Last to die

Thirty-one

Côte d’Ivoire is about the size of Germany or New Mexico. Jack’s problem was that getting from Germany to New Mexico is a heck of a lot easier than getting from the airport in Abidjan to the grasslands of the north.

“I don’t do puddle jumpers,” said Jack.

“You what?” said Theo.

“I just don’t. I’ve had some bad experiences, and I just don’t do them anymore.”

“You represent a badass like my brother, and you’re afraid of flying on a little plane?”

“No, I’m afraid of crashing on a little plane. Got no problem with flying.”

And so began the ground segment of their journey, a half-day bus ride on the heels of a seventeen-hour international flight. The road system of Côte d’Ivoire is among the best in West Africa, so it might have been bearable had the nine-hour trip to Korhogo been the end of the line. Unfortunately, Sally’s sister wasn’t in Korhogo, which surprised Jack. Before leaving Miami, he’d managed to contact her by e-mail, and from an Internet café in town she’d confirmed the meeting. A nice retired couple who ran the Children First headquarters gave Jack the bad news.

“She’s gone to Odienné,” said Mr. Roberts.

“Oh, damn.”

“No, Odienné,” said Mrs. Roberts.

“I know, I meant…When is she coming back?”

“Don’t know. There was a little medical emergency she volunteered for.”

“How do we get to Odienné?”

It was an indisputable fact that any trip, no matter how well planned, no matter how experienced the travelers, had the potential for disaster. It was also indisputable that the trouble usually began with a question like, “How do we get to…”

They rented an old Land Rover in Korhogo and took turns driving, headed due west. Roads between most major towns in Côte d’Ivoire were paved, with one major exception. The road from Korhogo to Odienné was paved only as far as Boundiali, a town whose name means “drum dried in the sun,” but which might have been more aptly named “dust so thick you can’t even see the goat standing next to you.” If all roads were like the last hundred miles from Boundiali to Odienné, the wheel might never have been invented.

They reached the outskirts of Odienné just before sunset. In two hours they’d seen only one other traveler, a skinny, naked boy riding a brown-and-white cow. On one level it seemed as though they were in the middle of nowhere, yet Jack could appreciate why leaders of another era had chosen this site as the capital of the entire Kabadougou Empire. To the west, the Dienguélé range rippled over to the Guinean border. To the east rose Mont Tougoukoli, an eight-hundred-meter peak that was quite impressive, if only because it rose from the midst of seemingly endless grasslands. Jack pulled off to the side of the road, giving them a moment to shake off the dust and savor the view before driving into the city.

“My back is killing me.”

“Don’t blame me,” said Theo.

“Nobody’s blaming anybody for anything.”

“Which only proves what a great guy I am.”

“What?”

“Next time we’re hoppin’ a plane from Abidjan. I don’t care if I have to pistol-whip you and tie you to the fucking wing.”

Jack cooled his face with a splash of water from his canteen. Theo was working on his second giant liter of Bock beer, which had been ice cold when they left Korhogo, but an afternoon temperature of thirty-four degrees Celsius had taken off the chill in short order.

“You think we’ll find her?” asked Jack.

“Yup.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Cuz if we don’t, you’ll bitch all the way home like a teenage girl, sayin’ this trip was all for nothin’. So get it through your head right now, Jacko. We ain’t leavin’ till we find her.”

“That was truly powerful,” said Jack. “Have you considered a career in motivational speaking?”

Theo sucked down the last of his beer and pretended to scratch the side of his head with just one finger, the middle one, fully extended.

They entered the city around six-thirty, minutes after the largely Muslim population of forty-seven thousand had finished the sunset prayer. It was a historic agricultural town, but the grand mosquée was all that remained of its architectural treasures. The rest of the old quarters had been hastily razed as part of a radical urbanization plan that replaced shady streets and traditional old homes with utterly unremarkable modern buildings, one more facet of the development crazy mentality that cost Côte d’Ivoire more of its rain forest than any other country on earth.

“What’s that smell?” asked Jack.

“Like charcoal,” said Theo.

They drove to Hôtel les Frontières, one of the best hotels in town, which was not where Rene Fenning was staying. Her colleagues back at Children First headquarters in Korhogo had drawn a blank on where she was staying, and they could only tell Jack that she was at some joint right next to Hôtel les Frontières. It turned out to be Hôtel Touristel, which catered mostly to budget travelers on their way to or from Mali. The clerk behind the desk was not exactly fluent in English, but he was conversant enough.

“Was fire in market three day ago,” he said.

“That explains the smell,” said Theo.

“Dr. Rene come here to make help. Come. Follow.”

He led Jack and Theo outside, down a dusty walkway to the back of the building, where a large cafeteria had been converted into a hospital. About a half-dozen beds lined one wall, another dozen cots lined another wall, and dozens of brightly colored woven mats covered the floor. Most of them were empty, as if the emergency had passed. Jack counted eleven patients remaining, many with bandaged hands or arms.

A woman wearing a makeshift surgical mask, the only white woman in the room, approached them and said, “You must be Jack Swyteck.”

“Yes. This is my friend, Theo.”

She removed the scarf from around her face, and Jack realized it wasn’t a surgical mask, but rather an appropriate covering for a woman in a Muslim community, particularly a blond American trying extra hard not to offend. “I’m Rene,” she said as they shook hands. “You fellas mind stepping outside with me? You’re a little dusty, and we’re doing our best to keep down the risk of infection.”

She led them out the back door. Night had fallen, and it surprised Jack how the temperature had dropped in such a short time since sunset.

“Sorry I had to skedaddle out of Korhogo on you,” she said.

“That’s all right. Obviously it was an emergency.”

“The worst is over now. It took some doing, but we finally evacuated the most seriously injured to Abidjan.”

“Bet they wouldn’t have been afraid to fly,” said Theo.

“Excuse me?”

“Ignore him,” said Jack, shooting his friend a look that asked, “Is nothing sacred?”

Rene said, “Sorry for the way I look. I’ve hardly slept in two days. I know you’ve come a long way and would like to talk about Sally.”

“We can do it in the morning,” said Jack.

“Lunchtime would be so much better,” she said with a weary smile.

“That’s fine.”

She said, “There’s a maquis next door.”

“What’s a maquis?”

“You boys haven’t been here long, have you? It’s like a café. Let’s meet there at noon.”

“Great. See you then.”

She smiled and went back inside. As the door closed behind her, Jack and Theo looked at one another, as if sharing the exact same thought.

“Wow,” said Theo.

“Uncanny, isn’t it? She looks exactly like her sister.”

“Ten minutes in the shower, and she is an absolute knockout.”

“Gee, all these years I thought you were shallow, and here you are, able to look past a woman’s outer layer of sweat and see all the way down to her true, naked, dripping-wet worth.”

“What the hell did you just say?”

“I said she looks pretty damn good even without a shower.”

“That’s what I thought you said.”

“Come on,” said Jack, walking toward the hotel, “let’s get a room.”

Thirty-two

Where’s your friend?” asked Rene.

She and Jack were at the maquis, the open-air café next to their hotel. It was the epitome of informal dining, just a smattering of rickety wood tables and benches in the sand. They were seated across from each other in the circle of shade beneath a thatched paillote. The air smelled of cooked fish and some kind of steaming carbohydrate, appetizing enough, though the buzzing flies and oppressive heat would take some getting used to. Jack was sweating just sitting there, though Theo had been right about Rene: A shower and a good night’s sleep had vaulted her right into another league.

“Theo’s still sleeping,” he said.

“Jet lag?”

“More like jet fuel. He and a couple of Belgians on their way to Man were up late drinking something called pitasi.”

She flashed a knowing smile, as if she’d been there. “African gin. Deadly stuff.”

A waiter brought them sodas and recited the menu in French. Jack let Rene order for both of them, trusting that he wouldn’t end up with boiled eye of impala.

“You and Theo make a pretty interesting friendship.”

“I hear that a lot.”

“Have you known each other long?”

“Pretty long. He was convicted of murder when he was a teenager. I picked up the case on appeal, after he was on death row. You can get pretty close to someone after counting down the hours to their death five or six different times. Especially when they’re innocent.”

“So you got him off?”

“Guilty people get off. Theo got screwed, and we finally made it right.”

She took a long drink of cola with no ice, enjoying it before it got too warm in the midday heat. “Is that your specialty? Death penalty work?”

“Not anymore. My first four years out of law school I worked at a place called the Freedom Institute. All death penalty work.”

“Sounds pretty grim.”

“Not as grim as some other things. I worked for a Wall Street firm the summer before I graduated from law school. On the last day, I walk into the elevator and punch forty-two, just like every day before. Then a young lawyer walks in behind me, punches forty-one, a little older guy walks in, punches forty-three, and finally a senior partner comes and-well, I don’t know what she punched. I literally ran the hell out of there. I suddenly couldn’t stomach the idea that this was going to be my life, day after day, walking into the same elevator, punching the same button, going to that same little box in the sky.”

“I can relate.”

“Really?”

“Look around. This isn’t exactly a normal career step for someone who just busted her hump through a pediatric residency.”

She had a great smile, Jack noticed, and he smiled back. He hadn’t thought about it before, but they did have something seriously in common, both having chosen an unconventional start for their careers. He said, “If your experience is anything like mine was, I’m sure you have a lot of friends back home making plenty of money.”

“Money was never what it was all about for me.”

“Me neither, but…”

“But what?”

His expression turned more serious. “What about Sally?”

She let out a little sigh, as if she’d known that the conversation would land here eventually. “Sally was a very complex person.”

“Were you two close?”

“Yes, most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

She shrugged and said, “We were sisters. We had our differences, we got over them.”

“I understand she spent some time here with you.”

“Yeah. I was a bit surprised she came, but I suppose in the last few years nothing should have surprised me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Charity work in Africa is not exactly for Sally. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not for most people. But after her daughter was murdered, Sally just wanted to find a way to heal. She drifted from one extreme to the other, from partying to religion, from charity work to marrying a millionaire. In the end, I guess, nothing worked.”

The waiter brought their food, a lumpy, grainy dish that looked like rice mixed with a little meat. Jack tried it with caution, but it was surprisingly tasty. “Good choice,” he said. “I like it.”

“Really? For most people spider monkey is an acquired taste.”

“Huh?”

“Just kidding.”

They shared a smile, then Jack turned serious again. “I’m really sorry about what happened to your sister, so let me apologize in advance for some of the questions I have to ask.”

