cuba, but he didn’t mention it to Miguel. She died just hours after his birth, so his Latin connection was purely genetic, and he came across about as Cuban as Yankee pot roast. He knew from experience that if he told Miguel he was half Cuban, Miguel would start speaking Spanish, Jack would do his best to respond in kind, and Miguel would quickly revert to English, surmising that Jack was a lying sack of shit gringo who was trying to forge an instant rapport by claiming to be Latino.

“I assume you didn’t invite me here to turn me on to the conch fritters,” said Miguel.

Jack gave a little smile and said, “That’s true. Though the conch fritters are pretty good.”

“That’s what I’m having,” he told the waitress. “Just water to drink.”

“I’ll have the big tuna,” said Jack.

“It’s all pretty much the same size,” she said.

Jack caught his own Freudian slip. “Sorry. I mean just the tuna. Seared, rare. And an iced tea.”

The waitress took their menus and left them alone at the table. The lunch crowd was streaming in, and the conversations around them had merged into a single, steady rumble.

Jack said, “Before we start, Mike-”

“It’s Miguel. Only Sally called me Mike.”

“Sorry. I just wanted to remind you that you do have the right to have your lawyer here.”

“Forget it. Parker Aimes gets a big hit if I take home the forty-six million, but I still gotta pay him a reduced hourly fee if we lose. I’m using him as little as possible.”

Interesting, thought Jack, that Miami’s top probate lawyer didn’t like the ex-husband’s chances well enough to take a straight contingency fee arrangement. Jack said, “I have a few things I want to ask about you and Sally, but let me start with the big question. What do you think Sally was up to here?”

“Like I said at the meeting. As far as I know, there isn’t a single person on that list of beneficiaries who Sally loved. And a few of them, I know for a fact Sally hated them.”

“So she decided to leave forty-six million dollars to people she hates?”

“No,” said Miguel. “She left her enemies to fight over forty-six million dollars that they would probably never get their hands on.”

“You consider yourself one of her enemies?”

“That’s a little complicated.”

“Give it a shot.”

“I never thought of Sally as the enemy. Never. Not even in the darkest times.”

“But you did hire yourself a pretty tough divorce lawyer.”

“I didn’t really hire him. Gerry Colletti did it for me as a friend, freebie.”

“He still your friend?”

“I don’t think of him as one.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, really. I just finally came around to realize Sally was right about him. He is a scumbag.”

“You think that’s one of the reasons Sally considered you the enemy? You used a scumbag divorce lawyer?”

“I can see where you might say that, but no. Truth is, I wouldn’t let Gerry put the screws to her. I’ll give you an example. Sally and me had this restaurant. In fact, we bought it from Gerry. It was a disaster, and we had to close it. All that debt went with me. Whatever assets we had went with Sally. The way I saw it, she was never going to recover psychologically if I put her in a financial hole.”

“That’s pretty fair-minded.”

“After what happened to our daughter, the rules are a little different. You try to work things out.”

“Is that the way Sally saw it?”

He gave Jack a sad smile, a slow shake of the head. “Unfortunately, no. Sally was a sweet, loving person. But she changed.”

“What changed her?”

His smile was gone. “Our daughter was murdered in our house. That can change you, don’t you think?”

Jack lowered his eyes, a little embarrassed for having asked. “It’s the most terrible thing I can imagine. And I’m sorry that happened to you and Sally.”

“Thanks.”

A party of six walked by on their way to another table. Jack waited for them to pass, then said, “But even something as horrible as the death of a child doesn’t always tear a marriage apart. Sometimes the parents turn to each other for strength.”

“You’re talking about the ones who don’t blame each other for what happened.”

The waitress brought their drinks, then left as quickly as she’d come. Jack stirred a packet of sugar into his iced tea and asked, “Is that what happened to you and Sally? The blame game?”

“I don’t know what happened to us. We tried. I really tried to be there for her. But she just didn’t want help. Not from me, anyway.”

“Did she blame you for what happened to your daughter?”

“No.”

“Did you blame her?”

He paused, as if not sure how to answer. Finally, he said, “She thought I did.”

“How did she get that impression?”

“I’m not sure, exactly.”

“What’s your sense?”

Again he paused, seeming to struggle. “Sally had this…job. I didn’t really like it.”

“The Hooters gig?”

He blinked twice, as if ashamed that Jack knew. “Look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about Sally. She was a terrific mother. It wasn’t like she was going out dancing on tables or something. It’s just that, we owned that lousy restaurant I was telling you about. We had a terrible flood, no insurance, and we lost everything. We were bad in debt, needed money like you wouldn’t believe. We both had to work crappy jobs to get back on our feet. I just wish she could have found something better.”

“Did you ask her to quit?”

“We talked about it. But tips are pretty good at a place like Hooters. Tourists get a little drunk, you know how it is. Anyway, four hours a night there was like eight hours someplace else. So it left her some time for Katherine.”

“So she kept the job?”

“Yeah. Big mistake.”

“How so?”

Miguel tore open a pack of oyster crackers. “She ended up getting stalked by some loser.”

“Stalked?”

“That’s the sort of thing I was most afraid of. Some of these creeps who go to these bars think all the waitresses want it, that they’re easy. You know what I’m saying?”

“What happened? Somebody started calling her on the phone, following her home-what?”

“I don’t know all the details. She didn’t even tell me about it till after our daughter was killed.”

“Why not?”

“She knew I’d make her quit if I thought some guy was hassling her at work. And she also knew I’d break his neck if we found out who he was.”

“Did you ever find out who he was?”

“No. Chickenshit son of a bitch. Sally said he just kept taunting her with anonymous calls from pay phones, hang-ups, that sort of thing. Never got a look at him. Maybe the cops could have helped, if she’d reported it, but she said she didn’t want to antagonize him. She thought if she ignored him, he’d go away.”

“Did he go away?”

“No way.” Miguel lowered his eyes and said sadly, “And it was our daughter who paid.”

Jack paused in mid-sip, putting down his tea. “Are you saying this stalker killed your daughter?”

“Can’t prove it. Especially since Sally never told anyone about him stalking her until after our daughter was killed. If she had reported him, we would have had something to go on. As it was, the guy just vanished after the murder. Cops had no trail to follow.”

“So he was never charged?”

“No one was ever charged.”

“Did they ever name any suspects?”

“No. But they did give me a polygraph. Schmucks. Can’t find the guy who did it, so they go hassle the daddy.”

Jack paused, trying to be delicate. “How did that turn out?”

“Exactly the way Sally and me knew it would. They asked me three different ways: Did you kill your daughter, did you stab your daughter, did you harm your daughter in any way? I passed with flying colors.”

“You still think it was the stalker who did it?”

“No doubt in my mind. I mean, who else? How many enemies does an innocent little girl have?”

“Do you blame Sally for the fact that he got away with it?”

“No way. I’m a cop. I’m not the kind of guy who blames the victim.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“But somehow Sally got it fixed in her head that I thought it was all her fault. Once that happened, our marriage was over. I’m sure that’s why I’m in her little game now. I was probably the first one on her list.”

“But you’re not the only one on her list.”

“No. Obviously not.”

“Why are the others on there? Any idea?”

The waitress brought their food. “Here we go,” she said, setting their plates before them. “Anything else I can get you?”

“No, thanks,” they said in unison.

The waitress left. Miguel was pouring cocktail sauce on his conch fritters. Jack was still waiting for an answer, but with the waitress’s interruption, Miguel had apparently lost track of the question. Jack asked again, “Do you know why the others are on Sally’s list?”

Miguel had a mouthful of fritters. He shrugged and said, “You’ll have to ask them.”

Jack nodded, then looked at his plate of food. But he’d suddenly lost interest in eating. “I intend to,” he said.

Thirteen

Jack was back in his office by three o’clock. He had a deposition after lunch, and he’d expected it to last the rest of the day, but the opposition had stormed out early when Jack refused to stop asking the witness to explain how he’d completely singed off his eyebrows if, as alleged, it was Jack’s client who’d torched his own business.

“Mr. Valentes, I’m going to keep asking this question until you tell me exactly what happened to those eyebrows.”

“What eyebrows?”

“That’s my point.”

“That’s it, Swyteck. We’re outta here!”

Miami was a living and breathing anthology of the History of Stupid Criminals.

The strong smell of Cuban coffee hit him as soon as he entered the office. Maria had his afternoon jolt of caffeine ready. She’d been his secretary for almost seven years, starting with his second day on the job as a federal prosecutor and following him into private practice. With the dust barely clear from his divorce, it was comforting to know that he was actually capable of a stable, long-term relationship of any sort with the opposite sex. He didn’t consider himself picky in the romance department, but after his marriage to Cindy Paige, he did have certain minimum requirements-sanity being chief among them. Of course, his maternal grandmother, Abuela, as he called her, would even waive the sanity test if Jack would just bring home a nice Cuban girl. Too bad Maria was married.

“How’d the depo go, Jack?” she asked as she handed him his taza of espresso.

“Same old, same old.”

She smiled and shook her head, as if all too aware that a quip like that could mean anything from utter boredom to an all-out fistfight.

Jack headed down the hall to his office, past the conference room that doubled as his library. He noticed Kelsey was busy at the table, doing a Westlaw search on the computer. She was wearing running shoes and black spandex exercise leggings that revealed just enough of the former ballerina to confirm that somewhere under that big, baggy aerobics T-shirt was one amazing body.

“Expecting clients today?” he said as he stuck his head into the room.

She checked her attire. “Sorry. I just stopped by on my way to Body and Soul.”

He assumed she wasn’t talking about some kind of new-wave religion. “Have a good workout.”

“Thanks.”

He started out the door, then stopped and came back into the room. “Actually, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Sure. What?”

“It’s on the Sally Fenning matter. I met with her ex-husband for lunch.”

“How’d that go?”

He took a minute to bring her up to speed, telling her all about the stalker that Miguel thought was responsible for the death of their daughter. He also told her how Sally had apparently come to think that he blamed her for the whole tragedy.

“What’s your take?” asked Kelsey. “He the kind of guy who blames the victim?”

“He says he’s not. And he didn’t come across that way.”

“A good guy, or just talks a good game?”

“Not sure. I did pull his divorce file, just to see if there might be any insights.”

“And?”

“It played out just the way he said. Even though this shark Gerry Colletti was his lawyer, Miguel kept him on a pretty short leash. Sally got all the assets, Miguel took the debt. Not much of a fight there.”

“Which makes you wonder: Why is the divorce lawyer on her list of enemies?”

“Exactly,” he said. “And that’s exactly where you come in.”

Kelsey grabbed her pen and paper, as if eager for the assignment.

“Okay.”

“Put the pen down. This isn’t research.”

She smiled. “You mean I’m actually going to get to do something outside the library?”

“Maybe. Here’s the deal. I can accept the fact that Sally structured her estate in a way that would torture her ex-husband into thinking that he might someday come into big money. I don’t have children, but just from my relationship with Nate, I know that if someone blamed me for the brutal murder of my child, there would be no limit to the anger I would feel.”

“Ditto.”

“But like you said, that doesn’t explain the divorce lawyer. In fact, absolutely nothing came out during my talk with Miguel Rios that shed any light on why Sally felt the same anger toward any of the other beneficiaries.”

“You think there’s something Mr. Rios is not telling you?”

“Something he’s not telling me, or something he just doesn’t know.”

“How do we plug the hole?”

“I talked to Tatum right after lunch. The way he met Sally was through a referral from her bodyguard. Tatum says the bodyguard is willing to talk with me tonight. He moonlights as a bouncer at a club on South Beach and said he’d give me a few minutes on his break. He could be a real window into Sally’s head.”

“No doubt about it. How can I help?”

“I’d like you to come with me.”

“Wow. Real sleuthing. The kind of work any third-year law student would die for.”

“I have to confess. I feel a little guilty about asking you.”

“Why? Because you need to interview a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal, and you think he’s more likely to talk to a good-looking woman than to Jack Swyteck?”

Jack took a half-step back, surprised. “How…did you know that?”

“For one, on a certain level you’re as much a Neanderthal as he is, which gives us women a distinct advantage in figuring out what you men are really up to.”

“I see.”

“Plus, Tatum called the office about a half hour ago. We talked. He said it would be a much more productive meeting if I went along and flashed a little cleavage.”

“I didn’t ask you to flash cleavage,” said Jack.

“Do you want me to or not?”

He didn’t answer.

“Jack?”

“I’m thinking,” he said. “I’m not sure there’s a right answer to that question.”

“If you’re uncomfortable with this, we can forget the whole thing. I won’t go.”

“No, I want you to go. If nothing else, it will be good practical experience for you.”

“If all I wanted was experience, I’d happily put on a pinstripe suit and go as a Jack Swyteck clone. But as a woman, I bring things to the team that you can’t. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There isn’t?”

“No,” she said, exasperated. “I’m so tired of this politically correct dogma we try to live under. Let’s all celebrate diversity, but God forbid that anyone should point out we’re all different. Doesn’t that drive you crazy?”

“I just don’t want you to think you have to do anything that makes you feel compromised.” “For Pete’s sake, we’re interviewing a man in a South Beach nightclub. I don’t feel compromised by dressing the way a woman would dress. You’re much too old school, Jack.”

“Old school?”

“It’s like the old brains versus beauty debate. Why should a woman be put down for using her sexuality?”

“Because it’s demeaning?” he suggested.

“Is it? When you think about it, how is showing off your looks any different from showing off how smart you are? You were born with your brain, the same way you were born with your looks. It’s ninety-eight percent genetics. You can’t take any more personal credit for your IQ than for the size of your pores. If you ask me, the only people who have a legitimate right to claim they’re better than anyone else are people who choose to be nice. That’s the one defining characteristic about ourselves that we have total control over. But, of course, if you’re truly a nice person, you don’t go around bragging that you’re better than everyone else.”

Jack thought for a moment, silent.

“Did you hear anything I just said?” asked Kelsey.

“Yeah. I was just wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“Does this mean you will or won’t be flashing cleavage tonight?”

She wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at him. “Neanderthal.”

Jack smiled and said, “I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“Hopefully not by my hair.”

“Only if you’re dressed in leopard skin,” he said, then headed for his office.

Fourteen

Headquarters for Miami’s leading newspaper was at the north end of downtown, right on sparkling Biscayne Bay, with daytime vistas of the cruise ships docked at the Port of Miami and the Art Deco skyline of Miami Beach in the distance. Nightfall, however, made mirrors out of the tinted plate-glass windows, and without the breathtaking views, the fifth-floor newsroom of the Miami Tribune had a stark, factory-like feel to it. Sandwiched between beige-carpeted floors and suspended fluorescent lighting was a twisted network of shoulder-high dividers that compartmentalized the gaping room into open workstations for a hundred-fifty reporters and staff writers, each with a video display terminal, gray metal desk, and chirping telephone.

Deirdre Meadows stared at her reflection in her monitor, thinking.

Since learning that Sally Fenning had made her one of six beneficiaries in her forty-six-million-dollar estate, Deirdre had been brainstorming, trying to find the best angle for a story. This one had all the elements. Sally was a beautiful young woman with a tragic past, a multimillionaire second husband, and an intriguing flair for creative estate planning that seemed driven by mysterious motives that Deirdre was itching to unravel. Deirdre had finally settled on a three part investigative piece: Sally and her daughter as victims, Sally’s marriage to a millionaire and her violent death, and Sally as a hand from the grave manipulating the lives of six seemingly disconnected heirs, only one of which would ultimately inherit her entire estate. She’d pitched the idea to the managing editor late that afternoon, only to be shot down immediately.

“Sorry, Deirdre. We just don’t have room in the budget for another investigative piece.”

“But a ton of the research is done already.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“It’s true,” she said. “I’m the one who covered the murder of her child five years ago, so part one is basically done already.”

“Which is exactly the part of the story that isn’t news anymore.”

“The rest won’t be as much extra work as you think. For some reason, I’m a beneficiary under her will. For my own good, I have to investigate this anyway, so why not do a story about it?”

He made a face. “That’s the more fundamental problem. Call me old-fashioned, but frankly, I don’t like stories written by reporters who are part of the story.”

“I’m really not part of it. I’m incidental. I think the only reason she made a reporter one of her beneficiaries is so that this story would be written.”

“And you think that’s a reason we should do the story?” he asked, incredulous. “Sounds like a creative form of checkbook journalism to me.”

It was downhill from there. Deirdre didn’t like his answer, but she didn’t want to push so hard that she’d spend the next two months covering the likes of chili-eating contests and high school student government elections.

Deirdre laid her fingers on the keyboard. One option was to simply start writing, churn out a few compelling pages, and go over his head. That was risky, but it was impossible to succeed in this business without taking risks. Newsrooms across the country were filled with talented reporters. No one ever won a Pulitzer Prize by cowering in the face of rejection. Especially when the guy doling out rejection slips was an idiot.

She let her fingers start dancing, tapping out words, only to be interrupted by the ring of her telephone.

“Meadows,” she answered.