“I understand.”

“This might sound like a weird question, but do you have any reason to believe that Sally would have killed herself?”

“Suicide? She was shot in her car while waiting at an intersection.”

“I know. But what I’m really asking is, do you think it’s possible that she hired someone to kill her?”

She looked away, but Jack could still see the troubled expression on her face. “I don’t know. I have worried about her. She had a lot of issues, many of which I’m sure you already know about. Her money problems, the stalker, the murder of her daughter, her failed marriage.”

“What about the book that the reporter from the Miami Tribune was writing? Do you know anything about that?”

She paused, then said, “I do. If there was one thing that I think could have driven Sally toward suicide, it would have been that book. Or not the book, per se, but its premise.”

“What was your understanding of it?”

“Sally felt that she was being blamed for the fact that her daughter’s killer was never caught. We talked a lot about that. She was having an awful time dealing with those accusations.”

“Did you ever talk to her about the polygraph exam she took? I’m not insinuating anything, but my understanding is that it showed signs of deception when Sally answered no to the question, ‘Do you know who killed your daughter?’”

“You of all people-someone who has done death penalty work-should know that lie detector tests are not infallible. In my view, if that test showed signs of deception, the machine was wrong.”

“There was another area that the test said she was lying about. It had to do with some question about an extramarital affair.”

“If you’re asking me if Sally cheated on her husband, I don’t know. She never told me about a lover. I never got any awkward phone calls from Miguel asking, ‘Hey, did you and Sally really have dinner together last night?’-you know, the kind of checking up you’d expect from a husband if the wife was cheating.”

“Let’s assume she was having an affair. Was she the kind of person who would…how should I put this?”

“Who would cover up her own daughter’s murder to protect her lover? No way. I know that’s what the prosecutor said, and I know that’s what Deirdre Meadows wanted to write in her stupid book. Excuse my language, but that is total bullshit. Katherine was Sally’s life. She would never have covered up the murder of her own daughter out of love for some man.”

“What about out of fear?” asked Jack.

“Meaning what?”

“Again, I’m not making any accusations. Just want to consider all the possibilities. Is it possible that Sally was afraid to identify the man who killed her daughter because she was afraid he might come back and kill her, too?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know-knew-my sister.”

“Did you know that she was being stalked before her daughter was murdered?”

“I found that out when everybody else did, after the murder.”

“If she was being stalked, how can you completely dismiss the prosecutor’s theory that this stalker was her lover and that Sally was afraid to identify him as the man who killed her daughter?”

“Because I know differently. I know that after the murder, Sally was obsessed with trying to find out who her stalker was. She was hunting him down.”

Jack laid his fork on the table, absorbing what she’d just said. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“It’s true. Unless Sally was the world’s greatest actress, I’m convinced that she had never even met her stalker, let alone fallen in love with him.”

“How do you know she tried to hunt him down?”

“Like I said, Sally came to Africa to try to get over the past. She was terribly distraught over the fact that her daughter’s killer had never been caught. Finally, over two years after the murder, her stalker contacted her by e-mail while she was here in Africa. We were down at the Internet café together, checking our e-mails, when she found it.”

“What happened?”

“I scrolled through my messages, then Sally scrolled through hers. All of a sudden, she went completely white. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, ‘It’s a message from that same guy who was stalking me before.’”

“Did you read it?”

“Yes. It was benign, really. Just, ‘Hello, how have you been?’ You’d never know it was from a stalker. But I guess that’s the way all communications from stalkers start out.”

“What did Sally do?”

“She started corresponding with him. She even had one or two on-line chats. She had a plan.”

“What was it?”

“She was trying to arrange a face-to-face meeting with him.”

“In Africa?”

“No. She was willing to hop on the next plane back to Miami if he would meet with her.”

“Wasn’t that a little risky?”

“That’s finally what I said to her: ‘Hey, Sally, this could be the man who murdered Katherine and stuck a knife beneath your ribs.’ Finally, I talked her into a safer approach.”

“Which was what?”

“Just continue the on-line communications, see if he’d divulge some tidbit of information that might help the police find this guy.”

“Did it work?”

“She tried. Week after week, doing her best to coax him into saying something about where he lived, what kind of car he drove, anything. He was smart, though. Never revealed much of anything about himself. He would always turn it around and ask questions about her: What she was doing, what she was wearing, how would she like a big you-know-what in the you-know-where?”

“Did she get anything at all out of him?”

“One night, she was totally frustrated. She threatened never to talk to him on-line again if he didn’t tell her his name. He gave her a name, but Sally and I both knew it wasn’t real.”

“What was it?”

“Gosh, I don’t remember. Kind of goofy-sounding.”

“Take a minute. Think about it.”

Her brow furrowed as the wheels turned in her head. “I think it was…no. Yeah, that’s it. Alan Sirap.”

Jack froze. “Alan S-I-R-A-P?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

She obviously had no idea that Sirap was the name of Sally’s sixth beneficiary, the “unknown” whom they’d been unable to identify. Jack settled back in his chair and said, “No, I don’t know him. But I’m starting to feel like I do.”

Thirty-three

After lunch Jack took a look under the hood.

He’d offered to drive Rene back to Korhogo, and her business was finished, so she’d gladly accepted. Unfortunately, their Land Rover had developed the automotive equivalent of a smoker’s hack. Jack was no mechanic, but he’d learned a thing or two from his treasured old Mustang back home, enough to know that he should at least check the filters before returning down the same dusty road that had brought them to Odienné.

Theo was reclining in the passenger seat, his feet up on the dash, fanning himself with a folded newspaper. “You know, I think this is actually going to work.”

Jack was inspecting an air filter, blowing out the dirt. “How would you know? You haven’t lifted a finger all day.”

“I’m not talking about the Rover. I’m talking about this chapalo.”

“Your what?”

He raised the bottle and said, “It’s a millet beer my buddies from Belgium gave me. They said it would cure my hangover.”

“You think drinking more alcohol is the way to recover from drinking too much alcohol?”

“It’s not just alcohol. It’s pimenté, the way the Ivorians drink it. They add hot peppers to give it extra kick. All I know is that it’s kicking the crap out of my hangover.”

“Brilliant,” said Jack. “Next time I overeat, I’ll go stuff myself with a cheeseburger pimenté.

“Mmm. That sounds pretty good.”

Jack shut the hood, walked around to the driver’s side, and leaned into the open window. They were parked in the alley beside their hotel, taking advantage of the very limited shade of the two-story building. Jack asked, “Has your head stopped throbbing long enough for you to think about Alan Sirap?”

Theo sipped his beer and made a face, as if suffering from brief pimenté overload. “Doesn’t make no sense.”

“You mean Sally naming him as the sixth beneficiary?”

“This is the guy who stabbed Sally and killed her daughter. And Rene says her sister wanted to fly back to Miami and meet him? That’s what don’t make no sense.”

“Well, Rene talked her out of that. She realized how dangerous it could be.”

“Or how pointless it could be.”

“How’s that?” asked Jack.

“I’m thinking maybe the reason Sally wasn’t afraid to meet him is that she was convinced he wasn’t the man who killed her daughter.”

“So, you’re saying she was trying to prove a negative?”

“Huh?”

“The only reason she wanted to meet with the stalker was to rule him out as a possible suspect in the murder of her daughter.”

“Possible, ain’t it?” said Theo.

“Yeah. It’s also possible that she knew exactly how dangerous he was, but she wasn’t afraid of dying. Just like she wasn’t afraid to die two years later when she tried to hire your brother to shoot her.”

Theo squinted. The sun had moved just enough to create an annoying glare across the top of the windshield. “Either way, I guess she hated this Mr. Sirap as much as the other heirs.”

“Of course,” said Jack. “It was the stalking that led to the prosecutor’s accusation that Sally was trying to cover up for the man who killed her daughter.”

“Okay. That means five of the six heirs are connected to Sally’s past life. Which leaves a big question about my brother: What’s Tatum’s connection?”

Jack looked away, then back. “Maybe he’s the guy who made her whole scheme possible. She rewarded him for killing her.”

“No, no, doesn’t fit. She didn’t leave this money to reward anybody. She was trying to punish people. The only reason for her to punish Tatum is not because he made her scheme possible by killing her, but because he almost made her plan impossible. He refused to kill her.”

“But think about it. Doesn’t it make it more of a punishment for the other five if she makes Tatum Knight the sixth beneficiary?”

“She don’t need Tatum for that. She’s already got Alan Sirap, or whatever his real name is. Why would she need two-”

Jack waited for his friend to finish, and then he realized why he’d stopped. “Two killers? Is that what you were going to say?”

Theo chugged his beer, then threw the bottle out the open window. It smashed against the brick wall. “Was you who said it, not me,” he said angrily.

“Theo, come on.”

“Come on nothin’. I didn’t come all the way over here to prove my brother was guilty. It’d be nice if you could just pretend for ten minutes that you think he’s innocent.”

“I’m not-”

Theo got out and walked toward the hotel. Jack followed him inside, but Theo continued straight through the lobby and into the restaurant, probably for a replacement bottle of chapalo. Rene was at the front desk, checking out.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“Bad case of pissed-off pimenté.” Jack grabbed her suitcase and said, “We can load up.”

He led her outside and put her suitcase in back. She took shotgun, and Jack sat behind the wheel. Even with the windows open, there was no breeze to cut the mid-afternoon sun. The simple act of carrying her bag to the car had caused Jack to break a sweat.

Rene was checking her reflection in the rearview mirror, putting up her hair for the long and hot ride ahead of them. Jack averted his eyes when she caught him staring, though she didn’t seem to mind the attention.

With a bobby pin in her mouth she asked, “When are you going to get around to asking me?”

“Asking you what?”

“The question that must be on your mind: Why didn’t Sally leave one red cent of her forty-six million dollars to her darling sister, Rene?”

Jack removed his dusty Australian-style hat and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck with a bandanna. “That’s definitely near the top of my list.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Honestly, my plan was to give it a day or two, get to know you a little, so I could tell if you were lying or not. Then I was going to ask.”

She cut her eyes and said, “You think you’re going to get to know me that well, do you?”

“No, I wasn’t implying-I’m a pretty quick study, is what I’m trying to say.”

She seemed amused by his embarrassment. She took his hand and said, “Put your finger right here, would you, please?”

Jack pressed his finger to the center of a long, twisted braid at the back of her head. Rene tied it all together with a colorful piece of rope, the kind he’d seen African women selling on the streets of Korhogo. In seconds, she’d completely transformed her look, and somehow it came as no surprise to Jack that she was just as striking with all that hair tucked up under her hat.

She looked at Jack and asked, “Should I tell you now?”

“Tell me what?”

“About me and Sally. And her will.”

“Now’s good.”

“You sure? I can wait, if you think you’ll be a better judge of my truth telling after we’ve bounced all the way back to Korhogo together.”

She was clearly poking fun at his “plan.” He said, “I’ll assume the risk. Go ahead.”

She took a breath, adopting a more serious air. “Truth is, Sally and I had a little falling out.”

“How little?”

“Actually, not so little. We were barely speaking to each other after she left Africa.”

“What happened?”

“Things were great while she was here. Everybody at Children First loved her. Two sisters working side by side for a good cause, fighting against the use of children as slave labor in the cocoa fields. I was truly sad when she decided to leave, and I thought I understood. Till about two months later. That’s when I found out Sally was getting married.”

“To her millionaire husband.”

“Not just any millionaire. Sally’s mega-millionaire actually owns a cocoa plantation that hires child slaves.”

“I had no idea,” he said, shaking his head. “Wow. You must have felt totally betrayed.”

“I was furious.”

“Are you still?”

“In hindsight, I realize that Sally was so screwed up over the murder of her daughter. Like I said before, she tried everything from working for charity to marrying for money. Nothing made her happy.”

“Except for maybe one thing,” said Jack.

“What’s that?”

“Based on her will, I’d say revenge.”

Their eyes met and held. Finally she said, “You’re the first person I’ve talked to about this. I don’t even think Sally’s estate lawyer knows everything.”

“Thank you for telling me. I was hoping that if I came all this way I’d get to the truth.”

“Maybe it’s time I got to the truth, too. The whole truth.”

“How do you mean?”

“I was thinking about what you said yesterday, how you wondered if Sally might have reached such a low point in her life that she hired someone to shoot her. Other than myself, I can think of only one other person who would have known her well enough to answer that question.”

“I’m listening.”

A sparkle came to her eye, as if she were suddenly energized. “How’d you like to meet Sally’s rich ex-husband?”

“I thought he lived in France.”

“He’s French, but he lives here most of the year.”

“You can arrange a meeting?”

“No promises, but with your friend Theo tagging along, I think we can pull off just about anything. Brains, beauty, brawn. How can we miss?”

“I know which of us is the brawn. So that must make me-”

“The baggage,” she said with a wink, as if to confirm that she was two of the three. “Now go get your brawny friend. Time’s a-wasting.”

Thirty-four

The road south was paved all the way to Man, a city of about 150,000 people in a breathtaking geographical setting. It was called the “town of eighteen peaks,” perhaps an overly romantic appellation for a confusing and frankly unattractive collection of urban districts that were spread across a valley and surrounded by mountains. Jack had no preconceived notion of West African cities, but Man reminded him of something else entirely, a place he just couldn’t put his finger on, until Theo spoke up.

“Like a shitty Colorado town without all the white people.”

They spent the night in Man, then set out in the morning for the coffee and cocoa farming region in western Côte d’Ivoire. The air had been scrubbed clean by an early shower, one last tropical blast at the tail end of a seven-month rainy season. Driving at the higher altitudes was a pleasant change from the dusty trek across the baked northern grasslands, but it wasn’t as beautiful as Jack had imagined it. High, forest-strewn ridges offered some insight into how the entire region had looked years earlier, before logging and agriculture claimed the rain forests.

“Are we there yet?” asked Theo.

Jack and Rene were in front, Theo in back. Theo flashed him a big grin in the rearview mirror, revealing not his teeth but the wedge of an orange that for some childish reason made Jack laugh. It reminded Jack of something Nate would have done, which made him think of Kelsey, which made him feel slightly guilty for having discreetly but frequently admired the shape of Rene’s legs since leaving Man. It got him to thinking that maybe he wasn’t interested in Kelsey after all. Maybe she’d simply managed to breathe life into a part of himself that he’d left for dead with his divorce.

Good thing we nipped it in the bud, he thought. Perhaps it was no coincidence that he’d jumped at the chance to leave the country at the first sign of anything serious between them.

“About another half hour,” said Rene.

Theo grumbled and went back to sleep. Over the next few miles, the road turned into dirt tracks. All signs of forest disappeared, giving way to row after row of cultivated cacao trees. Thousands of them stretched for miles up the hills and into the valley, each one about twenty feet tall with large, glossy green leaves.

“Slow down,” said Rene.

Jack cut his speed to a crawl as she pointed to a group of workers in the field. The team leaders were shirtless young men, each of them armed with a long pole that had a mitten-shaped knife at the end. It was their job to select the ripe cacao pods, slice them off the tree, and let them fall to the ground. Behind them were even younger-looking men, more likely boys, machete in hand and a cigarette clenched between their teeth as they performed the stoop-labor ritual of gathering the pods and cracking them open for a handful of cocoa beans.

“That boy over there,” she said. “Probably no more than ten years old.”

Again, Jack thought of Nate. “Where do these kids come from?”

“All over. Mali, Burkina Faso. The poorest countries you can imagine.”

“How do they get here?”

“Sometimes they’re stolen. Usually they’re tricked. Locateurs-recruiters-will go to bus stations, city markets, wherever, and promise these kids the good life. It’s all a con. That team of five over there-Sally’s ex-husband probably paid some locateur sixty bucks for the lot of them.”

“This is his plantation?”

“One of his. One of twenty thousand.”

“Twenty thousand?” he said with surprise.

“Sounds like a lot, but there are over six hundred thousand coffee and cocoa farms in this country.”

“That’s a lot of beans.”

“A lot of money,” she said, her gaze drifting back toward the workers in the field. “And a lot of kids.”

He glanced in her direction, catching a glimpse of the genuine concern in her eyes. He felt a strange rush of conflicting emotions, both sadness over the tragedy she was fighting and admiration for the passion with which she fought. It seemed like a strangely selfish thought, coming to him as it did while mere boys toiled in the fields around him, but Rene was definitely the kind of woman who could make a divorced man feel alive again.

“Turn down this road,” she said.

The dirt tracks turned into paved highway, and Jack realized that their little detour was over. “Where to now?” he asked.

“Almost as far as Daloa. Jean Luc has a house there.”

Jack had to think a moment, having almost forgotten that Jean Luc was the name of Sally’s rich second ex-husband. “Have you ever met him?”

“No.”

“Know anything about him?”

“He’s a French citizen, but he’s lived most of his life here.”

“Obviously wealthy.”

“Obviously. I just gave you some idea of his labor cost.”

“Good money in chocolate, I guess.”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘good.’”

“I assume Sally wasn’t unaware of his wealth when she set her sights on him.”

“He was reasonably handsome in the one photograph I’ve seen. But he was in his mid-sixties. Draw your own conclusions.”

They stopped at the gate at the end of the paved road. An armed guard emerged from the guardhouse.

Theo stirred in the backseat and said, “You want me to take care of this?”

“I’ll handle it,” said Rene. “This is one instance where looking like my sister should definitely be an advantage.”

“Like it’s ever a disadvantage,” said Theo.

She gave a little smile, then got out of the truck. The guard approached and met her halfway. Jack could hear them talking, but they were speaking French.

“What’s she saying?” asked Theo.

“Who do I look like, Maurice Chevalier? At this point, all we can do is trust her.”

“You’re cool with that?”

“I am.”

“Good. Cuz if she fucking sells me to this guy, I’m coming after your ass with that machete.”

Jack started humming “Thank Heaven, for Little Girls.” Rene and the guard finished their conversation with an exchange of smiles and multiple expressions of merci, merci, all of which Jack took as a good sign. She got back in the car, and the guard opened the gate to let them pass.

“What did you tell him?” asked Jack.

“A magician never reveals her tricks,” she said.

“Tricks, my ass,” said Theo. “You promised him fifty bucks on the way out.”

“Twenty-five. How did you know?”

“These things I know,” said Theo.

“Drive on,” she said. Jack followed the road past more cacao trees, small ones that grew in the shade of larger banana and coffee trees. After a half mile of ruts and dust, the road flattened into a relatively well-maintained driveway. It curved around a pond, leading to a huge house on the river at the foot of the mountain. It was the nicest house Jack had seen since landing in Africa, but it was a far cry from the mansion he had expected.

“Pretty simple digs for a multimillionaire,” said Jack.

“Typical,” said Rene. “You flash money here, you draw bandits. It’s the inside that looks like the lap of luxury.”

They parked in front beside two other SUVs. Jack brought along a dossier holding his legal papers. An African man came out and greeted them on the covered porch. The guard had apparently radioed ahead to alert him of visitors. He and Rene conversed in French, and then she turned to Jack and said, “This is Mr. Diabate, Jean Luc’s personal assistant. He wants to know the purpose of our visit.”

Jack opened the dossier and showed him a copy of Sally’s will and death certificate. “Tell him that I’m an attorney from the U.S., and that I have some questions for Sally’s ex-husband.”

Rene translated, then looked at Jack and said, “What kind of questions?”

“Tell him that it has to do with the money-”

“Jack, cork it,” said Theo. “Rene, do your trick again. Ask him if he wants to meet Andrew Jackson several times over.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” the man said in English.

Jack did a double take, but it was worth a few bucks if the guy could speak English. Jack checked his wallet, then pulled back. “Is Jean Luc even here?”

“In a manner of speaking,” the man said.

“What does that mean?”

Diabate tapped his foot, waiting. Jack handed over a few bills and watched him count in silence. The man stuffed the cash in his shirt pocket, seemingly satisfied, then looked at Jack and said, “Monsieur, Jean Luc is dead.”

Thirty-five

Tatum knew he shouldn’t do it. But with the lawyer away, the client plays. Especially when his brother goes with him.

Jack had given him a stiff warning before leaving for Africa: Under no circumstances was Tatum to have any communication with Sally’s other beneficiaries. Doing so would be a direct violation of the restraining order. Tatum promised “to lay low” and “not to do anything stupid.” Technically speaking, he never actually promised to heed Jack’s advice. Besides, there was only one beneficiary he wanted to talk to, which meant that there were four others he wouldn’t contact, which translated to 80 percent compliance with his lawyer’s instructions. In Tatum’s book, that was something to be pretty damn proud of.