“Want to know who killed Sally Fenning?” said the man on the line. It was a deep, mechanical voice. He was clearly speaking through one of those voice-altering gadgets that were sold at spy stores and electronics shops on just about every other block in downtown Miami.

Deirdre didn’t answer right away. The steady drone of a newsroom full of countless other conversations hummed all around her. She plugged her open ear, as if to make sure she’d heard correctly. “What did you say?”

“I think you heard me.”

“Who is this?”

“Would I be altering my voice if I was going to tell you who I am?”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because I have a story that needs to be told. How’d you like to tell it for me?”

Her heart was thumping. She cradled the phone with her shoulder and scrambled for a pen and paper. “I’m listening.”

“I was at the on-ramp to I-395 where she was shot. I saw it happen.”

“What did you see?”

“Everything.”

“Let’s start at the beginning. What were you doing there?”

“No, let’s start at the real beginning. What’s in this for me?”

She paused to choose her words. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Look, I can’t pay you for a story.”

“As a reporter for the esteemed Miami Tribune, that’s true. You can’t. But simply as a curious heir to Sally Fenning’s estate, what’s wrong with compensating someone for their time and inconvenience?”

Her grip tightened on the telephone. She wanted this. Bad. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because I can show you the four-karat-diamond wedding band that Sally Fenning was wearing when she was shot-and that she wasn’t wearing when the police found her body.”

Deirdre felt chills. Instinctively, she looked over her shoulder, a subconscious confirmation that her supervisors wouldn’t approve. “We should talk about this.”

“You want to see the ring, don’t you.”

“Yes.”

“Then we meet on my turf, not yours.”

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Where?”

He chuckled. “Not so fast. Give me your cell phone number. I’ll call you and tell you where to go.”

She gave him the number, then asked, “When should I expect your call?”

“I work till midnight. Have your phone on then.”

“Midnight, tonight?”

“Yes. Unless you want to put this off. Or maybe you just want to forget the whole thing, and I’ll call someone over at the Sun-Sentinel.”

“No,” she said, checking her eagerness. “That’s fine. Tonight’s fine.”

“One last thing.”

“What?”

“I don’t want an audience. This is just you and me. Got it?”

She swallowed hard, then said, “Got it.”

He said good-bye. The line clicked, and her caller was gone.

Fifteen

Jack was driving his Mustang, ten minutes away from Kelsey’s house, when his cell phone rang. It was Nate.

“You have to speak up, buddy. I can hardly hear you.”

“I can’t,” said Nate. “Mom thinks I’m asleep. I’m under the covers.”

“Then maybe you should hang up and go to sleep.”

“No, no, wait. I have to ask you something.”

Jack stopped at the traffic light. “What?”

“Are you and my mom going out on a date?”

Jack could hear the hopefulness in Nate’s voice, the very thing that had kept Jack from even thinking about an attempt at romance with Kelsey. Dating the mom was a huge no-no in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program. If it didn’t work out, it was always the kid who suffered.

“No,” said Jack. “This isn’t a date. This is work.”

“Then why did she try on fifteen different dresses?”

Jack recalled the cleavage debate, but he definitely wasn’t going to go there. “That’s just what women do, Nate. You’ll see some day.”

Nate tried to pursue the dating issue further, but Jack put a stop to it. “I’ll see you this weekend, okay, buddy?”

“Oh, okay,” he said, grumbling. They said good night and hung up.

Jack slowed as he approached Kelsey’s house, but he was a few minutes early. He waited in the driveway, giving her enough time to try on dress number sixteen, then at precisely 10 P.M. he walked to the front door and knocked. Kelsey answered with a smile.

“Ready?” she said.

“Yup.”

She was wearing red, a good color for the South Beach club circuit. Rather than blatant sex appeal with a heaping helping of cleavage, she’d opted for a more tasteful, striking look, and she’d hit a home run. Her hair was up in a twist, and the dress was strapless, which let the beauty of her long neck and sloping shoulders play out. Jack had never really noticed before, but she had great arms, beautifully sculpted. Her walk was clearly that of a dancer, poised and graceful, perfect posture without a hint of stiffness.

“Nice dress,” said Jack.

“This? Oh, thanks. Just something I threw on.”

Jack smiled to himself, deciding not to tell that Nate had already ratted her out.

It was a fifteen-minute drive over to South Beach and a thirty-minute wait at the valet entrance to Club Vertigo on busy Washington Avenue. By the time they got inside it was after eleven, which was like the early-bird special in this sleep-till-noon, party-till-dawn neighborhood.

It seemed like forever since Jack had done the South Beach club scene, even longer since he’d done it with a woman who turned heads the way Kelsey did. One thing that never changed about South Beach was the utter lack of subtlety in the way people checked each other out. There was nothing casual about it. This was the stuff by which one’s clubbing worth was measured. If South Beach were in Silicon Valley, people would be wearing the high-tech equivalent of Web site counters around their necks. Naturally, the ones with the most hits would vault to the head of the line behind the velvet ropes.

“See your bodyguard friend anywhere?” asked Kelsey.

“I’m not even sure what he looks like.”

“Just look for the guy with the thickest neck.”

Jack chuckled. “He said to give our name to the woman bartender. She’d call him over.”

The line was moving slowly, and they were nearing the entrance. Each time the doors opened, Jack was hit with a flash of swirling lights and a blast of music, and he could feel the vibration in his feet. He suddenly had an unnerving thought, one that made him glad this wasn’t a date. He was entering a dance club with a professional dancer. Sort of like going to bed with a sex therapist. No, no, no. Your hips go this way. Who needed that?

Finally they were at the velvet rope. The goon at the door gave Jack a once-over, then focused on Kelsey. Her proverbial hit counter was overheating.

“You with him?” he asked, as if he couldn’t believe it.

Jack was about to give it right back to him, but Kelsey moved closer and locked arms with Jack. She was clearly just playing the game and pushing the goon’s buttons, but Jack liked the feeling nonetheless.

“Is that a problem?” she replied flatly.

Attitude ruled in South Beach, and it both amused and intrigued Jack to see that Kelsey had it in her. The goon unhooked the rope, and with a jerk of his head he signaled them to enter.

Club Vertigo was in an old hotel that had been gutted on the inside and completely reconfigured with a tall and narrow four-story atrium. The main bar and dancing were on the ground floor, and if you looked up into the towering atrium from the center of the dance floor, the mystery behind the club’s name immediately unraveled. Several large mirrors suspended at different angles made it difficult at times to discern whether you were looking up or down. With even a slight buzz, the pounding music, swirling lights, and throngs of sweaty bodies were enough to give anyone a sense of vertigo. The sensation worked both ways, with hordes of people-watchers looking down on the dance crowd from second-, third-, and fourth-floor balconies.

Jack gave his name to the female bartender at the main bar and told her he wanted to see Javier. She picked up a phone for about a ten-second conversation, then looked at Jack and said, “Second floor, Room B.”

Jack and Kelsey meandered through the crowd and took the stairs to the second floor. A muscular guy dressed in tight black clothing and wearing a thick, gold chain around his neck was standing outside Room B. It was one of the champagne suites, a private room away from the commotion where people could have more intimate gatherings. Sort of a sex and drug club within a sex and drug club. The night was young enough that most of the suites were empty.

“You Tatum’s friend?” he asked.

Jack shook hands, then introduced Kelsey.

“Nice to meetchya,” he said, looking past her. Javier looked Hispanic, but he talked like a New York Italian. It seemed that everyone on South Beach was pretending to be something they weren’t.

“Please,” he said, inviting them into the suite. Jack and Kelsey entered first. Javier followed and closed the door behind him, shutting out the noise. The sudden solitude was a strange sensation, like submerging into the silence of the deep end. The room itself was nothing spectacular, just a fake-leather couch, an armchair, smoky glass-topped table, and cheesy red velvet wallpaper.

Jack started to explain what he was after, but Javier stopped him. “Tatum already filled me in,” he said. “And I can only give you about ten minutes.”

“Let’s get to it,” said Jack. “Kelsey, why don’t you start.”

Kelsey gave a little smile, as if to thank Jack for keeping his promise to let her take an active role. She scooted to the edge of the couch, leaning forward slightly, trying to make eye contact. Javier seemed to be looking beyond her, just as he had with their handshake, as if something on the wall behind her had caught his attention.

“How long did you work for Sally?” she asked.

“Few months, on and off.”

Kelsey paused, as if she’d expected at least a little eye contact with his response. But he still seemed obsessed with something over her or behind her.

“What did you do for her exactly?” asked Kelsey.

“Bodyguard.”

“Did she really need a bodyguard?”

“She was a rich lady. And she scared pretty easy. She’d be alone a lot. Her old man-and I do mean old man-was from France or someplace. And you heard about what happened to her and her daughter a few years back.”

“Yes,” said Kelsey, “we know about that.”

“So, she’d be alone, sometimes afraid to even go anywhere. She hired me to drive her around. The mall, restaurants, wherever. I’m not saying she needed me. But I made her feel safe.”

Kelsey asked, “Didn’t she have any girlfriends?”

“I suppose. None that I saw, though. She struck me as a loner. Real pretty lady, but not a very happy person. Know what I mean?”

Javier was talking to Kelsey, but he wasn’t looking at her face. His focus had seemed to shift from the wall behind her to the top of her head. Kelsey tried to sit taller and make eye contact, but his gaze rose with her, as if he’d developed some bizarre fixation with the crown of her skull.

“For crying out loud,” said Kelsey. “What are you looking at?”

“Huh?”

“Did a bird shit on the top of my head or what?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then what is it? You’ve been staring at the top of my head from the moment I opened my mouth.”

“I’m not looking at your mouth,” he said.

“I know. You’re staring at the top of my head.”

“I understand that this is what you think. But what I’m actually doing is not looking at your mouth.”

“You’re losing me.”

“I’m a recovering porn addict.”

“A what?”

“I was addicted to porn. I can’t look at a woman’s mouth without having impure thoughts, which is a very distracting thing when you’re trying to have an intelligent conversation. So I don’t look at her mouth.”

“I see.” Kelsey glanced at Jack and said, “Why don’t you take it from here, boss?”

“Good idea.” Jack handed him a list of the beneficiaries under

Sally’s will-her ex-husband, the lawyer, the reporter, the prosecutor, Tatum, and the unknown sixth beneficiary, Alan Sirap.

“Did you ever hear Sally mention any of these people?”

“Tatum, of course. After I linked them up together.”

“I’ll get to that in a minute. What about these other people?”

“I’m sure she said things about Miguel Rios. Mike, she called him. Her ex, right?”

“Right. What did she say about him?”

“I don’t remember anything specific.”

“How about the other people? She ever say anything about them?”

He read over the list and shook his head, then stopped himself. “This guy. Gerry Colletti. If I’m not mistaken, he was her ex-husband’s divorce lawyer.”

“That’s right.”

“Him I remember her talking about.”

“What was that about?”

“We was out driving somewhere one night, and we passed this restaurant on the highway. And she says that used to be Alfredo’s.”

“Alfredo’s?”

“Sally and her ex-husband used to own a little Italian restaurant that went broke. Poured everything they had into it.”

“Miguel told me about that,” said Jack. “In fact he says it was Colletti who sold it to them.”

“That’s right. I think him and Gerry were friends way back or something.”

“Actually, it sounded to me like Miguel isn’t too keen on him anymore. But I’m more interested in what Sally told you about Gerry.”

“As I recall, she’d had a couple of glasses of wine and was talking to me pretty freely. She just starts saying how she couldn’t stand this Gerry from the day she met him.”

“Why not?”

“From the way she described him, he was one of these real slippery guys who turn a girl’s stomach. She was telling me about how Gerry took her and her sister out to dinner one night to try to talk Sally into letting her husband buy the restaurant from him.”

“Sally has a sister?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t…Rene, I think. She lives in like Africa or some place. According to Sally, she’s even more gorgeous than she was. But I find that hard to believe.”

Jack glanced at Kelsey, as if to say “Remind me to follow up with this Rene.”

Javier said, “Anyway, Gerry takes Sally and her sister out to dinner, buys them three bottles of wine. Sally’s convinced that this loser is thinking threesome with two hot sisters. All the while, Sally and her sister are doing their best not to puke at the thought. But my point is that Sally has a real vivid memory of this night. She remembers all the details. It’s almost creepy.”

“How do you mean?”

“I give you an example. She gets to the part of the story where Gerry is telling her what a cash cow this Alfredo’s restaurant is. Gerry keeps going on and on, to the point that she figures he had to be keeping two sets of books, because the P and L didn’t show any profit at all. Then finally, she does this impersonation of Gerry. For me, it was one of those spooky moments, like when you know that a person has relived this moment over and over again in her mind. She did the mannerisms, the tone of voice, the whole thing. The way she tells it, Gerry leaned into the table, looked her in the eye, and curled his index finger to call her closer, like some child molester trying to lure a schoolgirl into his van. Then he got this drunken grin on his face and whispered into her ear, like it was some big secret he was sharing: ‘Alfredo’s. It’s a gold mine, baby.’”

Jack felt a chill. It was almost too convincing, the way Javier had acted out the pedophile analogy.

“What did Gerry mean by a gold mine?” asked Kelsey. “Was he laundering money there?”

“Nah,” Javier said, dismissing it. “Gerry was a total bullshitter. But his little song and dance worked. Sally gave her husband the go-ahead to buy the place. From day one it hemorrhaged money. Eventually it wiped them out.”

“Is that why she hates Gerry’s guts?” asked Jack.

“From what she told me, she saw this Gerry character as the start of all her problems. It was the end of her happy marriage and her life with her little girl. The beginning of nothing but worries about money. Then she started working at Hooters or some place like that, which was when that stalker started hassling her. You know about that, right?”

“Yeah, Miguel told me. He thinks it was the stalker who murdered his daughter.”

“Well, there you go. In Sally’s mind, all her problems, including that stalker, could be traced back to Gerry selling them that pig-in-a-poke restaurant.”

“That’s interesting. Like I said, I don’t think Gerry is on Miguel’s short list of drinking buddies anymore, but he doesn’t seem to have the hatred that Sally had.”

“If you could ask Sally, she’d say it’s because Miguel is stupid. He thinks their restaurant failed because of the flood that ruined all their improvements. He just didn’t want to admit that his own friend screwed him from the get-go.”

Jack and Kelsey exchanged glances, as if something was still missing. Jack said, “Anything else come to mind, Javier?”

“That’s about it.”

“Let’s talk about Tatum for a minute. Why is he a beneficiary under Sally’s will?”

“Pretty obvious, don’t you think?”

“You tell me.”

“From what I understand, Sally set this up like a game-survival of the fittest.”

“In a sense, yes. Last one living takes all.”

“There’s more to it than that, right?”

“How do you mean?” asked Jack.

“Tatum says there’s two ways to get the money. One is to outlive everybody. The other is to be the only one who doesn’t-what do you call it-renounce his inheritance?”

“That’s right,” said Kelsey. “Anyone can pull out, if they choose.”

“There you go,” said Javier. “You either gotta outlive everybody, or you gotta persuade the others to throw in the towel. In that kind of game, doesn’t it make sense to have at least one person in the mix, like Tatum, who isn’t squeamish about blood?”

Jack narrowed his eyes and said, “Are you saying that Sally intended to have these people fight over her money. I don’t mean legal battles. I mean fighting, literally.”

“If her ex-husband and this Gerry are on the list, yeah, absolutely. I think she would have liked nothing better than for those two guys to end up killing each other trying to get her money.”

“So she made Tatum a beneficiary to do what? Get the fists flying?”

“All I can tell you is that one night, Sally asks me if I know any tough guys. Real tough guys. I say sure. That’s it. I don’t ask questions. I hooked her up with Tatum, and that was that.”

Jack said, “Next thing you know, she’s shot dead, and Tatum’s a beneficiary under her will.”

“About the size of it.” Javier checked his watch and said, “Look, I gotta get back to work. I work for tips, and filling these suites is my big take for the night.”

“Of course,” said Jack, rising. “We’ll clear out.”

“Unless you and the lady want to stay. It’s very private.”

“No, no,” said Jack.

“That’s quite all right,” said Kelsey.

“You sure?” said Javier. “I’m full service here. Whatever you want, I can get. Drinks, breath mints, ecstasy, condoms.”

Kelsey popped like a spring from the couch at his mention of condoms, as if propelled by the thought of what she might have been sitting in. Jack had a feeling that her awesome red dress was destined for Goodwill.

“How about a rain check?” said Jack.

They shook hands and said good night. Then Jack and Kelsey followed the stairs down to the main floor and continued out the exit to the sidewalk. It was almost midnight, and Washington Avenue was kicking into high gear, an eclectic mix of gays and straights, tourists and natives. A stretch limo cruised by, music blasting through the open windows. The back end was an outdoor hot tub bubbling over with twenty-something-year-old hard bodies who were laughing loudly and speaking Portuguese.

“I’m real sorry about this,” said Jack as they reached the curb.

“Sorry for what?”