Gerry Colletti was down the street from his house, walking his dog, when Tatum caught up with him. It was early morning, and Colletti was wearing his robe and slippers, the unwrapped morning paper tucked under one arm. Tatum approached from behind at a moment when he’d be most off guard, just as Colletti stooped down to collect fresh poodle droppings with his pooper-scooper.

“Thought you only talked shit, Colletti. Didn’t know you collected it.”

Colletti dropped the newspaper and looked behind him, obviously startled. He scooped the droppings into a plastic bag and said, “You’re in violation of your restraining order. Get away, or I’m calling the judge.”

“I’m not hurting anybody.”

“You’re within five hundred yards of me. It doesn’t matter if you hurt me or not.”

“Doesn’t matter? If that’s the case, I might as well beat you to a pulp. No sense doing time in jail just for talking.”

Colletti took a half-step back, trying to put more space between them. His little dog growled and bared its teeth. “Easy, Muffin.”

“Your dog’s name is Muffin?” said Tatum, taunting.

“Come near me and she’ll chew your leg off. What do you want to talk about?”

“I was hoping that you and me could come to an understanding.”

A modicum of tension drained from his expression, as if he liked the sound of Tatum’s approach. “What are you proposing?”

“First, you need to understand it wasn’t me who attacked you in the parking lot.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“What do you mean, you don’t care?”

“I already made the judge believe it was you. I can make the cops believe it, I can make a jury believe it, I can probably even make your own lawyer believe it. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, so long as I can prove it.”

“You can’t prove anything. You’re like that bag of dog shit in your hand.”

“You’re dead wrong about that, Mr. Knight. I put my best investigator on your trail. He’s uncovered some pretty interesting things about you.”

Tatum smiled and shook his head. “So I got an impressive résumé. Big deal. That don’t change the facts. It wasn’t me who pummeled you.”

“You’re missing my point. If you don’t step aside and renounce your claim to this inheritance, a guy like me can create a ton of problems for a guy like you.”

“You think it’s that easy?”

“My offer still stands. In fact, I’ll make it even sweeter. Three hundred thousand dollars cash is yours, no strings attached.”

“That’s it, huh? I’m supposed to give up my shot at forty-six million dollars just because you say so?”

“No, because you’re going to land in jail if you don’t.”

Tatum wasn’t smiling anymore. He could feel his anger rising. “You’re out of your league, Colletti.”

“To the contrary. You’re out of yours. This is business as usual for me.”

“You think you’re that good, do you?”

Colletti picked up his dog, stroking its head as he cradled the ball of white, curly fur in his arms. “How do you think I ended up in this game in the first place?”

“It’s pretty obvious. Sally Fenning was trying to dish out her own version of revenge to her enemies. You represented her husband in their divorce.”

“You think that’s what got me on the list?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Oh, Tatum, you are stupider than I thought. Miguel told me to go easy on Sally, which left me with a ton of ammunition and no way to use it. It seemed like such a shame to dig up all that dirt on Sally and then let it go to waste. Then the brainstorm hit me. If Miguel didn’t want to use it for his own benefit, I could use it for mine.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“All it took was a simple warning to Sally: If she didn’t give in to my demands, I’d make it a matter of public record that Sally was having an affair with the man who murdered her daughter, and that she was covering up for him.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“None of your business. But again, you miss the point. I was even less sure of my accusations against her than I am about my charges against you. But I still pulled it off.”

“Pulled what off?”

He flashed a thin, satisfied grin. “Ask any divorce lawyer who’s ever had a wounded wife as a client and he’ll tell you, getting her in the sack is like shooting fish in a barrel. But getting the wife to spread her legs when she’s the client of the opposing lawyer…Well,” he said smugly, “now that’s a good day’s work.”

“You think I’m just going to spread my legs, too?”

“No,” he said, his smile fading into a more serious glare. “You look more like the type to just bend over and take it.”

Tatum went at him and grabbed his throat. With his other hand he tried to contain the dog, but it leaped from Colletti’s arms and bit Tatum on the wrist. Tatum flung the animal across the road and recoiled in pain. He was bleeding as he backed away.

Colletti massaged his throat. Tatum hadn’t held him long, but it was a hard, martial arts-style hit. He caught his breath and said, “See that, Tatum? Even Muffin gets a piece of you.” He gathered up his precious dog and walked away.

Tatum just stood there, seething, watching, and holding his wrist.

Thirty-six

They traveled halfway back to Korhogo before stopping at a hotel for the night. It would have been much easier to drive around big Lake Kossou and take the main highway north, but they opted for the scenic route through Parc National de la Marahoué, as Jack wasn’t about to leave Africa without seeing some form of wildlife besides Theo.

“They’re throwing kids,” said Theo.

“What?” said Jack.

They were having dinner at another maquis, eating grilled chicken and attiéké, a local side dish made from grated roots. A crowd had gathered in the town square across the street. A group of teenagers was moving rhythmically to the beat of a drum, but most of the audience seemed focused on a spectacle of some sort.

“I swear to God,” said Theo. “There’s kids flying through the air over there.”

“It’s the child jugglers,” said Rene.

“They juggle kids?”

“It’s an old tradition under the Guéré, Dan, and I think the Wobé peoples. Jugglers train for months. The girls are specially selected from the tribe. They have to be skinny, supple, and definitely not prone to crying. Five years old is a prime age.”

“And they throw them through the air?” said Jack.

Theo was standing on his chair for a better view. “It’s amazing. Let’s go watch.”

Rene said, “Africa has some wonderful traditions, but this one doesn’t exactly jibe with my pediatric training.”

“I think I’ll pass, too,” said Jack.

“Suit yourself,” said Theo. He stuffed a piece of grilled chicken into his mouth and started across the street.

Jack tilted back another glass of palm wine. After half a bottle, he was beginning to acquire a taste for it. Rene refilled her glass, then raised it and said, “Well, here’s to Jean Luc. May he rest in pieces.”

Jack met her toast, fully understanding that she wouldn’t want to wish “peace” on Sally’s ex, even in death. “That was some surprise, huh?”

“Not really. Daloa can be a dangerous place, even if you’re careful.”

“Obviously he wasn’t careful enough.”

“It only takes one mistake. The Red Cross chose Daloa as this year’s center of activities for World AIDS Day. What does that tell you?”

“I guess he had a weakness for the local women.”

“Or some of the boys he bought.”

There was bitterness in her tone, and Jack didn’t even want to think about how often that must have happened. Jack asked, “When did he and Sally divorce?”

“A few months ago. Why?”

“I was thinking on the car ride here. The fact that he died of AIDS may shed some light on Sally’s state of mind.”

“I was thinking about that, too.”

“Did Jean Luc give her AIDS?”

“I don’t know.”

“It would fit with some of the things I’ve been hearing about her.”

“What have you been hearing?”

Jack couldn’t tell her that Sally tried to hire Tatum to shoot her, since that was a privileged communication from his client. He had to keep it general, as he had in their first meeting in Korhogo. “She just didn’t seem to be terribly afraid of death. And I don’t say that lightly. I understand what she went through. My sense is that she had no reason to go on living after the murder of her daughter. If she had AIDS, she might have felt as though there was no point in prolonging the inevitable.”

“Are you back on that theory you mentioned to me before-that Sally might have hired someone to kill her?”

“It’s not much of a stretch to believe that she’d hire someone to kill her under these circumstances.”

She looked away, and sadness came over her. “I’d be lying if I told you that I hadn’t worried about Sally. But this idea that she would have hired someone to shoot her, I don’t really understand. Why go to all that trouble? Why wouldn’t she have just shot herself?”

“You could have been the reason.”

“You’re blaming me?”

“No, no. Quite the opposite.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Here’s something that might help you understand. A few years ago, I saw a story on television about some Academy Award-winning actress. I forget who it was, but that’s not important. The point is, before she made it big, she was so unhappy that she decided to kill herself. Problem was, she was afraid her friends and family would feel guilty that they hadn’t noticed her depression in time to keep her from committing suicide. So she tried to hire a guy to shoot her, make it look like a random murder. The gunman talked her out of it.”

“So you think Sally…”

“I think she might have found a less compassionate hit man.”

“Do you have any idea who it might have been?”

Jack looked across the street. Theo was dancing with two women, laughing, waving his arms, and having a good time. It suddenly reminded him of the talk he’d had with the detective on Sally’s case, who’d tried to warn him that Tatum was nothing like his brother Theo.

“That’s what I need to sort out,” said Jack.

Thirty-seven

Kelsey was steeped in murder-all of its elements, from malice aforethought to the mortal wound.

Criminal law had been her favorite first-year course, and she’d spent probably more hours than necessary boning up on it over the last few weeks. She was devoting more and more time to the Sally Fenning case, and the media were starting to make it sound as though the police were narrowing their suspects. If an indictment was headed in the direction of Jack’s client, she wanted to second chair the trial-but only if Jack thought she knew her stuff.

She took one last gulp of cold coffee and closed her books. The University of Miami Law Library was open till midnight, and she’d closed it down again. The vacuum cleaners were already humming across the carpet, and some frantic law-review type was cursing at a photocopy machine that had been switched off for the night.

“Good night, Felipe,” she said to the ponytailed undergrad who worked behind the desk.

“Night,” he said.

She passed by the sensors and exited through the double doors to the courtyard. The night was cool, so she laid her book bag on the bench to pull on her sweatshirt. It had been crowded when she’d arrived for her night class, so she’d parked at the far end of the student lot near the intramural fields. She had to cut across the campus to get there, and she didn’t give it a second thought until she reached a dark

K stretch of sidewalk beneath a cluster of huge banyan trees. The sun had been shining when she’d arrived, and it was a very different walk at midnight. The thick canopy overhead blocked out the moonlight, streetlights, light of any sort. There were only shadows ahead, different shades of black. Banyans were strange, eerie trees with ropy roots that hung from branches and reached for the ground like long tentacles. Kelsey wove her way through them, dodging the hanging roots like a slow-motion slalom skier. She missed one in the darkness, bumping straight into it and giving herself a start. She took a step back and tried to collect herself, but her pulse raced. Halfway through the banyans, she suddenly felt the urge to turn and run back. She forced herself forward, only to meet another dangling root. It tangled in her hair and made her whole body quiver. She pushed it aside and hurried forward, swinging her arm like a machete through the jungle. Her pace quickened, and she was nearly at a dead run when she slammed into something that brought her to a halt and took her breath away.