“I asked you to come because I thought it would be fun for you. A more exciting side of lawyering. I didn’t mean to throw you to a recovering porn addict.”

“You didn’t throw me. I volunteered. I’m not going to shrivel up and die because some pathetic loser can’t look at my face without thinking about…well, whatever he was trying not to think about.”

“So you’re okay?”

“I’m okay. But as for the speech I gave in your office today-about how using your body is no different than using your brain?”

“Yeah?” said Jack.

“After meeting Javier, let’s just say my thoughts are evolving on that front.”

“Fair enough,” he said with a smile. They stood in silence for a moment, a little awkward, as Jack debated the next move. The yellow light from Club Vertigo’s neon sign was playing against Kelsey’s eyes, drawing flecks of gold from the intriguing pools of hazel. The divorce had left him pretty rusty at dating, but he hadn’t completely lost the ability to read the expression on a woman’s face or interpret her posture, the little things that said, “What’s next on the agenda?” as opposed to “I’m tired and I want to go home.” Part of him wanted to take a shot and ask her out for coffee or something, but it just didn’t seem right to be hitting on Nate’s mom.

“I really have to let the baby-sitter go,” she said. “Maybe another time.”

“Another time what?”

She smiled wryly. “For the past thirty seconds you’ve had one eye on me and the other on Starbucks across the street. So…maybe some other time.”

He fumbled nervously for the valet ticket in his pocket. “Sure,” he said, wondering if he was really that obvious or if she was just that perceptive. “Some other time.”

Sixteen

At 1 A.M., the warehouse district west of the Palmetto Expressway had all the charm and personality of Leavenworth after lockdown. The buildings all looked alike, simple cinder-block and sheet-metal construction. Outside each establishment, every inch of ground was covered with nondescript stacks of inventory on pallets. Protecting it all was a nine-foot-high chain-link fence with coiled razor wire running across the top like a man-eating Slinky.

A thick layer of clouds made the night moonless, and street lamps were few and far between. The little red Honda bounced and rattled across potholes so deep that the entire vehicle was coated with muddy splash. Street maintenance was a losing battle here, as countless trucks beyond the legal weight limit pounded the pavement from sunup to sundown, six days a week.

Deirdre Meadows was a long way from home, but instinct told her that she was nearing her destination. She stopped at the end of a deserted street to get her bearings, squinting to make out the dimly lit sign ahead.

“JJ’s Italian Tile and Marble,” she said, reading aloud.

She checked her notes. That’s it. Finally, after driving around in circles and checking out at least a dozen other places named So and So’s Italian Tile and Marble, she’d found it.

She killed the engine and switched off the car lights. The sudden blackness gave her pause. It was darker outside than she’d realized. She flipped on the dome light to check her purse. Pen and paper, of course. Dictaphone. Cell phone, battery fully charged. It was no panacea, but so long as she had her cell phone, Deirdre would go just about anywhere-anywhere for a story, that is.

The phone call had come just before midnight. Deirdre was in her living room, watching Letterman on television, the cordless phone at her side. She had Caller ID, which told her only that it was coming from a pay phone. It rang twice before she answered.

And one last time, she played it over in her mind.

“Hello.”

“You ready?” he asked. Again, it was a deep, mechanical voice that almost sounded underwater.

“You bet,” she answered.

“Go to JJ’s Italian Tile and Marble on One hundred thirty-second Court, west of the eight-twenty-six. Drive around back and find the gate entrance along the chain-link fence. There’s a padlock on it, but I’ll leave it open. Come inside and walk about a hundred yards straight toward the loading dock.”

“Why there?”

“Because I said so.”

“Look, I’m not so keen about meeting a total stranger behind some building in the middle of the night.”

“Then don’t come.”

“You’ll still give me the story?”

“Not if you don’t come. And by the way, when I say come, I mean alone.”

“Why are you doing it this way?”

“Because I want to know.”

“Know what?”

“How bad you want the truth about Sally Fenning.”

“What makes you think I want it this bad?”

“Because this story has a pretty good payoff. Like forty-six million dollars.”

“How is the identity of Sally’s killer going to earn me forty-six million dollars?”

“It won’t cinch it, but it will bring you one step closer.”

“How?”

“Sally’s killer can’t inherit anything from her estate. That’s the law, right?”

Icicles went down her spine. She’d assumed that her caller was no genius, but apparently he was smart enough to know about the Slayer Statute. “That’s right,” she said. “Murderers are disqualified from inheriting anything from their victim.”

“There you have it. One down, five to go.”

“Are you telling me that Sally’s killer was one of her six named beneficiaries?”

“I’m saying be at JJ’s Italian Tile and Marble in ninety minutes or less. End of story. For now.”

Deirdre checked the clock on her dashboard. More than an hour had passed since that conversation, but the question still burned in her ear: How bad did she want the story?

Almost as much as the money.

Instinctively, she found herself reaching for the door handle. The door opened, and she stepped out of the car. The expressway was out of sight, somewhere beyond the block of windowless buildings, but she could hear the steady drone of traffic to the east. It seemed strange that hundreds of vehicles were racing by every minute, yet she felt so alone, not another car or human being in sight. Before shutting the door, she reached for the dash and flashed her parking lights. She checked over her shoulder and took a long look down the dark street. A set of orange parking lights flashed in response, then returned to darkness. Her boyfriend. It made her feel a little safer knowing he was just a hundred yards and a speed-dial away on her cell phone. She closed the car door, took a deep breath, and walked toward the gate, pea gravel crunching beneath each footfall.

This had better be good, she told herself.

Seventeen

It was last call at John Martin’s on Miracle Mile, the closest thing in downtown Coral Gables to an authentic Irish pub. Dark-paneled walls, Harp lager on tap, and classic pub grub like shepherd’s pie or bangers and mash were hardly the norm in south Florida, but John Martin’s was a nice diversion. The long, mahogany bar carved by local artisans was a beauty, and every now and then, the owner would book an authentic Irish band that was sure to get feet stomping and hands clapping. Even pretty waitresses with red hair and freckles, however, couldn’t completely obscure the fact that this was not exactly County Cork, especially at happy hour, when John Martin’s was affectionately known as “Juan Martino’s,” serving largely a Latin business crowd that, even on St. Paddy’s Day, would rather have a mint-colored mojito than a pint of green lager. It might sound strange, but to taste it was to love it.

“Another Jameson’s and water?” asked the waitress.

Gerry Colletti swirled the ice cubes in his near-empty glass, then decided that he’d had enough. “No, thanks. We’re about done here.”

He watched her ass move from side to side as she walked away, then turned his gaze toward the work papers on the table. Seated across from him was Bill Hanson, a man with the look and demeanor of an accountant on April 14, just coffee in his cup. Hanson was an actuary trained in the science of expressing the proverbial length of one’s lifeline in terms of mathematical probabilities. Once Gerry realized that he had to outlive the other named beneficiaries in order to inherit the entirety of Sally’s estate, he hired Hanson to provide a statistical analysis of how he might fare in the test of longevity that Sally’s will had created.

Gerry glanced at the charts and graphs one more time, then pushed them aside. “This all looks impressive, but I hate interpreting this stuff. Just explain it to me, will you, please?”

Hanson seemed disappointed, as if charts and graphs were his pride and joy. “You want the long or short version?”

“I want an answer to the question I hired you to analyze. We got six beneficiaries under Sally Fenning’s will. The one who lives the longest gets forty-six million dollars. So, let’s just apply the normal criteria that insurance companies use to evaluate the risks posed by any applicant for life insurance. Who’s going to live the longest?”

“I can’t tell you who is going to live the longest. All I can do is rank them according to the actuarial score I gave them.”

“And the score means what?”

“The higher the number, the higher the risk for the insurance company. Which, in your context, means the greater the likelihood of experiencing early death.”

“That means I want all these other jokers to have big numbers.”

“Exactly. Mind you, this is not as reliable as something I would put together in the case of an actual insurance application. Applicants are required to disclose all kinds of information relating to their family background and health. Here, I’ve used only what I’ve been able to dig up on these people.”

“I understand.”

“I’ve also thrown into the mix a few factors that I couldn’t legally consider in an insurance application. Things that, frankly, might get an insurance company sued.”

“But I’m not an insurance company, and anyone who’s stupid enough to sue me ought to have their head examined. Just give me what you’ve got.”

“Okay.” He cleared his throat, checking his notes. “The highest score goes to the prosecutor. High-stress job, smokes like a chimney, looks to be about forty pounds overweight. He’s fifty-eight and his father died of a heart attack at age fifty-five.”

“Beautiful. He could go at any time.”

Hanson shot him a curious look, seemingly uncomfortable.

Gerry asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

“I guess I’ve never done an analysis where my client is actually rooting for the big bony man with the black hood and sickle.”

“I’m not rooting. I just want you to tell it like it is.”

“I’m glad you said that. Because the second-highest score goes to you.”

“Me? I don’t even smoke.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Socially.”

“That aside, the biggest thing working against you is something I can take into consideration only because you’re a friend of mine and I know your lifestyle. Basically, you’re a horny divorce lawyer who hoses half the women who come through his door.”

“Say what?”

“Sorry, Gerry. You asked for my honest analysis. As many sexual partners as you’ve had and will continue to have, I put you at a high risk for HIV.”

“But I use condoms.”

“No, you don’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I saw those pictures that Lisa Bartow put on the Internet. You remember your old client Lisa, right? You sued her because she wouldn’t pay your bill, and so she retaliated by posting those photographs on the Web of you and her doing-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I remember.”

“Funny, I never heard anything more about that dispute. I guess it settled, huh?”

Gerry wasn’t smiling. “For an accountant, you seem to think you’re one funny guy.”

“Just dealing with the facts.”

“Fine. So you got me in second place.”

“Right. Third is the ex-husband.”

“That’s ridiculous. How is it that both Miguel and me are at a higher risk for early death than that black guy, Tatum Knight.”

“Good point. In all fairness, I had trouble assigning any score at all to Mr. Knight. I don’t have any real reliable information on him. For example, family medical is real sketchy. His father is unknown.”

“What a surprise.”

“He was raised by an aunt. His mother was a druggie, and I haven’t been able to nail down whether she’s alive or dead.”

“Don’t waste your time pursuing it. For my purposes, I’ll just assume he’s the kind of guy who could get blown away next week holding up a liquor store.”

“You may be right about that.”

“So, bottom line is what?” asked Gerry.

“Hard to draw firm conclusions. Like I say, Tatum Knight is somewhat of a wild card. And then there’s that sixth beneficiary who didn’t show up for the reading of the will. Until you get me a Social Security number, I can’t pull any information to rank him.”

“Are you telling me I paid you to do a worthless analysis?”

“No. Purely from a statistical point of view, I don’t think it matters who the unknown is or what his score is.”

“Why do you say that?”

“In all probability, your biggest worry is still going to be the newspaper reporter.”

“Low score?”

“Very low. She just had her twenty-ninth birthday last month. A vegetarian. Runs marathons. Doesn’t smoke. And she has amazing family history. Her parents are in their seventies and still alive. Both sets of grandparents are also still living. The oldest is ninety-two. If I was going to bet on who was going to win the longevity race, I’d put my money on her.”

Gerry raised his glass and winked. “Don’t throw your money away, my friend.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Thanks for the help. I’ll call you if I need anything else.”

Gerry laid a twenty on the table to cover the bar bill. Hanson gathered up his reports, shook hands, and headed for the front exit to Miracle Mile. Gerry’s car was in the back parking lot, so he headed out alone for the rear exit, past the men’s room and the wood-carved sign with the old Irish drinking toast: “May you be in heaven one hour before the devil knows you’re dead.” The final stretch of hallway was the John Martin’s walk of fame, two walls lined with autographed black-and-white photographs of probably every local celebrity who had ever tasted beer, from Roy Black, famous criminal defense lawyer, to Dave Barry, funniest man alive. It soured Gerry’s stomach to see it. Nearly a full year had passed since Gerry had presented the owner with a framed and autographed eight-by-ten of himself.

Still not up there, you son of a bitch.

The smell of garbage greeted him as he opened the door and stepped into the back alley. A gray cat leaped from the Dumpster, then scurried up the iron fire escape.

The autumn night was unpleasantly warm. After midnight, and still it had felt cooler inside the smoke-filled pub. Gerry draped his sport coat over his shoulder and walked toward the parking lot. A weak street lamp illuminated the back of the pub and the rear entrances to several other businesses that had closed hours earlier. It was no darker than the dimly lit bar he’d just left, but the lighting was different, more yellow, and it took time for his eyes to adjust. He noticed that the striped wooden arm was up at the lot’s north exit. Apparently the parking attendant had abandoned all hope of collecting a toll from the handful of stragglers.

Gerry reached for his keys as he approached his BMW. Counting his, just three cars and a van remained in the entire lot. Naturally, the crummy van was parked right beside his limited edition, paid-extra-for-it, emerald-black paint job. He walked to the front of his car and looked down the driver’s side, checking for fresh dings. It looked clean, but it was too dark to be certain. He considered etching a retaliatory scrape into the side of the van with his key, but just as he started down the narrow opening between his car and the van, the passenger door flew open and hit him squarely in the face. Gerry was knocked backward and fell onto the hood of his car. Someone jumped out and grabbed him by the shirt collar.

“Stop!” Gerry screamed.

The attacker whirled him around and landed a fist to Gerry’s right eye. A flurry of punches continued, one blow after another. The man wore leather gloves, but that in no way lessened the beating. His fists felt like iron, as if weighted by rolls of quarters. Gerry had no chance, no way to fight him off. A blow to the belly knocked the wind from him, followed by a direct hit to the side of his head that unleashed a sharp ringing in his ear.

“Stop already!”

There was a pause in the frenzy, and Gerry collapsed onto his back, splayed across the hood of his car. He wasn’t seeing or thinking clearly, and just as he raised his head and tried to focus, his attacker grabbed him by the hair and slammed the back of his head into the car hood. Dazed, Gerry slid down the side of the car and landed in a heap.

He didn’t move, couldn’t even raise his head. A door slammed, and an engine rumbled. The van pulled out. Gerry lay with his cheek against the pavement, his battered eye throbbing as he watched the blurry van disappear into the darkness.

Eighteen

The sign on the metal gate read TILE DELIVERIES ONLY, as if to reconfirm that Deirdre was in the right place. The padlock on the latch was open, just as her caller had promised. The hinges squeaked as Deirdre pulled the gate open. She stepped inside the chain-link fence, then paused in the darkness and listened. She heard nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Goose bumps tickled the back of her neck, but it was a warm night, and she knew it was just nerves.

This was risky, to be sure, but she’d taken bigger risks before for less important stories. Like the night she’d spent downtown, sleeping in a cardboard box beneath the expressway as part of her field research for a day-in-the-life piece on a homeless crack addict, which was never published. Or the time she’d crashed a teenage “rave” party and popped ecstasy so that she could write firsthand about the effects of the drug. She’d nearly fried her brain and ended up in the emergency room, all for eight columns of work that the editors cut to three paragraphs. In retrospect, those seemed like foolish risks. But this story was different. Much more than a byline was at stake.

At first, Deirdre had dismissed Sally Fenning’s forty-six-million-dollar test of survival. She didn’t seriously think she’d ever see the money. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized: Why not her? There were six beneficiaries. One out of every six people die in accidents-drownings, car crashes, airplane disasters, hunting with morons who didn’t know their friends from a duck. Just like that, her odds were down to one-in-five. Florida had the death penalty, so if tonight’s source could eliminate yet another beneficiary as Sally’s murderer, that would reduce her odds to one-in-four. Who wouldn’t take that bet? She was young and healthy. She had a better shot than anyone. She’d be rich. Filthy rich.

And with this story, she might be famous to boot.

She drew a deep breath and entered the back lot. Her caller had told her to go to the loading dock. She could see it straight ahead, fairly well lit by two glowing security lamps. Getting there, however, was a walk through a man-made canyon. The long driveway was just barely wide enough for two trucks to pass in opposite directions, and either side was lined with countless pallets of boxed ceramic tiles, some stacked twenty feet or higher.

She took a step forward, then started at the sound of her cell phone ringing. She grabbed it quickly, recognizing the number as her boyfriend’s.

“What are you calling for?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said.

“I told you I’d call if I got into trouble.”

“I know. But it’s too dark, too deserted. I don’t like the looks of this, baby.”

Deirdre hated it when he called her “baby.” “Just stick to the plan, okay? Where would Woodward and Bernstein be today if they’d refused to meet Deep Throat in a dark parking garage?”

“This isn’t exactly Watergate you’re breaking open. Come on. Let’s split.”

“No, damn it. I’m not going to blow this chance. Now, sit tight until I call you.” She switched off the phone and shoved it in her purse. Strangely, the call from her boyfriend made her that much more determined to go through with this. She continued down the dark driveway toward the loading dock, passing one stacked pallet after another. Between each stack were narrow crevices, perfect hiding spots. As she passed each opening, she peered into the long, black tunnel to make sure no one was lurking in the darkness. With endless rows of stacked boxes, it was like staring into the entrance of a labyrinth.