One hell of a root.

She gathered herself up and started forward, but as quickly as she rose she was down again. She was about to scream when he pounced on top of her. His knees were on her belly, and she was flat on her back.

“Don’t move,” he said in a coarse whisper.

He talked as if he had a wad of cotton in his mouth to disguise his voice. There was barely enough light to see that he was wearing a ski mask, but the gun in her face was plainly visible.

“Don’t hurt me,” she said, her voice shaking.

“I hope I don’t have to.”

“Please, take my purse, whatever you want.”

“You got forty-six million dollars in that purse, honey?”

She felt a pain in her stomach, and it wasn’t just his knees. “What’s this about?”

“You work for Swyteck, and he represents Tatum Knight.”

“That’s right.”

“Tatum is one of the heirs under Sally Fenning’s will.”

“Uh-huh.”

He pressed the barrel of his revolver into her cheekbone. “You got two weeks to change that.”

“Change? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t care how you do it. But in two weeks, I want Jack Swyteck to persuade his client to give up his shot at the inheritance and withdraw from Sally’s game.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“Figure it out.”

“How?”

“I told you. I don’t care how.”

“What if I can’t?”

The gun was still in her face, but she felt something sharp at her ribs, a stabbing sensation that didn’t really hurt, but it definitely made his point. “You get it done, bitch. Or your little boy, Nate, goes the way of Sally Fenning’s daughter.”

She was suddenly breathless, barely able to get out the words. “Please, not my son.”

“Please, my ass. Now, keep this between us. If you go to the police, if you make this public in any way, it’s Nate who pays. Understood?”

A tear ran down her cheek, collecting at the depression from the barrel of his gun.

“Understood?” he said harshly.

“Yes,” she said in a voice that cracked.

In one quick motion, he rose and rolled her onto her belly.

“Count to a thousand before you go anywhere,” he said.

She lay with her face in the dirt, afraid to make a move, too frightened to count as his fading footsteps echoed in the darkness.

Thirty-eight

Tshe next morning Jack went for a run. It wasn’t just about exercise. He wanted to check his phone messages, and it was two miles to the nearest store offering international phone service-cabines téléphoniques, they were called, not really phone booths but private phones for hire. He would have driven, but Theo was off in the Land Rover in search of doughnuts. Rene had warned him that it would be an utter waste of time, but Theo was having one of those bear-like cravings that could have had him scouring a rice paddy for a bag of barbecued potato chips.

Jack was soaked with sweat when he reached the general store at the end of the road. It was early in the day, and he’d run countless hours in Miami summers. That didn’t matter: African Heat, 1; Jack Swyteck, 0. He put his hands on his hips and walked off the side-stitch, wondering for an instant if the sight before him was a mirage. Sure enough, their Land Rover was parked out front, and Theo was sitting on the hood, stuffing his face.

“What’d you get?” asked Jack.

“Croissants.”

“No doughnuts?”

“Close enough.”

Jack went inside and paid the clerk, who directed him to the private phone in back. He dialed the operator, told her to cut off the call when the outrageous cost per minute hit fifty bucks, and then connected to his voice mail.

The most recent message had come through just an hour earlier, 1:37 A.M. Miami time. It was from Kelsey. Her voice was shaking, and it sounded as though she’d been crying. “Jack, please call me when you get this message. It’s very important.”

That was the end of it. Some work-related messages followed, but after the call from Kelsey he wasn’t exactly focused, so he hung up. He held the phone for a moment, debating. It wasn’t even 3 A.M. back in Miami, but her message had sounded too serious to wait another three or four hours. He rang the operator again and returned the call.

“Hello?” she said. It didn’t sound as though he’d woken her.

“It’s me, Jack. Is everything okay?”

“No,” she said, her voice filling with emotion. “But I’m glad you called.”

“What’s wrong?”

She talked fast and told him. Jack wanted to take a moment to calm her down, but he was afraid they might get cut off any minute.

“Did you get a look at him?”

“No, it was too dark. I’m almost certain he was wearing a mask anyway.”

“Try to remember as much as you can, and write it all down so you don’t forget. His height, his smell, his weight, any accent in his voice.”

“He talked like he had cotton in his mouth, so I’m not sure what his voice sounds like.”

“That’s okay. Just write it all down.”

“I’m so scared.”

“Have you called the police?”

“No.”

“Kelsey, you need to call the police.”

“No! He told me-” She stopped, as if there was something she didn’t want to tell him.

“He told you what?” asked Jack.

“I just can’t go to the police.”

“Did he threaten you?”

Again she paused, and he knew she wasn’t telling him something, probably to keep him from worrying about things he couldn’t fix from another continent. “Kelsey, I’m coming back to Miami.”

He could hear the relief in her voice as she said, “I would feel so much better if you did.”

“I’m sort of in the middle of nowhere, but I’ll start working on it as soon as I hang up. Somehow, I’ll figure out a way to get there.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t worry, okay?”

“Too late.”

“I can hire you a guard to stay with you, if that will make you feel safe.”

“No, that’s not necessary. If I get scared I’ll stay with my mother.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Just get home, Jack. We’ll sort everything out when you’re back.”

“Okay. Hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Hopefully.”

By nightfall they were back where they’d started, in the cocoa-growing region near Daloa. Backtracking didn’t seem like progress, but returning early to Miami was proving to be more difficult than anticipated. They were a full day’s drive from the international airport in Abidjan, and that was the good news. Unless Jack wanted to cough up another thirteen thousand dollars to fly to Miami via Paris, they’d be stuck in Côte d’ Ivoire at least another three days. That was when Theo concocted Plan B.

“You sure we can trust these guys?” asked Jack.

“They’re Belgerian. You ever met a Belgerian you couldn’t trust?”

“What the hell’s a Belgerian?”

“They’re from Brussels. You know, Belgerians.”

“So that would make them what? Bulgarians who live in Belgium?”

Theo downshifted, pushing the Land Rover across some of the darkest, roughest roads they’d traveled yet. Rene bounced so hard in the backseat that her head nearly hit the ceiling. Jack just watched the tiny raindrops that were starting to splatter against the windshield.

Belgerians?

Rene asked, “How’d you meet these fellows?”

“They were my drinking buddies back in Odienné. Swyteck here crapped out on me and went to sleep. These two guys were nice enough to introduce me to their African gin.”

“Are they going to meet us here?”

“No. We’re looking for a dude named Lutu.”

“Doesn’t sound Belgerian to me,” said Jack.

Theo stopped at a crossroad for no apparent reason. They were surrounded by cocoa fields, far from city lights, shrouded in darkness by the gathering clouds overhead.

“What now?” asked Jack.

“We walk from here,” said Theo.

“Walk where?”

Theo checked his map, which was nothing more than some indecipherable lines he’d scrawled on the back of a napkin while talking on the telephone to his Belgerian friends. “Down this road. Airstrip should be on the other side of those trees.”

“The road goes in that direction. Why can’t we drive there?”

“Because they told me not to.”

“Why?”

“Why, why, I don’t know why. We got drunk together. I gave them my phone number in Miami and said come get a suntan. They gave me the number of friends they were staying with in Man and said to call if I need anything. I called. They helped. Period. Isn’t that enough?”

“Only for Belgerians,” said Jack as he opened the door.

The three of them stepped out onto the dirt road. The rain was more like a mist, but the worst of the storm clouds were backlit by a full moon, and they were starting to look threatening. Jack put on his Australian-style hat and got his duffle bag down from the luggage rack. It wasn’t all that heavy, but he wasn’t thrilled about lugging it on his back for who knew how long in search of some hidden airstrip.

The steady hum of an airplane engine rippled across the farmland. Jack looked into the sky but saw nothing. The noise was coming from somewhere on the ground, presumably the airstrip beyond the tall stand of cocoa trees.

Theo checked his watch and said, “Shit, man. We gotta run.”

Rene said, “I’ll drop off the Land Rover as soon as I reach Korhogo.”

“Thanks,” said Jack. “And thanks for everything. I mean it, you were a great help.”

“You’re welcome. Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”

“Me too. But if you’re ever in Miami.”

She smiled and said, “Right. And if you’re ever in Korhogo again…don’t call me, because it means you are absolutely out of your mind.”

Jack smiled, and then with the speed of a hummingbird she gave him a quick and tiny kiss on the cheek. “See ya around,” she said.

“Yeah, see ya,” he said, definitely caught off guard. He watched as she walked back to the car, got behind the wheel, and drove away.

Theo cleared his throat and said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and you’ll always have Paris. Now come on, Bogie, the plane’s leavin’.”

Jack checked the night sky, which was definitely promising serious rainfall. The airplane engine was whining even louder. “Let’s go,” said Jack.

They jogged side by side down the rutted path of dirt, taking care not to turn an ankle. Jack was huffing, Theo was grunting, and the plane was sounding awfully close. “Just-a little-further,” said Theo, struggling for breath.

“Will he wait for us?”

“Hell no.”

“You mean if we miss this plane-”

“It’s you,” he said, huffing, “me, and the antelopes.”

Jack took it to a higher gear, and Theo was right with him. The road cut through the stand of cocoa trees, though it was overgrown in spots with big fanlike banana tree leaves. The mist had turned into real rain, and Jack could hear the big drops pattering against the leafy canopy. They sprinted through the foliage until they reached a clearing on the opposite side. As soon as they were out in the open, the rain became a downpour. In seconds, they were soaked.

“Shit!” said Jack.

“There’s the plane,” said Theo. He was pointing to a pair of headlights at the far end of a so-called airstrip that was nothing more than a field of grass and packed dirt.

“You said it was a prop-jet.”

“I lied.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a twin engine Cessna.”

“A puddle jumper? I told you, I don’t do puddle jumpers.”

Theo looked up into the driving rain. “Then you can spend the night here sleeping in the puddles.” He turned and ran toward the plane.

Jack thought for a second, then started after him. As they reached the end of the airstrip, a man jumped out of the aircraft. He was easily as big as Theo, dressed completely in black. Jack and Theo froze. He was pointing a gun at them.

“Easy, dude,” said Theo. “We’re friends of Hans and Edgar.”

“The Belgerians,” said Jack.

“What be your names?” He spoke with an accent that Jack couldn’t quite place.

“He’s Jack, I’m Theo.”

He smiled and put the gun in his belt. “I’m Lutu. Get in.”

Theo stepped forward, but Jack didn’t move. Theo said, “Come on, Jack.”