Her phone rang again, giving her heart a jolt. She snatched it from her purse and answered in an angry voice, “What now?”

“Chill, lady.”

Deirdre froze. It wasn’t her boyfriend. It was the deep, mechanically altered voice of her source. “Where are you?”

“Never mind that.”

“What do you mean, never mind? I’m here. Are we meeting, or not?”

“We’re not.”

“You son of a bitch. You said-”

“I said you could see Sally’s ring first.”

She reeled in her anger. “Is it here?”

“Just keep walking toward the loading dock.”

She was just a hundred feet away. She checked left, then right, searching for her caller in the dark crevices between stacked pallets. But she saw nothing. “Okay,” she said, putting one foot in front of the other. “I’m walking.”

“Keep going.”

“Are you watching me?” she asked.

“Do you feel watched?” he said.

She checked over her shoulder. “A little.”

“Good. Maybe that will keep you from running off with the ring.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Look, but don’t touch.”

“How will I know it’s really hers?”

“The band is engraved on the inside. Read it. Then go check it out. You’ll see it’s the real thing.”

Deirdre was fifty feet away as she entered the circle of light surrounding the loading dock. “When do I find out who killed her?”

“As soon as we strike our deal.”

“What deal?”

“My piece of your forty-six-million-dollar inheritance.”

“What makes you think I’m going to inherit it?”

“Because you’re going to live longer than anyone else.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m going to make sure of it.”

Deirdre stopped. It wasn’t something she’d decided to do. Her feet had just stopped moving. “What are you saying?”

“You and me. A team.”

“I’m not interested in being on anybody’s team.”

“That’s not the answer I want to hear.”

“I don’t care. This is getting too weird.”

“Don’t blow this, Deirdre. You get half, I get half. You get the story to boot.”

“What kind of a sick bastard are you?”

“A greedy, sick bastard. Just like you. Except that I lack your ambition.”

Her grip on the phone tightened. “Look, I think I know what you’re saying, and let me make myself clear. I don’t want any part of any plan you might have to hurt any of those other potential beneficiaries.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“For the story.”

“And the money.”

“You said you knew who Sally’s killer was.”

“And I’m willing to tell you. But not without a deal on the inheritance.”

“I’m not interested in making that kind of deal with you. So you can just keep your ring, keep your story, and keep away from me. Understand?”

She waited for a response, and the silence on the line only heightened her sense of being watched. “I know you’re still there,” she said. “I’m hanging up now. Listen to what I’m saying. I don’t ever want to hear from you again. Got it?”

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was especially deep, and the voice altering device only seemed to emphasize his anger. “I got it.”

The call ended, and Deirdre immediately rang her boyfriend on speed dial. “Johnny, get over here right now.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just scared. Meet me at my car.” She disconnected, wheeled on one foot, and sprinted for the gate. It was a hundred-yard dash in the dark to the exit, and Deirdre was running full out, gobbling up in no time the same stretch of driveway that had taken several minutes to cover earlier in her timid entrance. Arms pumping, legs churning, she was flying by row after row of stacked pallets. She kept her eyes focused on the gate ahead, ignoring the dark crevices between boxes that had frightened her on the way in. She was at top speed when she reached the fence, and she practically slammed into the chain link.

Outside, her boyfriend’s car pulled up next to hers. He jumped out and ran to the gate.

Deirdre reached for the latch and yanked on the padlock. It didn’t budge.

“Are you okay?” her boyfriend asked from the other side of the fence.

“Yes, yes. Just-I can’t get out of here!”

He tried the padlock. “It’s locked.”

“Damn,” she said. “That creep locked me in.”

“Can you climb over?”

She looked up at the tangle of razor wire that ran the length of the nine-foot-high fence. “I would say no.”

Her boyfriend’s expression suddenly went cold. “I would say you’d better.”

Deirdre turned and froze. A pair of Doberman Pinschers emerged from the darkness. They were approaching slowly, like lanky cheetahs stalking their prey, growling with teeth bared.

“Don’t move,” said her boyfriend.

The watchdogs inched closer. Deirdre looked at one, then the other. The bigger one barked and snapped, then pulled away. Deirdre threw herself back against the fence.

“Don’t move,” her boyfriend said in an urgent whisper.

“I’m scared!”

“And don’t look them in the eye, either. They’ll think you’re challenging them.”

“Johnny, do something!”

“I’m calling the cops. Just don’t move a muscle.”

“I have a can of mace in my purse.”

“Leave it. These dogs are trained to go after people who reach for weapons.”

The dogs snarled, saliva dripping. Deirdre’s voice shook as she said, “They’re going to kill me.”

“Not if you don’t move.”

“We have to do something!”

“Just stay put.”

The bigger dog barked again, six or seven quick bursts that rattled off like machine-gun fire. Deirdre screamed, which made the dog snap at her. Deirdre reached for her mace, and the other dog went for her leg. She kicked him away, but the big dog sank his teeth into her wrist and pulled her to the ground.

“Deirdre!”

She kicked and punched wildly, trying desperately to cover her head and roll away. Her arm shook violently in the dog’s teeth. Then, suddenly, it released her arm, and both dogs froze. Deirdre was shaking, too frightened to make a move. The dogs had stopped snarling, as if they’d completely lost interest in her. They seemed to be listening to someone or something, but Deirdre heard nothing.

As quickly as they’d come upon her, they turned and ran toward the loading dock. Deirdre’s thoughts weren’t lucid, but it was as if they’d heard a dog whistle.

Still on the ground, Deirdre checked her arm. The dog’s teeth had torn through her clothes and into her skin. She gasped at the sight of her own blood.

“Stay quiet,” said Johnny, still on the other side of the fence.

“Cops are on their way.”

She started at the sound of her ringing cell phone. Her purse had flown off somewhere in the attack, but the noise was coming from behind her. She crawled on all fours, grabbed the phone, and answered.

“Are we a team?” he said. It was that mechanical voice again.

Deirdre grimaced, as her arm was throbbing with pain from the dog bite. “What the hell did you just do?”

“A night watchman will do anything for a little extra cash. Even disappear and loan me his dog whistle. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think this is funny at all. Let me out of here!”

“Relax. I’m giving you a choice, Deirdre.”

“What choice?”

“A very simple choice. You can be a winner, or you can be a loser. It’s that simple.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We’ll talk later, after you’ve calmed down. In the meantime, you breathe a word about this to anyone-I mean anyone-and you’re definitely a loser. Big-time loser. You hear?”

She didn’t answer.

“Do you hear?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Good. The key to the lock is taped to the light pole. Now get the hell out of here.”

With a chirp of her phone, the call was over. Deirdre rolled onto her side and put pressure on her arm to stop the bleeding, fighting back tears in the darkness.

Nineteen

Probate Judge Leonard Parsons looked mad as hell. Worse, he was looking down from the bench and straight at Jack’s client.

The phone call from the judge’s chambers had come at 9 A.M. A battered Gerry Colletti had filed an emergency motion, and the judge ordered each of the beneficiaries under Sally Fenning’s will to be in the courtroom at eleven o’clock sharp.

“Good morning,” the judge said. His tone was cordial, but the eyes were two smoldering black coals beneath bushy white eyebrows. A scowling judge was a bad sign in any courtroom, but especially so in the relatively courteous world of Whisper Court.

“Good morning, Your Honor.” The reply was a mixed chorus of lawyers and clients. Even Gerry Colletti, supremely confident in his own abilities, had retained counsel for this hearing. Counting Jack and his client, there were ten suits altogether. Eight of them-Colletti, Sally’s ex-husband, the prosecutor, the reporter, and their counsel-were crowded around a single table near the jury box, the opposite side of the courtroom from Jack and his client, as if they suddenly couldn’t put enough distance between themselves and Tatum Knight. Seated behind them was Vivien Grasso, the personal representative for the estate. She seemed to be staking out a position of neutrality, sitting at neither table, choosing instead a seat at the rail that separated the lawyers from public seating.

The courtroom was otherwise empty, Jack noted, which meant that the sixth beneficiary was still a no-show.

“Mr. Anderson,” said the judge, addressing Gerry Colletti’s lawyer. “Would you speak to your motion, please?”

Colletti remained seated. The right side of his face was purple and swollen, and he had a large Band-Aid across his forehead. His lawyer rose, thanked the court, and stepped forward.

“Judge, it’s quite obvious that Mr. Colletti is in pretty bad shape. Although this is an evidentiary hearing, we request that the court accept my client’s written and sworn affidavit as a substitute for his live testimony. If counsel would like to cross-examine him, he is available.”

“Seems reasonable to me. Any objections?” asked the judge.

“None here,” came the chorus from the other side of the room.

“No objection,” said Jack.

“Thank you,” said Anderson. “Basically, the evidence before the court is that, late last night, Mr. Colletti was viciously attacked as he walked to his car in the parking lot behind John Martin’s Pub in Coral Gables. He sustained a variety of injuries, mostly bruises and contusions, not to mention a concussion. Thankfully, none of them are life threatening. As set forth in Mr. Colletti’s affidavit, the man who unleashed that attack upon him is his fellow beneficiary Tatum Knight.”

“What a crock,” said Tatum, grumbling.

“No interruptions, please,” the judge said sternly. “And, Mr. Knight, watch your language.”

“Did I use a bad word?”

“Borderline. When in doubt, remember, we’re in Whisper Court.”

“Our apologies,” said Jack. “It won’t happen again.”

Colletti’s lawyer continued, “As I was saying, the beating occurred late last night. Early this morning, Mr. Colletti found an interesting e-mail on his computer. It was delivered electronically last night at six forty-three P.M., a few hours before the attack, but he didn’t get it until after. We’ve printed out a hard copy for the court. It’s fairly short. It reads simply: ‘Life is short enough. Get out of the game-now.’”

Jack glanced at his client. Tatum leaned into Jack and whispered as softly as possible, “I don’t even own a computer.”

“Who sent it?” the judge asked.

“We don’t know. It was sent from one of those business/copy centers in Miami that leases computer terminals by the hour, so it’s not traceable to anyone. Still, I believe that this message ties in quite logically with the beating Mr. Colletti suffered at the hands of Mr. Knight. As the court is well aware, we are operating under a rather unusual will. There are six beneficiaries, but only one shall inherit the estate. The only way to win this game, as the e-mail described it, is to outlive your fellow beneficiaries, or to persuade them to drop out and renounce their inheritance. Mr. Colletti submits that this was exactly the purpose of Mr. Knight’s beating. It was an appalling attempt to strike fear into the fellow beneficiaries and to encourage all of them, and Mr. Colletti in particular, to drop out.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Tatum, grousing into Jack’s ear.

“Mr. Knight!” said the judge. “One more outburst like that, and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“Outburst? My own lawyer barely heard me.”

Jack shushed him, mindful that all that whispering in Whisper Court must have improved the judge’s hearing. That, or his hearing aid was turned way up. “Sorry, Your Honor,” said Jack.

The judge scowled, then turned his attention back to Colletti’s lawyer. “What relief do you request?”

“Mr. Colletti has not yet had time to evaluate all of his legal options. At this point, we simply ask the court to enter a restraining order that would prevent Mr. Knight from communicating with the other beneficiaries, except through his legal counsel. Further, we ask that the court prohibit Mr. Knight from coming within five hundred yards of any of the other beneficiaries, except for court hearings or required meetings with the personal representative.”

“All right,” said the judge. “Mr. Swyteck, what does Mr. Knight have to say for himself?”

Jack started to rise, but Tatum grabbed his arm and whispered, “I want to take the stand.”

“No. We agreed-”

“I don’t care what we agreed. I want to testify.”

The judge said, “Mr. Swyteck, if you please.”

Confused, Jack looked up at the judge, then glanced back at his client’s eager expression. “Your Honor, I’d like to have just a couple minutes to speak with my client.”

“All right. But be aware that I’ve allotted one hour for this hearing. Every minute you spend jabbering with your client is one less minute you have to present your case. We’ll take a five-minute recess,” he said with a crack of the gavel.

“All rise,” said the bailiff.

Jack and the others were on their feet, watching in silence as Judge Parsons disappeared through the side exit. Jack took his client by the arm and said, “Let’s talk.” They walked quickly down the aisle, through the rear entrance and into the hallway. Jack found an open waiting room by the elevators, pulled Tatum inside, and shut the door.

“I swear, I didn’t lay a hand on Colletti.”

“I told you this morning when Colletti served his papers on us: It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” said Tatum, his voice rising.

“For purposes of this hearing, I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter if you’re innocent.”

“Did you get a look at Colletti’s face?” he said, scoffing. “Work of a fucking amateur. If it was me who done it, I can tell you this much: He wouldn’t have been switchin’ on his computer to check his e-mail this morning. It’d be a week before he could remember his name, let alone his password.”

“Is that our defense, Tatum? Is that what you want to tell the judge?”

“I don’t have to tell the judge that. I just wanna tell him I didn’t do it.”

“That’s my whole point. If you get on the stand, you will be cross-examined. Colletti’s lawyer could throw anything at you.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh, really? Try this on for size.” Jack stepped closer, role-playing as Gerry’s lawyer on cross-examination. “Mr. Knight, the first time you ever met Mr. Colletti was at the reading of Sally Fenning’s will. A week ago Tuesday, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Less than two weeks after meeting you, Mr. Colletti is in the emergency room.”

“I didn’t put him there.”

“Mr. Knight, since you’re a beneficiary under Sally Fenning’s will, I’m assuming you also met her at some point, right?”

“Yeah, once.”

“When?”

“A couple weeks before she died.”

“You mean a couple weeks before she was murdered, don’t you?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“So you met her once in your life, and two weeks later she was shot in the head.”

“So what?”

“Let me ask you this, sir: How many other people have ended up dead or in the hospital within two weeks of their one and only meeting with you?”

Tatum shot a cross look. “Too many to fucking count.”

Jack stepped out of his role. “Good answer, Tatum.”

“Shit, Jack, I just want to take the stand and tell the judge I didn’t do it.”

“It doesn’t work that way. I’m sorry, but if you testify, Colletti’s lawyer will grill you. Before you know it, everyone in that courtroom is going to know what you used to do for a living, know about the meeting you had with Sally Fenning, and know that she tried to hire you to put a bullet in her head. Now, unless you want to leap to the top of the list of suspects in Sally’s shooting, I suggest you take my advice.”

Tatum was seething, but Jack seemed to be getting through. “What you want me to do, exactly?”

“Keep your secrets to yourself,” said Jack. “Don’t take the stand. We’ll stipulate to the entry of a restraining order.”

“How’s that gonna look?”

“I’ll put the best spin on it I can. I’ll tell the judge that Mr. Knight vehemently denies the allegations, but he has absolutely no need to come within five hundred yards of any of the other beneficiaries anyway. So we’ll stipulate to the restraining order.”

Tatum walked to the window and stared out at the parking lot below. “You know, I don’t have to tell them about the meeting with Sally.”

“If you take the stand and perjure yourself, you’ll be looking for a new lawyer.”

He let out a mirthless chuckle. “Theo warned me you were a goody-two-shoes.”

“Theo warned me plenty about you, too. And here we both are. So what’s it going to be?”

He turned away from the window and faced Jack. “Fine. We’ll stipulate. There’s just one thing you need to understand.”

“What?”

“If that pussy Gerry Colletti ends up with all this money, I’m gonna beat the living hell outta both of you.”

“I don’t take threats, Tatum.”

He gave his lawyer a big smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Just kiddin’, Jack buddy.”

Jack didn’t return the smile. He just opened the door and started back toward the courtroom.

Twenty

Jack thought he was being watched, and he was right.

After the probate hearing he’d said good-bye to Tatum at the courthouse doors, and he continued alone to his car. Two men matched him step for step across the cracked and buckled asphalt, all the way into the fenced-in parking lot. The younger one walked with a cocky roll, chin aloft, his eyes catching his reflection in each tinted car window they passed, as if the title song to Shaft were on continuous playback in his head. The older man had a slight stoop and the dour expression of someone who worried too much about problems he couldn’t solve, problems that kept him working late, kept him up at night, and kept his bar tab running. Even if Jack hadn’t known Rick Larsen, he would have guessed he was a veteran homicide detective.

They weren’t exactly friends, but Jack and he shared a certain mutual respect. Plenty of good cops had given Jack the benefit of the doubt over the years, if only because Jack’s father had been a cop before embarking on a long political road that culminated with two terms in the governor’s mansion. Jack’s personal history with Detective Larsen ran deeper than that. As a much younger detective, Larsen had worked the file on Theo Knight, part of the team that had put the wrong man on death row. Not until the DNA tests were back could he confide in Jack-off the record, of course-and tell him that his rookie doubts about Theo’s guilt had been squelched by his supervisors.

“Who’s the new partner?” asked Jack as he turned to face them.

Larsen smiled as he pulled the unlit cigar plug from between his teeth. “You mean Calvin Klein here?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said his partner.