The rain was falling, the engines were howling, and this friend of the mad Belgerians was packing a pistol. Jack said, “I don’t think so.”

Just then, another set of headlights appeared at the other end of the airstrip. It was an open Jeep filled with men. Two of them had rifles strapped to their shoulders.

“Oh, boy,” said Lutu.

“Oh, boy, what?” said Jack.

“I knew I should never have been waitin’ on you gents so long. Looks like we won’t be takin’ dis here plane without a fight.”

“What do you mean ‘taking’?” asked Theo.

“What do you mean ‘a fight’?” asked Jack.

“The owner of dis here plantation don’t pay his bills, we take dis here plane back. Dat the way it is. But maybe dat don’t make the owner so happy, you know what I saying?”

Jack glared at Theo and said, “We’re on a repo mission?”

“How was I to know?”

Jack whacked him about the head and shoulders with his soaking wet hat.

“Hey, hey, hey,” said Theo. “You want to get home or don’t you?”

The crack of gunfire echoed in the darkness. The Jeep full of armed guards was speeding toward them.

“Holy shit!” said Jack.

“Get in!” said Lutu.

They scampered up the wing and climbed aboard. Lutu took the yoke, Theo strapped himself into the seat beside him, and Jack sat behind them. The plane was moving before Jack could find his seat belt, and the engines roared as Lutu asked for every bit of power they packed. They were speeding down the bumpy dirt runway, the entire plane shaking so intensely that Jack was bouncing like a pinball from one side to the other.

“Sorry,” said Lutu. “Got to get dis here plane up fast!”

Jack wedged himself between the seats to keep from slamming his head against the ceiling. The rain was cascading off the windshield, the wipers working furiously. He managed to catch a glimpse of the fast-approaching Jeep. It was a game of chicken, the plane against the Jeep, Lutu against the lunatic aiming his rifle straight at them. Jack saw the sudden recoil in the man’s shoulder.

They’re shooting at us!

“Wooo-hoooo!” shouted Theo, loving every minute of it.

The plane hit another huge hole in the airstrip, and Jack went flying. He had to grab something, so he grabbed Theo by the throat.

“Woooo-glupp!”

Lutu pulled back on the yoke, and the bouncing stopped as they lifted a few precious feet off the ground.

“Pull up!” said Jack.

“Watch this,” said Lutu. He held the plane steady, exactly the right altitude to decapitate everyone in the oncoming Jeep.

“Are you crazy?” shouted Jack.

The flying plane was closing fast. The men in the Jeep jumped out just before the plane passed, ditching the Jeep but saving their scalps.

“Wooo-hoooo!” shouted Theo.

“Oh shit,” said Lutu.

The tall trees at the end of the airstrip were fast approaching. Lutu pulled back on the yoke, all the way back, sending the plane on a mean vertical climb. Jack fell back in his seat and banged his head, nearly knocking himself silly. He fought to keep his bearings, got on his knees, and watched, his eyes shifting back and forth between the rising altimeter and the approaching treetops.

“Come on, baby,” said Lutu.

“Please, God,” said Jack.

They cleared the tallest tree by a good half-meter.

“Yes!” said Theo. He and Lutu were slapping high fives. Jack was checking the knotty bruise that was taking over the back of his head.

Theo glanced back, all smiles, and said, “You owe me big time for this one, Swyteck!”

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

Thirty-nine

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

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

“Rene told me that Alan Sirap was Sally’s stalker.”

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

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

“I’m not sure it’s good enough,” said Vivien.

“Good enough for what?” asked Jack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s right,” said the others, a sudden chorus of agreement.

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

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

“That’s correct,” said Vivien.

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

“This meeting isn’t about posturing,” said Jack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any takers?” asked Gerry.

“Is this legal?” asked Deirdre.

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

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

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

“I guess I would be,” said Mason Rudsky.

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

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

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

“Let’s talk about this in private,” his lawyer said.

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

“Are you sure about this?” she asked.

“I’m sure.”

Gerry had a gleam in his eye. “Anyone else?”

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

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

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

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

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

Forty

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Nate?” she asked.

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

“No, I’m his mother.”

“He said he wanted his mommy.”

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

“Where’s Nate?” she said as she reached the kitchen.

Her sister kept her eyes on her cards. “He’s in the playroom with the kids.”

“No, he’s not.”

“What do you mean he’s not?”

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

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

“Nate!”

“Where are you, Nate?”

“Nate, honey!”

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

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

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

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

Or maybe a very timely warning.

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

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

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

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

Unless the message was that she was already too late.

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

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

Forty-one

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

“What’s cooking?” her editor asked as he breezed past her messy cubicle.

“Oh, the usual Miami spice,” she said weakly.

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

But was silence really the only way?

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

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

“How’s my favorite reporter this morning?”

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

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

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

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

“How do you know about that?”

“I have my sources. Just like you.”

“Who?”

“Get real.”

“How do you know they’re reliable?”

“They’re reliable. The kind you’d love to have.”

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

“Enough to write this down.”

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

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

“I’m listening.”

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

Her voice tightened. “How could I forget that?”

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

“How do you mean?”

“Not everyone has to die.”

“No one has to die.”

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

“No,” she said sharply. “Don’t put this on me.”

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

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

“I have a story for you.”

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

“It’s about Tatum Knight.”

“That’s a good start.”

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

“What did they talk about?”

“She hired him to kill her.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. “She what?”

“You hard of hearing?”

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

“You can, and you will.”

“But I need two sources before the Tribune will print-”

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

She paused, confused. “Why write it if I can’t print it?”

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

“What’s the threat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forty-two

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He live here?”

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

“She know him?”

“No. Says she’s never seen him before.”

“She see anything?”

“No.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Not yet.”

“Any identification on him?”

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

“Anything else?”

“That’s about it. Medical examiner moved in and took over.”

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

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

“Better than him.”

“That good, huh?”

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

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

“Hit and run?”

“Pretty safe guess.”

“How’d he end up in the driveway? Fly or dragged here?”

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

“Anybody checking for skid marks?”

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

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

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

“You know him?”

“Don’t you? He’s an assistant state attorney.”

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

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

Forty-three

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

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

“Good evening, Mr. Swyteck.”

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

“Don’t hang up. You’ll be sorry if you do.”

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

“Mason Rudsky.”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

Jack suddenly needed to sit down. “Dead?”

“Yes, very.”

“What do you know about it?”

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

“Where’s his body?”

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

“Then why are you calling me?”

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

“Killed by whom?”

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

“You mean the two-hundred-fifty grand?”

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

“I don’t understand. If he knew that, then what’s the motive for killing him?”

“That’s the part I need everybody to understand. Especially you, because I hear rumors that your client is feeling pressure to bow out, too.”

“I’m sure everyone’s feeling pressure. That’s the way the game is being played.”

“Well, that’s not the way it’s going to be played anymore,” he said, his disguised voice taking on an edge.

“Sally set it up that way,” said Jack. “You can win either by outliving the others, or by persuading the others to drop out.”

“I don’t care how she set it up. You idiots might think you can win the game that way, but let Rudsky’s death send a message loud and clear. There’s only one person who takes the money, and there’s only one person who walks out alive.”

“So, you’re saying what? No more dropouts?”

“Exactly. No more dropouts.”

“What is it then?” asked Jack. “A fight to the death?”

“It’s personal now. New ball game. My game.”

“What gives you the right to change the rules?”

“Go to your mailbox.”

Jack stopped pacing. “What?”

“Just go to your damn mailbox.”

Jack walked through the house with his cordless phone pressed to his ear. His mailbox was mounted on the wall outside his front door. He opened the door and stepped onto the porch, scanning the yard and checking across the street to see if someone might be watching.

“I’m here,” he said.

“Look in the box.”

He reached slowly for the lid, wondering if a snake or rat might fly out. He stood as far away as he could, raising up the lid with the tip of his fingers. It flew open, but nothing popped out. Inside was an envelope.

“What is it?” Jack said into the phone.

“Open it.”

It was unsealed. Jack opened the flap. Tucked inside was a gold locket in the shape of a heart. “It’s pretty,” he said. “But you don’t sound like my type.”

“It was Sally Fenning’s, smartass.”

Jack suddenly felt guilty for having joked about it. “How did you get it?”

“Look inside,” he said, ignoring the question.

There was a latch on the side of the gold heart. Jack opened it like a book. Inside the locket was a photograph of a young girl. Jack had seen enough photographs to know that it was Katherine, Sally’s four-year-old daughter.

Jack felt a lump in his throat, but he talked over it. “Was Sally wearing this when you shot her?”

“I never said I shot her.”

“Was she wearing it the day she died?”

“No,” he answered. “Not possible.”

“Then how did you get it?”

There was silence on the line. Lightning flashed in the distance, and the phone line crackled. Finally, the man answered, “Sally was wearing it the night I stuck my knife inside her and drowned her little princess.”

Jack heard a click on the line, followed by the dial tone. For a moment he couldn’t move, but another clap of thunder gave him a start. He gently placed the locket back in the envelope, hurried back inside the house, and locked the door with both the chain and deadbolt.

Forty-four

The following morning Jack was first in line to see Detective Larsen

Jack had called him immediately after the phone call from the man with the disguised voice. He wished he had tape-recorded it, but the police wouldn’t have been able to use a tape anyway, since in Florida it was illegal to record conversations without a warrant or consent. Jack recited the conversation as best he could from memory, and his memory was dead-on when it came to the locket. He was totally forthcoming to the police, and he asked for only one favor in return. He was back in Larsen’s office at 9:30 A.M. to collect.

“We think it’s for real,” said Larsen.

Jack was seated in the uncomfortable oak chair on the visitor’s side of Larsen’s cluttered metal desk. “It was Sally’s?”

“When Sally’s daughter was murdered, she reported only one thing missing, a gold heart-shaped locket that she was wearing around her neck.”

“Could this be a duplicate?”

“Not likely. According to the file notes, Sally said it was fourteen karats and purchased at Latham’s Custom Jewelry in the Seabold Building downtown. We talked to the store’s owner first thing this morning. This is fourteen karats, and he’s positive this is one of his products.”

“So there’s pretty much only one way my caller could have gotten it.”

“Pretty much.”

“Okay. Thanks for the info.”