“If you don’t know, you got no business being a detective.” He gave Jack a wink and asked, “Got a minute?”

Jack set his briefcase atop the hood of his car. “Sure. What about?”

“Sally Fenning. As I’m sure you know, I’m on her murder.”

“Yeah, I was glad to hear that.”

“Why?”

“You guys never caught her daughter’s killer. Seemed the very least she deserved was a detective on her case who was good enough to catch hers.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Which leads you to me,” said Jack.

“Actually, no. It leads me to Tatum Knight, which leads me to you.”

“You want to interview him?”

“Love to. But he won’t talk to us.”

Jack hid his surprise. Tatum had neglected to tell him the police had contacted him. “Did you ask nicely?”

“Of course. I told him he could play ball or be the ball. Either way, I intend to smack a home run.”

Jack chuckled. “I gotta hand it to you, Larsen. You’re the only detective I know who can say that line with a straight face.”

“And sometimes it even works. But all kidding aside, if your client won’t talk, I am going to turn up the heat.”

“What do you want to know?”

He removed his sunglasses, as if to look Jack in the eye. “Did he kill Sally Fenning?”

“The answer is no.”

“Does he know who did?”

“No.”

“Do you expect me to take those responses at face value?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Did he beat the crap out of Gerry Colletti?”

“No.”

“Then why didn’t he take the stand and tell Judge Parsons that he didn’t do it?”

“That was his lawyer’s decision.”

“What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.”

“I watched the hearing. You’re hiding something.”

“Rank speculation on your part.”

On the other side of the fence, a transit bus rumbled down the street. The air was suddenly thick with diesel fumes, but the detective didn’t miss a beat. “Tell me this much: Why the hell did Sally Fenning name a thug like Tatum Knight in her will?”

“I wish we could ask her.”

“I wish I could ask Tatum.”

“What’s in it for him?”

“He can either play ball, or-”

“Oh, please. Strike two.”

Larsen smirked. “This is what bugs me. Of the five beneficiaries identified so far, four have a direct connection to Sally’s prior marriage and to the death of her daughter. How does Tatum Knight fit into that group?”

Obviously Jack couldn’t volunteer anything about Tatum’s meeting with Sally before she was killed, but a little dialogue might not hurt. “That’s interesting,” said Jack. “You seem so certain that all four of the other known beneficiaries had some connection to Sally’s prior life.”

“Just a little deductive reasoning on my part.”

“I think it’s more than that. Sally’s ex-husband, the divorce lawyer, and the prosecutor who failed to indict anyone for the murder of Sally’s daughter were all obviously connected to Sally’s past. But the reporter simply wrote a few fact-filled articles about a terrible crime, which hardly seems enough to put her in the same reviled category as the others.”

“I’ll grant you that. She’s a little different animal.”

“If we assume that Sally decided to leave her money to her enemies to fight over, exactly what did this reporter do to make herself into one of Sally’s worst enemies?”

“You asking me the questions now?”

“If you can answer that one, I’ll see what I can do about Tatum.”

“I need a bigger commitment than that.”

“I’ll encourage him to meet with you. That’s all I can promise.”

Larsen gave him a steely look. “All right. But only because I know you’re a man of your word, I’ll give you this much. Deirdre Meadows did more than write a few newspaper articles about Sally Fenning.”

“How much more?”

“A whole damn book. All about the murder of Sally’s daughter. No publisher has bought it yet, but I understand she’s still shopping it.”

“And?”

“And, that’s it, that’s all, folks. At least until I get to sit down and talk to Tatum Knight.”

Jack grabbed his briefcase. “Fair enough. Thanks for the tidbit. I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” said Larsen.

Jack nodded and unlocked his car. Larsen gave a little wave as he started to walk away. Then he stopped, looked back, and said, “One other thing.”

“What?”

“That’s one tough client you got there, Swyteck.”

“Yeah. Just like his brother.”

He was suddenly stone-cold serious. “I promise you: He’s nothing like Theo.”

“You trying to tell me something?”

“Just be sure to do your homework.”

“I already have. Tons of it.”

“Do it again. For your own good.”

“That’s what everybody used to tell me about Theo, too. Till I proved him innocent.”

Larsen turned away, as if it hadn’t really registered. Jack stood and watched, nearly blinded by the sun, as the detectives crossed the parking lot and headed for the gate.

Twenty-one

Theo was too good for his own bar. That was the drunken dis he heard from his bandmates whenever they played at Sparky’s. Not that they considered themselves above a raunchy rat hole like Sparky’s. The comment was directed strictly at the audience. As much as Theo wished he owned a true jazz bar, he’d purchased a going concern with an established clientele. They were loyal, they kept him profitable, and they unflaggingly believed that the history of music had reached its apex with “Achy-Breaky-Heart” and had been on the decline ever since. The sax was Theo’s passion, but the rednecks paid the rent.

Charlie Parker, forgive me.

He finished the set with a powerful solo worthy of the Blue Note. Two women wearing cowboy hats raced toward the jukebox, sending Theo into an Electric Slide panic attack. The table in front was filled with employees from the car dealership across the street. They were oblivious to the music, one of them laughing so hard that beer was pouring from his nostrils. But a few people clapped, and a woman in back even shot him two thumbs-up, which made Theo smile. Slowly, Sparky’s would change its stripes, he was sure of it.

Theo carefully laid his saxophone in the stand, an old Buescher 400 that had been passed down from the man who’d taught him how to play. His great-uncle Cyrus was once a nightclub star in old Overtown, Miami’s Harlem, and it would have pleased him to know that not even four years on death row could strip Theo of the passion the old man had planted in a teenage boy’s blood.

“What’ll it be, pal?” said Theo as he walked behind the bar and wrapped the white apron around his waist.

“Club soda.”

“Hitting the hard stuff, are you?”

“Can’t drink. I’m on painkillers.”

Theo looked up from the well for a better look. The lighting was poor, but even in the shadows this dude was obviously hurting.

“Damn, that’s nasty. I seen people crawl outta here with busted-up faces. First time I ever seen anyone come in that way.”

“Got a real professional ass-kicking.”

“Looks that way.”

“From your brother.”

Theo set the glass on the bar. They’d never met, but Theo had heard plenty from Jack. “You must be Gerry the Genius.”

“You and your buddy Swyteck got a real running joke there, don’t you? For the last time, it’s Gentleman Gerry.”

“What brings you here, Gent?”

“What do you think?”

“Stupidity.”

Gerry smiled, then winced with pain. “Shit, it even hurts to laugh.”

“That’s not my problem.”

He brought the glass to his lips with care, but the left side of his mouth was badly swollen, causing a trickle to run down his chin. “You’re right. It’s my problem. And your brother’s.”

“Only because you’re good at throwing around bullshit allegations.”

“Are you seriously going to stand there and tell me this wasn’t your brother’s work?”

“You got that right.”

“Who are you, his alibi?”

“No. His sparring partner. Him and me been boxing each other for years. So I can look at your face and tell you in two seconds it wasn’t Tatum who done it.”

“How?”

“Tatum has a mean left hook. Nobody ever sees it coming. One time my right eye was swollen shut for three days. But your right eye is perfect. It’s the left side of your face that’s all beat to hell. So tell me,” said Theo as he delivered a mock left hook to Gerry’s unscathed right eye, “how does that happen?”

“Your brother isn’t a one-armed bandit. He has other punches.”

“He also gots a brain. If he beats you up, he ain’t gonna let you see his face.”

“I saw what I saw.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Gerry forced a crooked smile, trying hard to ignore the pain of any facial movement. “All right. Maybe I didn’t get as good a look at my attacker as I led the court to believe in my affidavit. But I didn’t come here to argue about the evidence.”

“Then why you here?”

“Because I have something to say to your brother. Frankly, I feel safer saying it to you. I’m sure you’ll deliver the message for me.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m offering a deal.” He checked over each shoulder, as if to make sure that no one around them could overhear. “If Tatum will renounce his shot at the inheritance and get out of the game, I’ll recant my testimony.”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll tell the judge I made a mistake. It was dark, I’d been drinking, it happened very fast. On reflection, I don’t think it was Tatum Knight who beat me up after all.”

“And for that, you want my brother to give up his shot at inheriting forty-six million bucks?”

A waitress pulled up to the station at the end of the bar. “Couple a’ Buds, Theo.” He set two open long-necks on her tray, and off she went.

“There’s more,” said Gerry. “If Tatum does drop out, I’ll pay him a quarter million dollars, cash, right now. It’s not contingent on me inheriting the money or anything else. He drops out, I give him the money. It’s that clean.”

“You trying to buy your way to the prize?”

Gerry pulled an ice cube from his soda and applied it to his fattened lip. “Brains, not brute force. That’s what it takes to win Sally Fenning’s game.”

“Funny, you don’t look so smart.”

“I’m not the one with a restraining order entered against me, am I?”

“You must want that money pretty bad.”

“There’s nothing illegal about cutting deals with the other beneficiaries to induce them to drop out. It’s just business. The mining business.” Gerry flashed a crooked smile, calling Theo forward with a curl of his finger, as if to let him in on a big secret. “This is what I call a gold mine.”

“You’re using trumped-up assault charges to get my brother to settle cheap and drop out.”

“I said I’d withdraw the charges. I didn’t say they were trumped up.”

Theo shook his head, then chuckled, “Who you think you’re talking to, fool?”

“Excuse me?”

The smile drained away as Theo leaned closer and said, “This is blackmail.”

“That’s not the way I see it.”

“Doesn’t matter how you see it. I see it as blackmail. Tatum will see it as blackmail. And that’s not a good thing for you.”

“Am I supposed to be scared now?”

Theo got right in his face, pressing his huge hands into the bar top. Gerry was trying to be a tough guy, but the twitching eyelid gave him away. To his surprise, however, Theo backed down. Gerry seemed pleased to have won the staring match, until Theo walked over to the stage, grabbed the microphone from the stand, and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention, please.”

The noise level dropped a notch, though it wasn’t completely quiet.

Gerry shifted nervously on his bar stool, clearly apprehensive.

Theo continued, “I don’t mean to rat anybody out, but I just heard that tonight we have with us Mr. Gerry Colletti, seated right over there at the end of the bar. You might be interested to know that Mr. Colletti is a former representative from the state of Massachusetts, where he was the author of the very first mandatory biker helmet law in the U.S. of A. Dude, take a bow.”

A chorus of boos rolled across the room. The bikers at the pool table shot a volley of death glares that had Gerry sinking into the woodwork. Two guys with bulging biceps started toward the bar. The ugly one had identical tattoos on each forearm, the word “villain” spelled “villian,” as if to brag that he was too stupid to check a dictionary. The tall guy was wearing no shirt, just tattered blue jeans and a black leather vest. His metal dog tags rattled with each tap of the fat end of a pool cue into his open palm.

Theo was feeling pretty smug as he walked back behind the bar. “Club soda’s on me, Genius. Have a nice walk to your car.”

Twenty-two

Jack and Kelsey were surrounded by books.

The homicide detective’s tip that Deirdre Meadows had written a true-crime story about Sally Fenning was a good lead, but Jack had struggled over what to do next. Going straight to Deirdre was one option, but he wanted more facts before taking that shot. That was where Martin Kapstan came in.

Just Books was hands-down the best bookstore in Coral Gables, and Martin made it that way. The store itself was beautiful, an old Mediterranean-style building, perfectly restored, and plenty of book-filled rooms for browsing. With signings and readings virtually every night of the week, it would be difficult to name a national best-selling author in the last twenty years who hadn’t made an appearance there. But it was Martin who set the store apart. He’d started out as a high school teacher, and he’d never really lost that guiding touch. Every aspiring author in south Florida sought his advice, and somehow he always found time to give it. Some of them found success. All of them found a little hope. Kelsey figured that if anyone knew anything about Deirdre’s unpublished script, Martin was the guy.

“Damn, we should have come last night,” said Kelsey. She was checking out the event calender posted by the door. They’d just missed Isabelle Allende.

Kelsey had worked a summer at Just Books before Nate was born, before law school, before interning for Jack, before her sphere of knowledge had begun to shrink to the point where she felt as though she knew absolutely nothing about anything except what she happened to be working on at the moment. She seemed a little embarrassed by how long it had been since her last visit, but Martin greeted her with his usual gentle smile and soft-spoken manner. She introduced Jack, and the three of them stepped outside for coffee in the central courtyard. Martin and Kelsey spent a few minutes catching up, then Martin asked, “How long you two been dating?”

They both let out a nervous chuckle. Kelsey said, “Oh, we’re not-”

“No we’re not…we’re friends,” said Jack. “And of course we work together.”

“Oh. I just assumed from the way Kelsey gushed on the phone about-” Martin stopped in mid-sentence, as if someone had just flattened his big toe.

“About how crazy Nate is about Jack,” said Kelsey, her smile strained.

From the look on Martin’s face, it seemed as though he had something else on the tip of his tongue. “Right. I understand you and Nate are great buddies.”

“I’m his Big Brother.”

“That’s terrific.”

“Yeah, it’s been great.”

All three tasted their coffee, as if thankful for the silence. Then Martin said, “So, how can I help you?”

Jack asked, “Have you been following the newspaper stories about a very wealthy woman named Sally Fenning? She was shot to death downtown about two weeks ago.”

“I did read about that.”

“Kelsey and I represent one of the heirs to her estate.”

“Yeah, she mentioned that in our phone conversation.”

“It turns out that one of the other heirs was writing a book about Sally. She’s a reporter for the Tribune. Her name is Deirdre Meadows.”

“I’ve met Deirdre,” said Martin.

“You don’t happen to know anything about the book she wrote, do you?”

“As a matter of fact I do.”

Kelsey smiled proudly, looked at Jack, and said, “Told you.”

Jack said, “I don’t want to intrude on anything she might have told you in confidence, but can you tell me anything about it?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve never read it. I offered to read it, but Deirdre didn’t feel comfortable sharing it.”

“Why not?”

“The way she explained it, her lawyer told her not to let anyone read it, except for her literary agent and any publishers they sent it to.”

“What was the fear? Someone stealing her ideas?”

“I think her real concern was a libel suit.”

Jack did a double take. “From Sally?”

Martin nodded. “As I understand it, she started out writing the book with Sally Fenning’s cooperation. About six months into it, Sally decided she didn’t like the angle Deirdre was plying. Actually, to say she didn’t like it is an understatement. She threatened to sue Deirdre for libel.”

“So her lawyer told her not to let anyone read it?” asked Kelsey.

Jack gave the lawyer’s answer. “She was probably trying to keep her legal exposure to a minimum. Obviously, if the only people who read the allegedly libelous material are a handful of potential publishers, Sally’s damages would be negligible.”

“That was my take on it,” said Martin.

Jack asked, “Do you know what, exactly, Sally claimed was libelous?”

“I don’t. It was a strange conversation we had. Deirdre wanted my opinion on whether a libel suit would help or hurt her chances of getting published. She seemed to think it was a good thing, that publishers would like the added publicity.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I said, sure, the publicity department might like it. Hell, I know some publicists who would have an author set her hair on fire and run naked around the bookstore if it would move a few extra books. But publishers also have legal departments, and the lawyers weren’t likely to be too keen about a libel suit.”

“You didn’t exactly tell her what she wanted to hear.”

“I don’t think it fazed her much. She said she could verify everything she wrote. Supposedly she had the full cooperation of the prosecutor on the case.”

“Mason Rudsky?”

“She didn’t mention his name,” said Martin.

“Had to be Mason. He was the prosecutor assigned to the case.”

Kelsey said, “He’s also a beneficiary under Sally’s will. Just like Deirdre.”

Martin shrugged, as if not sure what to make of Kelsey’s last remark. His pager chirped, and he checked it. “Would you two excuse me for one minute?”

“Sure,” said Jack.

Martin left his coffee on the table, as if to promise a prompt return. As soon as he was gone, Kelsey looked at Jack and said, “A libel suit. I guess that’s why Deirdre’s on Sally’s list. She was telling lies about her.”

“It would be nice to know what the lies were.”

“What’s your guess?” asked Kelsey.

“I don’t have a clue. But if Deirdre was spreading falsehoods about Sally and her daughter’s murder, it could explain why Sally hated her and put her in the same category as the other named beneficiaries who had made her life no longer worth living.”

“But we have to consider the other possibility,” said Kelsey.

“Right,” said Jack, picking up her thought. “What if the charges in Deirdre’s manuscript-whatever they might be-are true?”

“Maybe Sally was ticked off not because Deirdre was spreading lies, but because she uncovered some horrible truths that Sally would have rather kept secret.”

“Could be,” said Jack.

“Especially if she had Mason Rudsky’s full cooperation,” said Kelsey.

They locked eyes, both considering it. Then Jack said, “Whether it’s packed with lies or dirty little truths, one thing’s for sure.”

“What?”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the store window and the wall of books inside. “I want to know what Deirdre Meadows wrote.”

“So do I.”

Then he looked at Kelsey and said, “Almost as badly as I want to know what you and Martin really talked about on the phone.”

“What?”

“Whatever you said that made him think we were dating.”

She blushed and lowered her eyes. “Silly boy. Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Stick to mysteries you can solve.”

“No mystery is unsolvable. Some are just more fun than others.”

She brought her cup to her lips and peered over the rim, saying nothing.

“Don’t you agree?” asked Jack.

No answer, but she didn’t look away.

“You know, you can’t ignore me forever,” said Jack.

More silence, but Jack knew there was a grin hiding behind that coffee cup.

“Oh yeah,” he said with a smile. “Now this is getting fun.”

Twenty-three

A a court hearing on Tuesday morning, Jack was on the receiving end of a laserlike glare from Assistant State Attorney Mason Rudsky. Clearly, Rudsky wasn’t happy about his seat in the witness stand, especially when it meant cross-examination from a criminal defense lawyer.

It wasn’t Jack’s preference to take on the State Attorney’s Office, but he was being stonewalled. After he and Kelsey left Just Books early Friday evening, Jack called Deirdre Meadows and asked about her book. She didn’t want to talk about it. The following Monday morning, Jack visited Rudsky and explained how Deirdre had bragged to the owner of Just Books that the prosecutor had lent his “full cooperation.” Rudsky refused to confirm or deny the allegation, and he flashed the same phony smile and gave the same pat answer each time Jack asked a question: “I’m very sorry, but the investigation into the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter is still an open file. I can’t discuss it.”

Jack wasn’t one to take “Up yours” for an answer. If the reporter wouldn’t tell him what was in her book, and if the prosecutor couldn’t talk about the investigative file, then Jack was going to see the file for himself. He filed a lawsuit under the Sunshine Act, which is Florida’s very broad version of the Freedom of Information Act. The law was written to make sure that government was conducted “in the sunshine,” so that private citizens had access to government records. The law applied to criminal matters, except for active investigations. One thing Jack had learned as a prosecutor was that judges took a dim view of prosecutors who tried to circumvent the law by claiming that stale files were “active.”

Jack stepped toward the witness. The cavernous old courtroom was exceptionally quiet, not so much as a cough or the shuffling of feet from the gallery. The hearing was closed to the public, at least until the court could determine whether the file should be made public.

“Good morning, Mr. Rudsky.”

“Good morning.”

Rudsky was a career prosecutor who took his job and himself too seriously. He had an unusually large head, and when he got angry his face flushed red, as if his bow tie were tied too tightly. He was beet red already, and Jack hadn’t even started.

“Mr. Rudsky, you were the assistant state attorney assigned to the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter five years ago, were you not?”

“That’s correct.”

“Are you handling the murder of Sally Fenning as well?”

“No. Patricia Compton is heading that team.” He pointed with a nod to the lawyer seated on the other side of the courtroom. Compton was his attorney for purposes of this hearing.

“Are you part of her team?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Objection,” said Compton. “Judge, what does the composition of a completely different prosecutorial team have to do with the question of whether the investigation into the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter is active or inactive?”

“Sustained.”

“Let me put it another way,” said Jack. “Mr. Rudsky, does the fact that you are not assigned to the Sally Fenning murder have anything to do with the fact that you are a named beneficiary under her will?”

“Same objection.”

“I’ll overrule this one. The witness shall answer.”

“I don’t know,” said Rudsky. “I don’t make the assignments.”

“Other than your role as prosecutor in connection with the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter, Katherine, did you have any kind of relationship with Ms. Fenning?”

“No.”

“Were you surprised to learn that you were a beneficiary under Sally Fenning’s will?”

“Totally.”

“Can you think of any reason that she would have named you as a beneficiary, other than your role as prosecutor?”

“I couldn’t even hazard a guess.”

“Was Sally Fenning happy with the way you handled the case?”

Compton was back on her feet. “Objection. This is getting very far afield.”

“Sustained. I’ve given you a little latitude, Mr. Swyteck, but please don’t take advantage.”

“Yes, Judge. Let me put this in more concrete terms. Mr. Rudsky, no one was ever convicted for the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“No one was even indicted.”

“True.”

“You never even asked a grand jury to return an indictment.”

“I never did, no.”

“You never even empaneled a grand jury, did you?”

He shifted in his seat. “You’re really getting into the matter of grand jury secrecy.”

“Answer the question,” said the judge.

“Can I have the question again, please?”

“Sure,” said Jack. “You never empaneled a grand jury, did you?”

“You mean in the Katherine Fenning murder?”

“No, I was actually talking about the Lincoln assassination.”

“Objection.”

The judge cracked a faint smile. “Sustained, but Mr. Swyteck does have a point. Please answer the question.”

“No. We did not empanel a grand jury.”

“Why not?”

Compton popped to her feet, grumbling. “Judge, this line of questioning does not go to the sole relevant issue at this hearing, which is quite simply whether or not the investigation into the murder of Katherine Fenning is active. This is a blatant attempt to invade the secrecy and sanctity of the grand jury process.”

The judge looked at Jack and said, “Can you narrow your question, Mr. Swyteck?”

Jack stepped closer to the witness and asked, “Is it fair to say that you didn’t empanel a grand jury because you didn’t have sufficient evidence to do so?”

“I suppose that’s one reason.”

“Let’s talk about your evidence-gathering efforts, shall we? How many subpoenas have been issued in the last three years?”

“None.”

“How many depositions taken in the last three years?”

“None.”

“How many witnesses have been interviewed in the last three years?”

“None.”

“Are there any suspects whom you are currently pursuing?”

“Not at this time.”

“Not in the last three years, isn’t that right, sir?”

“That’s correct.”

“When will a grand jury be convened?”

“I don’t know.”

“And yet, you maintain that this is an active file, and that I have no right to see it.”

“The case is still open.”

“As open as it ever was?”

“Yes. As open as it ever was.”

“No wonder you never caught the killer.”

“Objection.”

“Withdrawn. Mr. Rudsky, do you know a woman named Deirdre Meadows?”

He hesitated, as if the name alone made him nervous. “Yes. She’s a reporter for the Miami Tribune.”

“Did you ever have any discussions with Deirdre Meadows about the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter?”

“Yes. I’ve had general discussions with a number of reporters about the case.”

“To your knowledge, how many of those reporters have written a book about the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter?”

He squirmed nervously. “Just one.”

“That would be Ms. Meadows, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Did you provide any assistance to her in the writing of her book?”

“That depends on what you mean by assistance.”

“Ms. Meadows claims that she had your full cooperation. Would you call that assistance?”

“Objection.”

“On what grounds?” asked the judge.

Compton was silent, stalling, as if the testimony of her own client was news to her. “Relevance,” she stammered.

“Overruled.”

Jack said, “Did Ms. Meadows have your full cooperation, Mr. Rudsky?”

“That depends on what you mean by full cooperation.”

“Did she interview you?”

“Yes.”

“Did she let you read her manuscript?”

“Yes.”

“Did you share any investigative materials with her?”

He paused. Jack waited. The government’s lawyer waited. Finally, Rudsky answered, “I might have.”

Compton went white. She sprang to her feet and asked, “Could we have a short recess, Your Honor?”

“Not now,” said the judge. “This is just getting interesting. Mr. Swyteck, continue.”

Jack walked to the lectern and checked his notes, not because he had to, but only to make the witness stew in the uncomfortable silence. “Sir, are you aware that Sally Fenning threatened to bring a libel suit against Deirdre Meadows if her book were ever published?”

“I’d heard that, yes.”

“Are you also aware that a libel suit cannot be maintained on behalf of a dead person?”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“It’s a straightforward question. Are you aware that once a person is dead, you can say whatever you want about them? There is no liability for libel.”

“Yes. I learned that in law school.”

“So the death of Sally Fenning leaves Deirdre Meadows free to publish her book without any fear of a libel suit. Agreed?”

“I suppose that’s correct.”

“And anyone who gave Ms. Meadows his full cooperation in the writing of that book would have the same protection, would he not?”

Rudsky narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Jack took a half step closer, tightening his figurative grasp. “Sir, do you have a financial interest of any kind in Ms. Meadows’s book?”

Compton shot from her seat. “Judge, please.”

“You’d better not be asking again for a recess.”

“No,” she said. “But I do have a proposal.”

“There’s a question pending,” said Jack.

“Then I object,” said Compton. “There’s no foundation for any of these questions, and the inquiry is totally irrelevant. Before we waste an entire day on this fishing expedition, I would at least ask the court to entertain my suggestion.”

“What is it?” asked the judge.

“In a good faith effort to streamline this process, the government agrees to provide to Mr. Swyteck all of the materials and information that Mr. Rudsky shared with this reporter, Deirdre Meadows. Perhaps that will satisfy Mr. Swyteck’s needs.”

“Perhaps it won’t,” said Jack.

Compton continued, “If it doesn’t, then Mr. Swyteck is free to renew his claim under the Sunshine Act for the production of the entire investigative file.”

“Why not let Mr. Swyteck finish with this witness and see if we can’t resolve the entire matter here and now?” asked the judge.

“Because there is some overlap between the murder of Sally Fenning, which I’m handling, and the murder of her daughter, which Mr. Rudsky handled. I’ll concede that Mr. Swyteck has the right to see anything that Mr. Rudsky shared with a reporter. But ordering us to produce the entire file would not strike the proper balance between the public’s right to know and the need to preserve the integrity of criminal investigations.”

The judge looked at Jack and asked, “Is that acceptable to you?”

“I’d really like Mr. Rudsky to answer my question.”

“Mr. Swyteck,” the judge said, “I asked if that was acceptable to you.”

Jack wanted to push, but the judge seemed to be leaning in his favor, and he didn’t want to lose that advantage by overreaching. “For now,” said Jack. “But if I don’t get everything I need, I will be back.”

“Very well,” said the judge. “The government has two days to produce the investigative materials to Mr. Swyteck. And I’m warning you: no game playing. I’m not going to be happy if this matter comes back to me.”

With the crack of the gavel, the hearing was over. Rudsky stepped down from the witness stand, not so much as looking at Jack. As Jack packed his briefcase, Patricia Compton walked over to his table and said, “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s a sad thing that no one was ever indicted for the murder of Sally’s daughter.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“I don’t intend to have the same problem for the murder of Sally Fenning. I thought you might want to pass that along to your client.”

Jack didn’t blink. “Sure thing. Just as soon as I see your file. Call me when it’s ready,” he said, then turned and headed for the exit.

Twenty-four

It was 2 A.M., and Deirdre Meadows was at the scene of a crime. A white van had been parked outside the grocery store for almost a week. The doors were locked, but a security guard detected the putrid odor of something like spoiled meat and rotten eggs. Deirdre heard the call on the police radio-she always kept it playing in her car, just in case something broke-and she arrived just minutes after the police had cordoned off the area. One of the officers on the scene confirmed off the record that a body was inside, which got Deirdre’s heart pumping. Foul play was the rhythm that Miami crime reporters danced to, and homicide was enough to make Deirdre bailar la bamba.

“Man or a woman?” asked Deirdre. She was standing just on the other side of the yellow police tape, talking to a uniformed officer.

“Don’t know yet,” he said.

She rattled off a string of questions, gathering facts, writing the story in her head as she assimilated information. This was what she did day after day, night after night, for surprisingly little pay and even less recognition. She hoped that would change soon, with a little luck from Sally Fenning.

Her cell phone rang. She tucked her notepad into her purse and took the call.

“Hello, Deirdre,” said the man on the line.

It seemed like a contradiction, but she recognized the disguised voice immediately. It was that same distorted, mechanical sound as the last call. “What are you doing awake at this hour?” she asked.

“None of your business.”

She reached into her purse, pulled out her Dictaphone, and held it up to the phone.

“Put the recorder away,” he said a moment before she clicked the Record button.

She froze, not sure how he knew.

“I can see you,” he said.

She looked around. Two media vans had pulled into the lot and were setting up for videotaping. Three police cars and the medical examiner’s van were parked on the other side of the crime scene. The large parking lot was otherwise empty, a flat acre of asphalt bathed in the yellowish cast of security lights.

“Where are you?” she asked.

He laughed, which sounded like static through the voice-altering device. “I’m everywhere you go.”

She swallowed hard, trying to stay firm. “What do you want?”

“First, I want to congratulate you.”

“On what?”

“For staying silent at the court hearing. You didn’t mention a thing about the dog attack outside the warehouse. You showed very good judgment. The same good judgment you showed by not contacting the police.”

“How do you know I haven’t contacted the police?”

“Because you’re an ambitious bitch.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I know you wouldn’t just go to the police and tell them what you know. You’re the kind of person who would expect something in return from them, some juicy tidbit that would have appeared in the newspaper. But I haven’t seen anything of interest under any of your by-lines lately. So I can only assume you didn’t go to the police.”

Deirdre was silent, a little unnerved by how well he seemed to know her. “What do you want now?”

“Why do you assume I want something? I’m a very giving person, Deirdre.”

“What are you offering?”

“A news flash. The first of Sally Fenning’s six beneficiaries is going to die.”

She felt chills, but she tried to stay with him. “When?”

“Two weeks from today.”

“Which one?”

“That’s sort of up to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Here’s the deal: It can be you, or it can be someone else. If it’s you, it won’t be quick and painless. You gotta decide. Do you want to live and share the forty-six million dollars with me, your partner? Or do you want to die?”

“Is this the choice you mentioned last time?”

“Exactly. You can choose to keep your mouth shut and make us both rich. Or you can choose to warn the others, make me mad, and make yourself dead.”

“How do you expect me to make a choice like that?”

“Easy. Here’s how it works. You keep quiet for a couple more weeks, and I’ll take that as your acceptance. I’ll assume we got a deal.”

Her hand was shaking as she spoke into the phone. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I know that you will make the right decision.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Don’t be a fool, girl. Your half of forty-six million dollars can buy a lot of grief counseling. So remember, two weeks from today, the first victim falls. If you’re smart, it won’t be you.”

“You’re sick.”

“You’re right. But I’m also right about one thing. If you’re at all thinking that you should do something to save the others, trust me: They aren’t worth saving.”

She thought for a moment, wondering what he’d meant by that, but a moment was too long. There was silence on the line. The call was over. Deirdre put the phone in her purse and walked away from the crime scene, no longer interested in some story about just another body in the back of a van.

Twenty-five

Jack was eager to see what part of the five-year-old investigative file the state attorney was ready to disclose. The judge had given Mason Rudsky two days to turn over anything he’d shared with Deirdre Meadows about the murder of Sally’s daughter, and the government waited until the fifty-ninth minute of the forty-seventh hour to notify Jack that the materials were ready for his inspection. Jack might have busted their chops about stringing things out, except that he’d been busy for two days trying to convince a jury in another case that it really wasn’t robbery if his client took forty bucks and change from the cash register but dropped his wallet on the way out with fifty-eight dollars inside. It was sort of the criminal defense version of net-net economic theory. Didn’t work, at least not where the defendant had left his photo ID and Social Security number at the scene of the crime.

The government’s entire production on the Katherine Fenning murder investigation consisted of one videotape. It was in a sealed envelope with an affidavit from Mason Rudsky in which the prosecutor swore that he’d shared nothing else with Deirdre Meadows. Jack brought Kelsey with him. It was nice to have another point of view.

“What is this?” asked Jack.

A police officer was seated in a folding chair near the door to the conference room. He didn’t answer.

“Excuse me, Officer. I asked what’s on the tape.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m under strict orders from Mr. Rudsky not to answer any of your questions.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To make sure the tape does not leave this room.”

“Seeing how this room has no windows, maybe that’s a job you could do from the other side of the door. My colleague and I would like to be able to talk freely while viewing the tape.”

The cop considered it. “I suppose that’d be okay.”

Jack thanked him and closed the door. Kelsey was examining the videocassette. “Interview of S. Fenning,” she read from the label. “It’s almost five years old.”

Jack said, “Sally’s ex-husband told me they were both interviewed. They must have videotaped Sally’s.”

“Why?”

“It’s a smart thing for law enforcement to do if there’s a chance of getting a nice voluntary confession that will play well to a jury.”

“What would Sally have to confess?”

“Let’s play the tape and find out.” Jack shoved the cassette into the VCR and switched on the television. A horizontal bar blipped across the bright blue screen, followed by snow and static. When it cleared, Sally Fenning was staring straight at them.

The image was the most unflattering Jack had ever seen of Sally. Her eyelids looked heavy, and her skin was pale. A punishing light shining in her face didn’t help. Sally wasn’t the kind of woman who needed makeup to be beautiful, but even a natural beauty had her limits, especially in a head-and-shoulders closeup like this.

“She looks so tired,” said Kelsey.

“Something tells me they didn’t start taping at the beginning of the interview. Looks like we’re several hours into the interrogation.”

“How soon was this after the murder of her daughter?”

Jack checked the date on the videocassette sleeve. “Couple of months, I think.”

On screen, Sally continued to stare into the camera, waiting. Finally, the voice emerged. “Are you ready to continue, Ms. Fenning?”