“No, thank you, Jack. I really appreciate you coming in with this. When you didn’t deliver on that interview of your client after I gave you that tidbit about Deirdre Meadows’s book, I was beginning to think you didn’t love me anymore. But I’d say we’re square now. Of course, now I fully understand why you didn’t want me talking to Tatum. This morning’s paper and all.”

“The paper?”

“Page one of the Tribune. You know-” His phone rang. He grumbled, apologized, and answered it.

Page one? Jack wondered. Larsen was getting deeper into some intraoffice confrontation that didn’t interest Jack in the least. He caught the detective’s eye, but Larsen just shrugged and continued his heated argument, managing to use the F-word as a noun, a verb, an adjective, and an adverb in a single sentence, a verbal testimonial to his veteran status on the force.

Jack needed to see a newspaper, and he wasn’t inclined to wait around for Larsen to finish his stupid tiff. He gave a little wave and silently excused himself from the detective’s office. Trying not to look like a fugitive, he walked to the exit as quickly as practicable, stopping at the little newsstand outside the station.

The Miami Tribune was staring right at him, practically screaming its message from halfway down the front page: MILLIONAIRE MURDER VICTIM MET WITH CONTRACT KILLER it read, BY DEIRDRE MEADOWS.

It wasn’t the banner headline, but it was prominent enough. And the tag line in only slightly smaller font was even worse: HIT MAN IS HEIR TO $46 MILLION ESTATE. Jack purchased a copy, sat on the public bench, and devoured the story.

He could hardly believe what he was reading. It was all there, everything he and Tatum had talked about. His meeting with Sally at Sparky’s. Her desire to die. Their discussion about hiring someone to shoot her. And, of course, there was a lengthy digression into the latest developments in the case, including the restraining order the judge had entered against Tatum for his alleged assault against Gerry Colletti, followed by a strong finish that referenced a separate article about last night’s hit-and-run, which had left Mason Rudsky dead.

One thing, however, was conspicuously absent from the article: Not a word was mentioned about Tatum’s refusal to do the job.

Nice piece of unbiased journalism, Deirdre.

He shoved the newspaper into his briefcase, grabbed his cell phone, and dialed Deirdre at the Tribune. It took a minute or two for the switchboard to get the call routed properly, but finally he heard her voice.

“Meadows,” she said.

“This is Jack Swyteck. I just read your story about my client.”

“I’m so glad you called. Do you confirm or deny?”

He could almost feel her gloating over the phone lines. “Does it matter? You didn’t even call me for a comment.”

“I was on deadline. There wasn’t time.”

“Better to be first than right, is that it?”

“No. But it is nice to be first. Particularly when I know I’m right.”

Jack rose from the bench and started walking toward the street, suddenly feeling the need to distance himself from the police station.

“Who’s your source?”

“Why in the world would I tell you that?”

“Can’t really think of a reason. At least not from a reporter who didn’t even bother to reveal her own biases to her readers.”

“What biases?”

Jack stopped at the corner, almost fell off the curb. “Are you kidding me? You are one of Sally’s five remaining potential heirs. If the other four withdraw or follow in Mason Rudsky’s footsteps, you stand to gain forty-six million dollars. Don’t you think your article should have spelled that out?”

“No. The story wasn’t about me.”

“This is all about you, and your readers should know it. Your article puts the heat on my client to withdraw from the game.”

“How does it do that?”

“You know how. And don’t expect me to spell it out for you so that you can twist it into some nifty quote in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

“I’m not being coy. I’m really at a loss. How does my truthful article about a meeting between your client and Sally Fenning put the pressure on him to renounce his inheritance?”

“Don’t change the subject on me. You should have disclosed your bias.”

“This story was not inspired by bias. It came from a reliable source.”

“That’s the whole point. The source could have had the same bias. Are you really that stupid, or are you just pretending to be?”

“Don’t insult me, Swyteck.”

“Then get off your J-school soapbox and play straight.”

“I’m not going to tell you who my source is.”

“Fine. But you should at least consider the possibility that the whole story is a plant.”

“Planted by whom?”

“By one of the other potential beneficiaries. Any one of them could have simply made the whole thing up and manipulated you and the Tribune into printing something that would disqualify Tatum from inheriting under the will. It’s like Colletti said at the meeting: It just improves everyone’s odds.”

“My source is not another beneficiary.”

Jack stopped at the crosswalk. He hadn’t expected her to tell him anything, and he certainly hadn’t expected that. “How do you know?” he asked.

“I don’t normally go to the police about my stories, but when Rudsky turned up dead last night, I made an exception. Now that I’ve told them, I might as well tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“A man called me a couple weeks ago. He’s my source.”

“I’ll ask again: How do you know he isn’t one of the other heirs?”

“Because he wants to split the pot with me if I win. Another beneficiary wouldn’t need to strike that deal. They’re already in the game.”

“Well, I’m not going to argue with that, but you’re proving my other point. This person-your source-is clearly biased. He has a stake in your winning the jackpot, so naturally he would say anything that would hurt Tatum and force him to renounce his inheritance.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“I know I’m right. A newspaper like the Tribune shouldn’t run a story based on a single source who has no credibility.”

“The Tribune would never do that. That’s why I went out and got a second source.”

He paused, almost afraid to ask. “Who?”

She let out a condescending chuckle and said, “Normally I’d tell you to shove it in response to a question like that. But you and your cocky ‘My Client Is Wholly Innocent’ attitude have me pissed enough to tell you this much: If my source were any closer to you…well, let me put it this way, I don’t think there is anyone closer to you.”

Jack was silent, as if she’d just punched him in the chest.

Deirdre said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline to meet.”

She hung up, but Jack didn’t move. He stared at his phone, still trying to comprehend what she’d just said, and the thought sickened him: No one closer.

A transit bus rumbled past him, leaving him in a black cloud of diesel fumes. He hardly noticed. “Holy shit,” he said as he slipped his cell into his pocket.

Forty-five

The conversation with Theo did not go well.

He’d get over it, for sure, and Jack hadn’t been all that accusatory anyway. The more thought Jack had given it, the more impossible it seemed. No way was Theo going to rat out his brother to anyone, much less an overly ambitious reporter. But Jack felt as though he had to at least touch base and completely rule him out as “the source” before confronting the person that Deirdre Meadows had assumed was closer to Jack than anyone else.

“Kelsey?” he said with surprise. “I didn’t know you were coming in today.”

She hadn’t been on the work schedule, but she was in Jack’s office seated on the couch waiting for him when he arrived. “Can I talk with you a minute?” she asked.

“Sure.” Jack pulled up a chair and straddled it, facing her. He’d rehearsed his delivery during the drive into the office probably a dozen times, but he could see from the expression on her face that he was conveying some awkward vibes. “Kelsey, before we go off in some other direction, there’s something I need to know.”

“Please. I know what you’re going to say. This morning-today’s newspaper. The article about Tatum.”

“Yes?” he said tentatively.

Kelsey took a breath, obviously struggling. “I don’t know how to say this to you.”

Jack felt a pain in his stomach, sickened by the thought, but the words came out in anger. He looked her in the eye and said, “Did you talk to Deirdre Meadows?”

She blinked twice, then averted her eyes. And he knew. He wasn’t trying to be judgmental, but he couldn’t help shaking his head in disbelief.

“Why?” he asked.

When she looked up, tears were welling in her eyes. “I was afraid to tell you. I knew you’d think I was an idiot. She tricked me, Jack.”

“Tricked you? How?”

“She called and told me that she already knew that Tatum met with Sally before she was killed. She had all the details that Tatum gave us-the rainy night, the meeting at Theo’s bar where she tried to hire him to kill her. The thing she had dead wrong was the timing. She claimed to have it from a reliable source that the meeting took place less than twenty-four hours before Sally turned up dead. I told her that her source was wrong. And then she got nasty.”

“What do you mean, nasty?”

“She made it absolutely clear that unless I told her differently, she was going to print the story as written: Tatum and Sally met twenty-four hours before her death. I told her she really needed to talk to you, but she said you hadn’t returned her call and she was on deadline.”

“So what did you tell her?”

“I was totally firm. I said, ‘I can’t tell you whether there was a meeting or not. All I can tell you is that there definitely was no meeting twenty-four hours before Sally’s death.’”

“Good answer.”

“But she wasn’t happy with it. She said, ‘Tell me when it happened, or I’m sticking with twenty-four hours.’ I didn’t know what to do, but in the heat of the moment I couldn’t imagine that the smart thing was to stand aside and let her print something I knew was false. So I told her it wasn’t twenty-four hours. It was more like two weeks.”

Jack groaned. “Damn it, Kesley, how could you not have known that she was fishing for confirmation that the meeting had taken place at all?”

“Because she already knew everything about the meeting.”

“She made you think she knew about it. All she had was a rumor. She couldn’t print that. She was bluffing. But after talking to you, she had a source.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sure you are. But for God’s sake, you can’t let a reporter manipulate you like that.”

“I don’t know what to say. I screwed up. You have to know that I haven’t exactly been in my best frame of mind lately.”

“We’ve all been through a lot.”

“No, you don’t understand.” She sniffled and said, “That man threatened Nate.”

“What?”

“The man who attacked me outside the law library. He said that if Tatum didn’t drop out of the game…” Her voice cracked, as if she couldn’t even say it.

“He’d do what?”

“He said-” She glanced at the framed photograph Jack kept on his desk, her boy perched on Jack’s shoulders. Her lips quivered as she said, “He told me Nate would go the way of Sally’s daughter.”

Jack felt his anger rise. “That son of a bitch. You didn’t even have to tell me, I knew that’s the way that lowlife would operate.”

“That’s why I sent him to stay with my mother, like you said.”

“I wish you’d take the rest of my advice and call the cops.”

“No. I can’t. He said he’d hurt Nate if I did, and I’m not taking that risk. But don’t you see what I’m going through, how I could have screwed up? I’m terrified. You know how a threat like that must have made me feel. It’s horrible enough what happened to that poor little girl. But Nate-I told you the whole drowning story the first time you took him on Theo’s boat. I still have nightmares.”

“When it comes to you and Nate, you won’t find anyone more sympathetic than me. But you have to hold yourself together. You can’t be putty in the hands of some reporter.”

“I accept that. But I hope it at least explains it. A man threatened to drown my own son if Tatum Knight doesn’t drop out of the game. I was confused, not sure what to do, what to tell anyone. Out of the blue this reporter called and started asking questions about a conversation Tatum Knight had with Sally Fenning before she died.”

“You should have cut it off right there.”