The focus remained on Sally’s face, and the man’s voice had come from somewhere off-screen. “That’s Rudsky,” said Jack.

“Ready,” said Sally.

“I want to ask a few more questions about this stalker you said was pursuing you. First, can you tell me what he looks like?”

“Not really. I only saw him once, from behind. One night I looked out the window and saw someone running away. I’m afraid I didn’t get a very good look at him.”

“What does he sound like?”

“I’m not sure. Whenever he called, his voice was distorted by some kind of mechanical contraption.”

“Is there anyone you suspect? Any customers at the bar who’ve been bothering you, hitting on you?”

“A bar waitress gets hit on by creeps all the time. Kind of an occupational hazard. Could be anyone, really.”

The camera kept rolling, but there was silence. Sally took a sip of water.

“Ms. Fenning,” said Rudsky, “I have here a report on the results of your polygraph examination.”

Kelsey looked away from the screen and asked Jack, “She took a polygraph?”

“Evidently,” said Jack.

On tape, Rudsky’s voice continued, “The results are interesting, to say the least. Your response to one question, in particular, showed obvious signs of deception.”

“I don’t understand how that could be.”

“Let’s explore that, shall we? The question was this: Have you ever cheated on your husband? Your answer was no.”

“That’s right.”

“You were lying, weren’t you?”

Jack watched the tape carefully. Sally seemed to be struggling as she blinked twice and said, “I can explain.”

“Please do,” said Rudsky.

“It happened before we were married.”

Rudsky’s sarcastic chuckle caused a crackle in the speakers. “How do you cheat on your husband before you’re even married?”

“Mike and I dated exclusively for two years. A few months before our wedding, we had an argument and broke up. I was devastated. I leaned on someone who I thought was a friend, and he…I made a mistake. It wasn’t technically cheating, because Mike and I weren’t married. We weren’t even dating at that particular moment. But in my heart, I felt like a cheater. So I wasn’t lying when I answered ‘No’ to the lie detector question. But I felt like I was lying, so I’m sure that’s what the machine picked up.”

There was silence again, as if Rudsky were trying to make her squirm. Finally, the follow-up question came, “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if anything you’ve said so far is the truth.”

She tightened her mouth, seemingly defensive. “What do you mean?”

“You claim there was a stalker.”

“There was.”

“But you can’t tell us what he looks like.”

“No.”

“You can’t tell us what he sounds like.”

“No.”

“You can’t tell us anything about him, except that he ‘could be anybody.’”

“I wish I could tell you more.”

“And this started how long before your daughter was murdered?”

“Several months.”

“But you never told the police anything about a stalker until after your daughter was murdered.”

“Calling the police would only have infuriated him.”

“You didn’t even tell your husband.”

“I thought he would make me quit my job, which we couldn’t afford. And I didn’t want him to haul off and do something stupid, like buy a gun. I didn’t want a gun in the house with a four-year-old child.”

“Let’s stop the lies, all right, Ms. Fenning?”

Jack moved closer to the screen, sensing that the prosecutor was moving in for the kill. Sally was getting emotional, the strain of Rudsky’s accusatory tone having taken an obvious toll.

“I’m not lying,” she said, her voice quaking.

“The real reason you didn’t tell your husband about the stalker is that you were afraid he’d think you were cheating on him again.”

“That’s crazy.”

“You were cheating on him again, weren’t you? That’s why you didn’t tell the police you were being stalked.”

“You’re so wrong.”

“That’s why you didn’t tell your husband you were being stalked.”

“Not true.”

“What happened, Sally? You wouldn’t leave your husband, and your boyfriend got mad?”

“No.”

“So mad that he started stalking you?”

“No.”

“So mad that he killed your daughter?”

“No, no!”

Sally was practically in tears. No one offered her a tissue. She dabbed her eye with her sleeve.

“Come clean, Sally. The truth has already come out in your polygraph. There were signs of deception on one other answer you gave.”

“Which one?”

“You answered no to the following question: Do you know who killed your daughter?”

Her mouth fell open. “You think I was lying about that?”

“It’s right here in the examiner’s report. Your response shows signs of deception.”

“Then the machine is wrong,” she said.

“Or you’re lying,” said Rudsky.

Sally looked stunned, as if she could barely speak: “Are you suggesting that I’m covering for the man who killed my own daughter?”

“Let me tell you exactly what I’m saying.”

Jack watched as Rudsky’s hand suddenly reached for the video camera. With the push of a button, the screen went black.

“There’s no more?” said Kelsey.

“Try fast forwarding a few frames.”

She hit the button on the machine, but the tape was blank.

“Looks like that’s the end of it,” said Kelsey. “Though figuratively speaking, I’m definitely starting to get the picture.”

“Me, too,” said Jack in a hollow voice. “And it isn’t very pretty.”

Twenty-six

Kelsey had an afternoon class, so Jack drove her to the University of Miami law school. They rode in silence most of the way, listening to the radio. According to “News at the Top of the Hour,” a suspected terrorist was detained at the Port of Miami and would face deportation.

“Ooooh,” said Kelsey, a tinge of sarcasm in her voice. “Deportation. Now they’re really getting tough.”

“Yeah,” said Jack, scoffing. “You’d think they’d caught a puppy peeing on the rug. ‘Bad terrorist. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. Now go back to your training camp and don’t come out until you’ve learned how to sneak into this country properly.’”

She offered a little nervous laughter that was symptomatic of the times, and then they continued in silence down fraternity row, past the fields of suntanned and shirtless college boys playing flag football. It was as if they both needed a little time to absorb the videotape. Not until Jack pulled into the drop-off circle in front of the law library and shifted into Park did they seem ready to talk about what was really on their minds.

“Jack, what do you think happened when Rudsky turned off that camera?”

“I’m sure he threatened her. Obstruction of justice, accessory after the fact to murder, and anything else he could think of.”

“Right. He threatened to throw her in jail unless…unless what?”

“Unless she told him who killed her daughter.”

“That’s where it all falls apart in my view. Maybe it’s because I’m a mother, but it’s hard for me to accept that Sally would have refused to identify the man who killed her child, no matter how torrid the love affair. Assuming there even was a love affair.”

“What about Susan Smith?”

“Who?”

“The married woman from South Carolina who locked her two sons in her car and sent them to the bottom of a lake so that she would be childless and more appealing to her lover.”

“Do you honestly think Sally Fenning was anywhere near that extreme?”

“If Tatum Knight is to be believed, she was extreme enough to hire someone to kill her.”

“That was five years after her daughter was brutally murdered. You’re talking about a whole different time of her life. Before a tragedy like that, she was probably an entirely different woman.”

Jack glanced out the window, thinking. “That’s a valid point. But there are other reasons for Sally to have refused to identify her killer, reasons other than a sick sense of love.”

“Such as?”

“She might have been afraid to identify him. Like you said, he’d stabbed her already, murdered her daughter. Maybe she feared he would come back to finish the job.”

“Is that what Rudsky was driving at in the videotape?” asked Kelsey.

“It’s not clear. Maybe even Rudsky wasn’t sure if she was intentionally covering up for her lover or if she refused to identify the killer out of fear. Either way, he was clearly convinced by the polygraph results that, one, Sally was having an affair, and two, she knew the identity of her daughter’s killer.”

Kelsey shook her head and said, “If she was in fact covering up for her lover, then Sally was truly despicable.”

“Anyone would agree on that point. But if Rudsky had it all wrong-if she wasn’t covering up for anybody, and if she wasn’t even having an affair-then Sally was maligned in a way no mother should ever be maligned.”

“And if Deirdre Meadows was intent upon repeating those same accusations in her book, she was just as guilty as the prosecutor.”

“Which might explain why they both ended up on Sally’s list of beneficiaries. Her list of mortal enemies.”

Silence fell between them. Kelsey checked her watch, gauging her time till class started. “So where does this lead us?” she asked.

“It all comes back to the same question. Were they her enemies because their vicious accusations were false? Or because they exposed the ugly truth?”

“How do you suppose we get an answer to that?”

“The only way I know. Keep digging.”

Kelsey waved to three women walking past the car. Classmates, Jack presumed. “I’d better get going,” she said. “Call me if there’s anything more I can do.”

“I will. Actually, I’ll probably see you tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, when I pick up Nate. I promised to take him for pizza at the Big Cheese on Friday.”

She clunked her head like a dunce. “I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you. My mother invited him over to the condo for some kind of grandkids shuffleboard marathon or something.”

“Boy, is that going to cost you.”

“Oh yes. Big time.” She gave a little laugh, then cut her eyes and said, “I guess that means you’re free tomorrow night, huh?”

“Evidently.”

“So…”

“So what?”

She flashed a thin, mischievous smile. “Why don’t we do dinner?”

“You mean without Nate?”

“Yes, a date.”

Jack’s mouth opened, but his words were on a few-second delay.

“Something wrong?” asked Kelsey. “You suddenly look as if I just asked you to be the food tester for Saddam Hussein.”

“This just takes you and me to another level.”

“That’s sort of the idea.”

“And it probably would be a great idea, under different circumstances. But I thought we had sort of an unspoken understanding that this is something we’d never do. For Nate’s sake.”

“I thought the same thing, until you started teasing me at Just Books. You seemed so amused by the fact that I’d somehow given Martin the impression that we were dating. It got me to thinking, maybe it’s not such a crazy notion.”

Jack took a breath. He recalled the conversation, and he’d regretted it. At the time it had seemed innocent enough, just a divorced guy with wounded self-esteem having a little flirtatious banter with an attractive young woman. He hadn’t expected it to go anywhere, but in hindsight he could see where she might have misread it. “Kelsey, look, I’m sorry.”

“Just hear me out on this, okay? With most guys I date, being a single mom is a liability. First, we have to get to like each other, and then I have to hope he likes my son. You’re the opposite. Here’s this great guy who totally adores my son. And I’m not supposed to date you because-because why?”

“Because if it doesn’t work out…”

“I’m tired of living my life that way, Jack, afraid of what’s not going to work out. What if it does work out?”

Jack considered it, allowed himself the luxury of thinking that he wasn’t forever resigned to carrying around the battle scars of his divorce. “I can’t deny that I’ve wondered about it. In the abstract, anyway.”

“One date. We don’t even have to tell Nate about it. If it doesn’t feel right, we promise to be grown-ups about it and go back to where we were. Deal?”

He smiled tentatively, just enough to give her an opening. She took his hand and shook on behalf of both of them.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“You pick. I like surprises.”

“Works for me.”

“Yes, I do. But we’ll get past that.”

“No, I meant the surprise thing works for me. I wasn’t trying to pull a power play by reminding you that you work for-”

She put her finger to his lips, shushing him. “I know what you meant. Now stop being such a doofus, or I might change my mind and let you kill another Friday night with your buddy Theo.” She smiled and got out of the car, then gave a little wink and closed the door.

Friday night with Theo, he thought, trying not to enjoy the view too much as he watched Kelsey walk to class.

That works for me, too.

Miguel Rios fumbled for the key to his front door. He’d enjoyed one too many margaritas with dinner and didn’t realize how strong they were until it was too late. His girlfriend had offered to drive him home and spend the night, but he’d nixed that plan. She’d been coming on way too strong ever since he’d told her that he was in the running for a forty-six-million-dollar inheritance, apparently not the least bit bothered that the money would come from his ex-wife.

On the fourth try, he found the lock, turned the key, and pushed the door open. The mailbox was right beneath the porch light, and it was stuffed with at least two days’ deliveries. He grabbed a handful and went inside. His legs were tired from pedaling all day, one of the drawbacks of being a bicycle cop. He plopped in the recliner, put his feet up, switched on the television with the remote, and sifted through the stack of mail. He put the junk aside and opened a letter with no return address.

Inside was a typewritten note on a single sheet of paper. It was addressed to no one in particular, just a general salutation, “To my fellow beneficiaries.” The message read:

This is not a threat. I am simply sharing information with the rest of you. All of the beneficiaries under Sally Fenning’s will are in grave danger. I mean all of us, including me. I wish I could say more, but all I can say is this: If you choose to stay in this game, be careful. Be extremely careful. Please take this very seriously.

The letter wasn’t signed, but there was a typed name at the bottom. Miguel read it, then picked up the phone and dialed his lawyer. He was routed to voice mail, with a cheery instruction from Parker Aimes’s secretary to speak clearly after the tone.

“This is Miguel Rios calling about the Sally Fenning estate. I wanted to let you know about a letter I received in the mail. It’s from Alan Sirap. The sixth beneficiary.”

Twenty-seven

It was time to find out more about Alan Sirap.

Jack had received a phone call from Tatum on Thursday night, and by mid-morning Friday, Jack had confirmed that all five of the other beneficiaries had received the same letter. Still, no one seemed to know who Mr. Sirap was, or at the very least they were unwilling to share what they knew. Jack set up a lunch meeting with Vivien Grasso. As the lawyer who had drafted Sally’s will and as personal representative of her estate, Vivien was charged with the responsibility of locating all the heirs. In light of the latest letter, Jack wanted an update on how the search for Alan Sirap was going.

“This is one strange letter,” said Vivien. Jack had shown her Tatum’s copy, and she’d read it quickly.

Jack looked up from his menu, which he was only pretending to read. Old Lisbon was his favorite Portuguese restaurant in Miami, and for lunch he always ordered the house specialty, grilled squid and french fries. It wasn’t for everybody, but it was definitely for anybody who was tired of the typical calamari à la Friday ’s-breaded, deep-fried, and drowning in enough marinara sauce to make a hockey puck taste good.

“Strange is one word for it,” said Jack. “Scary comes to mind as well.”

She smiled wryly and handed back the letter. “Come now, Jack. Something tells me that your client doesn’t scare easily.”

“I have a feeling yours didn’t either.”

“Sally had a rough life. But yes, she was pretty tough, too.”

“How well did you really know her?”

“How well do we know any of our clients?”

“Some better than others.”

Vivien squeezed a wedge of lemon into her iced tea. “I deal with very wealthy clients. Most of them guard their privacy rather fiercely. Sally was no different.”

“So what you’re saying is-”

“I knew her well enough to draft her will. That’s what I’m saying.”

A waiter brought them fresh baked bread and a dish of olive oil for dipping. Jack tore off a chunk but kept talking. “Vivien, you’ve known my father for years. You’ve known me almost as long. So you know I’m on the level when I tell you that anything you say here is just between you, me, and the grilled squid, right?”

“Oh boy. Here it comes.”

Jack smiled a little, then turned serious. “Was it Sally Fenning’s intention to construct some sick game of survival of the greediest?”

She drummed her nails on the table, as if debating how to answer-or perhaps whether to answer.

“I’m not trying to put you in a bad spot,” said Jack. “But some weird stuff is happening.”

“It’s okay. To be honest, the last thing I want is for you or, worse, your father to think that I would allow myself to be part of a bloody vengeance campaign. So let me put it this way. I concede that drafting Sally’s will so that everything goes to the survivor of six potential heirs is certainly unorthodox. But I never imagined that threats and bodily injury were part of Sally’s plan.”

“Then what was her plan?”

“This is the way I understood it. For Sally, there was no bright side to money. When she needed it, she didn’t have it. When she had it, she wasn’t happy.”

“That much I seem to have figured out.”

“As far as she was concerned, money was a curse. So she decided that when she died, she’d share the curse with people she didn’t like. The way we structured her will, each of Sally’s heirs would live their whole life thinking they were just a heartbeat away from inheriting forty-six million dollars. But only one of them would ever see the money-and by the time they got it, he or she would probably be too old to enjoy it. It was vindictive, but it wasn’t criminal.”

“What did she tell you about her enemies-the heirs?”

“Names, addresses, Social Security numbers. Except for Alan Sirap. For him, I just got a name. Sally promised to provide an address and a Social Security number, but she never got around to it. Frankly, with a healthy twenty-nine-year-old woman as a client, I wasn’t exactly hounding her every day to get it to me. The will was valid without it.”

“From what you’re saying, I assume that you didn’t do a background check on any of the beneficiaries in Sally’s will.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“So you have no idea why my client was named as a beneficiary.”

“Not really. Do you?”

Jack got out the proverbial tap shoes, unable to tell her that Tatum was a hit man. “Based on what I’ve learned about the others, I can only surmise that Sally considered him an enemy.”

“Sally didn’t explain in any great detail why she chose Tatum Knight or any of the others.”

“That didn’t strike you as odd?”

“If a client doesn’t want to lay out every dirty little detail about her chosen heirs, it’s frankly none of my business. It was Sally’s prerogative to leave her money to whomever she wished, even her enemies. Even if it meant disinheriting her own sister.”

“Rene, right?” Jack had been meaning to follow up on Sally’s sister ever since her name had come up in the meeting with Sally’s bodyguard, but it wasn’t easy for a sole practitioner with other paying clients to jump right on top of every little lead.

“Right. She’s Sally’s only surviving relative.”

A busboy came by and refilled their water glasses. Jack waited for him to leave, then asked, “What do you know about her?”

“I know that Sally worked side by side on a humanitarian mission with her sister for some time in Africa.”

“When?”

“Before Sally remarried.”

“Did they have a falling out?”

“Not that I know of. The only impression I ever gained from Sally was that she loved her sister dearly.”

“But she left her nothing in her will.”

“Go figure.”

Jack glanced out the window. The passing cars on busy Coral Way were just a blur. “I guess vengeance can be sweet,” he said in a detached voice. “But why would a woman with no other family completely disinherit a sister whom she loved?”

“I can’t answer that,” said Vivien.

“There’s probably only one person alive who can. Does Rene still live in Africa?”

“Yes. I sent her a notice of Sally’s death.”

“So you have an exact address for her?”

“At the office. She’s in Côte d’Ivoire.”

Jack thought for a second. “I’ve always wanted to go to Africa.”

“Now you’ve got an excuse to go.”

The waiter returned to their table and asked, “Are you ready to order?”

“I wonder if I should update my shots,” said Jack.

The waiter shot an indignant look.

“No, I’m sorry, I meant…Oh, never mind.”

Twenty-eight

I the spirit of China Grill, Smith amp; Wollensky, Joe Allen’s, and countless other successful New York eating establishments, Restaurant Nobu seemed to work even better with a Miami Beach suntan.

Nobu was Jack’s choice for his first date with Kelsey, which seemed perfect: no-pressure Japanese dining, a lively atmosphere, and a typical South Beach crowd that made it impossible for two people to run out of things to talk about. For her part, Kelsey had also gone with a sure thing, wearing black on black with simple gold jewelry, a different look from the head-turning red dress she’d worn on their business sortie to Club Vertigo. Yet Jack found her even more captivating tonight, not because he hadn’t noticed how beautiful she was before, but because he no longer felt forced to overlook the little things that would bring a smile to his face long after the evening’s end. The way her hair caressed her neck. The little turn of her head whenever she smiled. Jack was still her employer, and she would always be the mother of his “Little Brother” Nate. But this was a real date, or at least a trial run, and he had to appreciate the way she was trying so hard to make it seem as though nothing else mattered.

“I have a secret to tell you,” she said.

It was 10:40 P.M. and they were back where they’d started three hours earlier, standing at her front door. “What?” asked Jack.

“I have a fifteen-year-old baby-sitter.”

“Why is that a secret?”

“She has to be home at eleven, which is exactly why I hired her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was my excuse, in case I had second thoughts. You might say let’s go get a drink somewhere, and this made it possible for me to look you in the eye and truthfully say I had to be home by eleven.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so glum. Now I wish I’d hired her older sister.”

Jack smiled. “I’m glad you had a nice time. I did too.”

“We still have a few minutes on the baby-sitter clock.” She glanced at the porch swing and said, “You want to sit for a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

Jack followed her across the porch. It was a small swing, probably built for her and Nate. They were seated side by side, looking out on the lawn, the palm trees and flower beds brightened by the moonlight. A gentle breeze stirred the oak leaves, and it sounded like the ocean.

“I can’t remember the last time I was in one of these,” said Jack, putting a little oomph into his kick.

“It’s a porch swing, not the space shuttle, Jack.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

She gently patted the back of his hand, and she didn’t pull back. The soft pads of her fingertips and the smooth palm of her hand were lying on top of his. With the slow turn of his wrist, their fingers interlaced. It was a little thing, but it felt like much more.

“That’s nice,” he said.

“It is, isn’t it?”

The swing continued to rock, and they enjoyed each other’s company in silence. Finally, Jack said, “I don’t mean to talk shop-”

“Then don’t.”

“This is only part work-related. I’m actually excited about it. I’m going to Africa.”

“Why?”

“Sally’s sister lives there. I want to talk to her. But, mainly, I just want to go. I think it’ll be fun.”

“Where?”

“Côte d’Ivoire. That’s French for Ivory Coast.”

“I know. I speak a little French.”

“Great. Maybe you can teach me a few things. French is the official language there.”

“Do you speak any at all?”

“Not a word. Unless you count the lyrics to ‘Lady Marmalade,’ You know, that old Patti LaBelle song. Voulez-vous crochet avec moi?”

Kelsey laughed. Jack asked, “What’s so funny?”

“It’s coucher, not crochet. You just changed ‘Do you want to go to bed with me?’ to ‘Do you want to knit with me? ’”

They laughed together. The silence that followed was not unpleasant, like an unspoken admission that each of them was giving serious thought to what it might be like to go “knitting” with the other. Their eyes met, and Jack felt his lips move slowly toward hers.

A noise from the house startled them. They turned simultaneously, only to catch a brief glimpse of Nate’s face in the window, followed by the telling sway of vertical blinds.

“Nathan, you had better not be awake,” said Kelsey.

They could hear him giggling as he ran away. Kelsey smiled at Jack and said, “So, you actually want to date a single mom?”

He hesitated. It felt right on one level, but he still had his reservations. “We have to think about Nate.”

“You’re so good with him. I really like that.”

“He’s a great kid.”

“He is, but I’m talking about you. I’ve met several Big Brother volunteers. Seems to me, some do it because it makes them feel good about themselves, like they’re giving back and doing their civic duty. But the best ones just really like kids.”

“I’m probably in the latter group.”

“That’s what has me wondering. Where does that come from?”

“I’m not sure. My ex-wife and I never had kids, but it wasn’t because we didn’t want them.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for the question to become that personal.”

“It’s okay. I’m not one of those guys who goes around thinking I’d still be married if only we’d brought children into our failing marriage.”

“It doesn’t work. I can vouch for that.”

“I do want kids someday, though.”

She smiled and said, “Wondering what the world would be like with a Jack Junior in it?”

“Actually…aw, skip it.”

“Skip what?”

“Well, this isn’t exactly an even trade for the little secret you told me about hiring a fifteen-year-old baby-sitter, but there already is a Jack Junior, so to speak.”

“What?”

“The woman I dated before I married Cindy gave up a baby for adoption. She says he was mine. I didn’t even know about him until about a year ago.”

“She told you after you and Cindy were married?”

“Long after.”

“Wow. That’s quite an announcement. ‘Hi, I’m back, what have you been up to all these years, by the way I had your baby.’”

“It was a definite surprise.”

“Have you figured out how old the boy would be now?”

“About Nate’s age, actually.”

“Do you think you’ll ever meet him?”

“I doubt it. But if ever I do, Nate has certainly been good practice.”

She withdrew her hand. “Practice?”

Jack saw the expression on her face and said, “That’s probably not the right word.”

“No. In fact, I’d say it’s a pretty lousy word.”

“I’m sorry. All I meant was that Nate’s a typical mischievous boy who has prepared me for just about anything.”

“Which sounds a lot like practice.”

“Kelsey, come on. You know how much Nate means to me.”

She got off the swing and walked to the porch rail. Jack jumped down and went to her, but she didn’t turn around. “Hey,” he said, speaking to the back of her head. She kept looking toward the lawn, no response.

“Nate is not practice,” he said.

“Am I?”

“What?”

She turned and faced him. “Timing is so important in a relationship, don’t you think?”

“Of course.”

“Jack, be honest. How many women have you dated since your divorce?”

“I’ve been fixed up a few times.”

“So I’m the first woman you’ve really pursued?”

“Pursued?” he said, his voice with a little more edge than intended. “In all fairness, Kelsey, this was really more your idea than mine.”

“Well excuse me for putting a gun to your head.”

“You didn’t-” he stopped in mid-sentence, then brought a hand to his forehead, confused. “What just happened here? One minute we’re sitting on the porch swing holding hands, the next-I don’t know what.”

The front door opened just wide enough for the baby-sitter to stick her head out and say, “I’m really sorry, Kelsey, but if I’m not home by eleven-fifteen, my parents won’t let me sit for you anymore.”

“Don’t apologize. If Mr. Swyteck leaves now, you’ll be home in plenty of time. You ready, Jack?”

He’d agreed earlier to drop off the sitter on his way home. “I guess so.”

The girl tiptoed past them and continued down the steps. Jack looked at Kelsey and said, “Can we talk more about this, please?”

“I’ll call you.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

They were standing just a few feet apart, but neither one moved, as if it now seemed awkward that just moments earlier they’d been headed toward a good night kiss. Kelsey gave him a tight smile and said simply, “Good night, Jack.”

She went inside, and Jack waited for her to look back, catch his eye, and telegraph some sign of encouragement. It didn’t come. He turned away as the door closed, then caught up with the baby-sitter in the driveway, who was peering out impishly from beneath her bangs.

“Sorry I spoiled your moment, Mr. Swyteck.”

He scratched his head with the car key as he glanced back at Kesley’s house. “Don’t worry. About the only thing I’m sure of is that it wasn’t you who spoiled it.”

Twenty-nine

I’m going to Africa with you,” said Theo.

Jack had taken a detour after dropping off the baby-sitter. Theo and his band were playing their Friday night gig at a jazz club on Washington Avenue. Jack caught him on his midnight break seated at the end of a long bar, though he’d almost walked right by him in the dim lighting. It was the perfect ambience for the after-midnight crowd, scores of flickering candles in a variety of shapes and sizes in one elaborate candelabra after another. Theo was picking at a blob of wax that had dripped and hardened onto the bar top.

“You are not coming to Africa,” said Jack.

“Look, you’re a hopelessly white lawyer headed for a country of sixteen million Africans whose average weekly wage wouldn’t pay for the bowl of peanuts I just finished. You should be jumping up and down to have a guy like me at your side.”

“All right. We’ll talk about it.”

“That’s what you said yesterday. It’s done. If you go, I go.” He raised his glass in a toast, and after several long moments of consideration, Jack reciprocated with his beer bottle.

“But I’m not paying for your plane ticket,” said Jack.

“Got that covered for both of us. Friend of a friend flies a company jet for oil executives twice a month. It’s never more than half full. We leave this Tuesday. All you have to do is pay for our tickets to Houston.”

“What kind of plane we talking about?” Jack asked with obvious skepticism.

“Jack, really. Would I treat you like anything less than the rock star you are?”

“That’s what they told Buddy Holly.”

Jack’s cell phone rang, and he recognized the incoming number as Kelsey’s. “Be right back,” he told Theo, and then he hurried across the crowded bar to a relatively quiet spot near the back staircase.

“Hi.” He had the phone on one ear and his finger pressed to the other to drown out the drone of nightclub noises from the next room.

“I’m sorry about the way I overreacted,” she replied.

“It’s okay. I’m glad you called.”

“Nate loves you so much. He’s never had anyone like you in his life. His father and I divorced when he was three.”

“Like I said before. He’s the best.”

“That’s why I’m just not sure about us.”

Jack stopped pacing. “That’s what I told you in my car when you suggested we have dinner.”

“I know, and we should have listened to your instincts, not mine.”

“Why the sudden reversal?”

“When you and I were sitting on the porch swing, and I looked back and saw Nate’s little face in the window, my heart sank. He was so happy to see us together. But then another image flashed in my head, one of me a month or three months from now trying to explain to him why Jack doesn’t come around anymore.”

“But you said it yourself at the beginning. You were tired of living your life preparing for the worst-case scenario.”

“Sometimes I do get tired of it.”

“It’s like my friend Theo always says. There’s two kinds of people in this world, risk takers and-” He stopped himself. Risk takers and shit takers sounded okay when belting back beers with Theo, but it seemed a little crude here. “And not risk takers,” he said, grimacing at the lack of poetry in his improvisation. “Anyway, you know what I’m saying.”

“Yes. But I’m Nate’s mother. I have to be careful about the risks I take.”

“I can’t disagree with that.”

“Then you understand?”

“I do. And I don’t. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I wasn’t expecting to have such a great time with you tonight.”

“It’s complicated, I know.”

“Until things went sour on your front porch, I was actually starting to think you had the right idea. I’ve been fixed up with two women since my divorce. Both had middle-schoolers who frankly scared the hell out of me. If I’m going to be dating single moms, why not date the one with the world’s greatest kid?”

“There’s definitely two sides to this, but-”

“But now you think my first instinct was right. Leave it to a couple of advocates,” he said, scoffing. “We’ve persuaded each other to reverse roles.”

“Look, we’re not going to resolve this tonight. Maybe it’s a good thing you’re going to Africa. It gives us time to think.”

“Right. A little time is a good thing.”

“So we’re agreed? We just put things on hold for a while, go back to normal.”

Jack had the frustrating feeling that the right words were floating out there somewhere between them, but damned if he could find them. “Okay. Normal it is.”

“Thank you. Have a safe trip, okay?”

“I will.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.” He flipped the cell phone shut and sat on the step, alone. Already, he didn’t like the feeling of “normal.”

Thirty

The urinal in the men’s room was busted again, and two guys were busily gratifying each other in the only stall, so Theo took the back exit into the alley behind the club. He found a dark, suitable spot between two parked cars, only to find that someone had found the very same spot minutes before he had.

“Son of a bitch,” he said, stepping out of it.

He continued down the dark alley, though he was suddenly thinking more of his talk with Jack than his bursting bladder. He hadn’t exactly told his friend the whole story about why he was going to Africa. Sure, it would be fun, and even more sure, Jack could use a guy like Theo to keep him out of trouble. But Theo’s real agenda was much more personal. The police were zooming in on his brother as a suspect in Sally Fenning’s murder, and Theo alone knew the depth of his debt to Tatum.

The alley was getting darker with each step he took, and Theo finally stopped and looked around. On either side were the unadorned backs of buildings-bars, drugstores, Laundromats. A half block ahead, the lights from Sixteenth Street were a big glowing dot in the darkness, like the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. The walls were cinder blocks painted beige and white. Every door and window was covered with black security bars. If he narrowed his eyes, Theo could almost see one set of hands after another gripping those iron bars, hands without faces, hands he’d linked to anxious voices from within boxes during his years on death row. Those were memories he would have liked to flush. But with his own brother in trouble, and with the barred doors and windows all around him, his mind drifted back to a night on death row that he’d truly thought would be his last hours on earth.

Theo sat on one side of the prison glass; his brother, Tatum, on the other. His brother seemed taken by his baldness.

“What happened to your hair, man?”

“It’s just what they do,” said Theo. The prison barber had already shaved his head and ankles so that there would be a smooth connection between his flesh and the deadly voltage of the electric chair.

“Swyteck is starting to scare me,” said Tatum. “What the hell is taking him so long this time? He ain’t never let it go this far before.”

“He’s doing what he can. Sometimes you just run out of shit to throw against the wall.”

“Then get a new lawyer.”

“They don’t give out new lawyers the night before an execution.”

“But you need more time. I need more time.”

From the day of Theo’s sentencing, Tatum had vowed to track down every last member of the Grove Lords, threaten them, beat them, crack their skulls-whatever it took to find the one who had gone into that convenience store and really killed that cashier.

Theo said, “I appreciate all you done for me, but-”

“But nothin’. Don’t you start with that good-bye shit now.”

“We gotta face facts.”

“The facts is, you didn’t do it.”

“You think I’m the first innocent man ever to sit on death row?”

“Sittin’ here is one thing. They can’t execute you, damn it.”

“They can, Tatum. And they will.”

Tatum checked the clock on the wall. “Where the hell is that lawyer of yours?”

“He’s supposed to call in about a half hour.”

“Good. I want to talk to him.”

“What for?”

“I need to know if this is really it.”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

“Don’t say that. Because if he’s out of ideas, I got one for him.”

“What?”

With a pen, he scribbled onto the notepad in front of him. Then he leaned closer to the glass and turned the notepad so that Theo could see it. It read, “Let’s just say I did it.”

Theo looked his brother in the eye. “Say what?”

“I’m shit compared to you,” he said, his voice shaking. “You got a brain in your head, man. You could be somebody. So let’s just say it was me who done it. We look a little alike. That eyewitness was pretty shaky. Maybe she got it wrong, coulda’ mixed us up, you know?”

“You would do this for me?”

“You’re my little brother, man. You and me-aw, shit, don’t make me say it. We’re all we got, you know?”

Theo felt a knot in his stomach, wishing he could break through the glass between them. “Thanks, bro’,” he said as he pressed his fist to the window. Tatum did the same from the other side, the prison handshake.

“What do you say?” asked Tatum.

“You’re awesome, totally. But even if I was gonna let you try, it’s just too late.”

“Damn you, stop sayin’ it’s too late.”

“It would never work anyway.”

“I’ll make it work,” he said, his anger rising. “I can make those bastards believe.”

Behind Theo a door opened, and the dull rumble of club noises rolled into the alley. He turned and saw a man step into the weak glow of a security light by the Dumpster.

“Jack?”

“I thought I saw you walk out this way. Your band’s gearing up for the next set.”

Theo started toward him and said, “Guess I lost track of time.”

“What are you doing out here?”

He put his arm around Jack’s shoulder and walked him to the door. “Just strollin’ down memory lane, buddy. And you really had to be there to know what a shitty place that is.”

“I was there, remember?”

“Absolutely. I remember everybody who was there. And I do mean everybody.”

They went back inside the club, the security bars clanging as the door closed behind them.