“I know, but I swear, Jack, she already had the whole story. I thought I was helping our client by telling her that the meeting didn’t take place just twenty-four hours before Sally ended up dead.”

Jack gave her a hard look. He almost couldn’t believe what he was about to say, but somewhere deep inside him the lawyer had taken over. “Did you really think you were helping, Kelsey? Or did you think it was a way of giving your attacker exactly what he wanted: Get Tatum Knight out of the game?”

Her mouth fell open. “I can’t believe you’re accusing me of that.”

“I’m just asking the question.”

“The answer is no. Hell no.”

Jack was starting to regret he’d asked the question so bluntly, but as Tatum’s lawyer, he had to be firm.

Her voice shook. “Do you really think I’d intentionally violate the attorney-client privilege? I’m not about to put myself on the blacklist of the Florida Bar before I’ve even graduated from law school.”

Jack took a moment, breathed away some of his suspicion. She seemed too shaken by the whole experience to be able to lie about her intentions now. “Okay,” he said. “You screwed up. We’ll leave it at that. But what you did is still so wrong.”

“Stop it, Jack.”

“Stop what?”

“I’ve apologized fifty times. That reporter just caught me at exactly the wrong moment. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since the attack. All I’ve been able to think about is Nate, that little girl, and some psycho holding them down in this tub of bloody bathwater, their little legs kicking and-”

She lost control, and the tears were flowing. She was practically slumping. On impulse, Jack went to her. She rose, and she seemed to want him to take her in his arms, but he stopped. He was suddenly feeling more like her employer than her rock. “Hey, hey,” he said as he laid a somewhat reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I feel awful. I wish I could fix this.”

“Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.”

He tried to step back and put some distance between their bodies, but she took his hand and said, “Are you sure?”

“The truth is we were going to have to deal with this sooner or later. Tatum really did meet with Sally. And she did try to hire him to kill her. The one item of damage control we have to address is Deirdre’s failure to include Tatum’s denial that he took the job.”

“Can I help you with that?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

They were standing just a foot or so apart, a little too close for Jack’s comfort. Kelsey had big, expressive eyes, and they were conveying a mix of emotions to him. Embarrassment. Remorse. She squeezed his hand and said, “It’s important to me that this doesn’t change the way you see me.”

He didn’t say anything.

She forced a weak semblance of a smile. “Do you think you can forgive a worried single mom for making a law student mistake?”

He considered it, trying to ignore the look on her face and the touch of her hand, trying to blur his memory of the one bright moment they’d shared together on her front porch and the nights he’d spent alone wondering what “might be” between them. It would take a while for him to sort out his own emotions, and it bugged him a little that she’d played the single mom/law student card in this setting. But he said what he thought she needed to hear, just words, no feeling behind them. “I can forgive you.”

She smiled just enough to show her relief. “Is everything going to be okay between us?”

“Sure. But the verdict is still out on the much tougher question.”

“What’s that?”

“Will Tatum forgive you?”

Forty-six

The bar was packed, mostly a twenty-something crowd, young sheep who would drink battery acid so long as it was two-for-one. Deirdre Meadows was on her fourth gin and tonic, sharing a booth with her best girlfriend, Carmen Bell, a freelance journalist and self-proclaimed poet who would admit to no one but her buddy Deirdre that her true ambition in life was to write sappy greeting cards for Hallmark. They got together for drinks every Wednesday, “Ladies’ Night,” after Deirdre met her deadline, but tonight was more special than most.

“Page one A,” said Carmen. “Nice work, girl.”

Deirdre crunched an ice cube with her teeth and smiled. “Best is yet to come.”

“Tell me.”

Deirdre checked over her shoulder, as if to make sure no one was listening. The booth behind them was filled with the usual after-work crowd, three guys shooting tequila while their girlfriends took turns trying the old teaspoon hanging from the nose trick.

Deirdre said, “Remember how pissed I was when my editor nixed my idea for a three-part investigative piece on Sally Fenning?”

“Yeah, budget problems, blah, blah, blah.”

“Well, no more budget problems. It’s now a green light.”

“Woo-hoo! You are on your way.”

Deirdre picked a peanut from the bowl of party mix. “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

Carmen leaned into the table and spoke in the low voice she used only when trading secrets. “So tell me. Who’s the source?”

“Carmen! I’m surprised at you.”

She smiled knowingly and said, “You don’t have any idea who he is, do you?”

“Nope,” she said, and they shared a little laugh.

Then Carmen turned serious. “Are you scared of him?”

“A little.”

“Just a little?”

“Well…” she said with a roll of her shoulders. “I’m less scared now that I’ve talked to the police.”

“Wait a minute. Since when does a journalist tell the police about her sources?”

“This is different. This is a source who threatened to kill me.”

Carmen’s eyes widened. “He what?”

“Nothing. Forget I said that. This is a celebration. Last thing I need is for you to get me all spooked out.”

Carmen gnawed her plastic stirring straw until the full two inches protruding from her cocktail were completely flattened with teeth marks.

“Will you please stop that?” Deirdre said sharply.

“Sorry. Just don’t like it when my friends are getting death threats.”

“I’m being very careful, okay?”

“Good. And I hope you’re being smart, too.”

“Oh, I am. How’s this for smart? Johnny, I’m scared, can I sleep over tonight? Johnny, can you hold me? Johnny, it would help me sleep so much better if we could wake him up just one more time and put him right-”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” she said with a smile.

“Do you really get it?”

“Well, technically speaking, no.”

“Then that’s one more way in which my life beats the hell out of yours right now, isn’t it?”

“I hope you get crabs.”

Deirdre laughed as she fished a ten-dollar bill from her purse. She laid it on the table, then flashed the key to her boyfriend’s townhouse, and said, “Sorry to drink and run, but Johnny puts the chain on the door if I don’t get there before eleven.”

“Shit, Deirdre. When you gonna find a man who doesn’t make you drive your own ass over to his place in order to see him naked?”

“As soon as I inherit forty-six million dollars.”

“Not that the money matters to you.”

“Of course not. Who needs money?”

They managed to keep a straight face for about two seconds, then burst into laughter. “I’ll see you later,” said Deirdre.

She zigzagged through the noisy crowd, and she could have sworn she was getting checked out more than usual. It was all in the attitude, and as of this morning she had a new one. A stranger even opened the door for her.

“Thanks,” she said with a smile, then stepped outside.

The sun having long-since dipped into the Everglades, it was one of those perfect autumn evenings with just enough bite in the air to make you forget the cursed summer heat and humidity that had stuck around till Halloween. Valet was a rip-off at eighteen bucks, and as usual Deirdre had come with no coins to feed the meters on the street, so she’d wedged her little Honda into a free spot in the alley beside the drugstore. This had seemed like a good idea when the store was open, but its windows were now black and there were no more customers coming and going. Nightfall had a way of changing everything.

She dug her key from her purse as she quickly crossed the lot. A guy in a red pickup truck was sitting behind the wheel, and the look on his face gave her concern at first, until she saw the mop of blond hair bobbing up and down in his lap. Pretty safe bet he wouldn’t be following her. Her car was just around the corner, and the muffled drone of the bar crowd faded with each step farther into the darkness.

Her car alarm chirped as she hit the remote button. She got in, slammed the door shut, and aimed the key for the ignition. Jittery hands made a challenge out of the simple process of starting the car, definitely more nerves than the drinks.

Damn it, settle down, girl.

The engine fired on the second try. She put it into the gear and pulled away so fast that she sent some loose gravel flying. She turned on the radio to calm herself.

She’d lied to Carmen. Her source had her more than “a little” scared. She was well aware that submitting the story about Tatum Knight to her editors was an outright defiance of his orders. She wasn’t sure what he might do about it, but he would surely do something. She’d gone to the police, hoping they might offer protection. They gave her a pamphlet filled with canned advice for stalking victims, told her to come back when she was willing to agree to a wiretap on her home and work telephones. Maybe then they’d talk protection.

A journalist with a wiretap on her telephone. Are they out of their minds?

She reached Johnny’s townhouse in record time. The fear, the gin, the adrenaline all had her driving faster than usual. The parking spaces in front of Johnny’s unit were full, and Carmen’s comment came back to her. The creep could have at least given up his prime spot and parked his own car in guest parking so that she didn’t have to walk five hundred yards in the darkness. She was inclined to bag it and go home, but she did feel safer sleeping with him. She zipped her car over to guest parking, found a spot, and jumped out.

Gables Point was a quiet condominium development, lots of trees, not very well lit. She followed the sidewalk past the pool area, which wasn’t the most direct path to Johnny’s unit, but the lighting was better, except for the last hundred yards, where the sidewalk snaked through a forest of droopy bottlebrush trees. The ring of light that shined from the pool area seemed to follow her for a while, but she stopped when she reached the faint edge of its farthermost reach. She’d walked this way at least a dozen times over the past month, never once giving it a second thought. Tonight, her instincts told her to turn and run the other way. It was late. It was dark. There were lots of big trees for someone to hide behind.

You’re making yourself crazy.

She put one foot in front of the other, and she was on her way, gathering speed, her pulse quickening. She’d entered far more dangerous places in her career, night after night, as the Tribune’s crime beat reporter. Interviews with killers, dead bodies galore-it was all in a day’s work. This was nothing to be afraid of.

Halfway there. The sidewalk curved, but she went straight. No time for the scenic route, and there was no scenery in the black night anyway. She was cutting her own path through the grass when she heard it. She stopped and looked back, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. But she was certain that she’d heard something just a moment earlier. Footsteps. Behind her.

Or was she imagining it?

She turned and ran at full throttle, holding back nothing, brushing aside the tree branches that were lashing at her face. Her ankle turned, which made her yelp, but she ran through the pain. Twenty yards to Johnny’s townhouse. She was back on the sidewalk, sprinting down the homestretch. She gobbled up the three front steps in a single leap, then searched frantically for her key in the darkness.

Jerk doesn’t even leave the porch light on for me.

She got her key, used two hands to steady her aim, and shoved it home. The tumblers clicked, the deadbolt turned. She turned the knob and leaned into the door. It opened six inches, then caught on the chain.

Shit!

She shot a quick glance over her shoulder, and again she saw nothing. Or no, maybe a shadow. “Johnny, open the damn door!”

She pushed and pulled the door back and forth, shaking it violently against the chain to wake him.

“Johnny!”

She heard footsteps again, and her heart skipped a beat-then relief. The footsteps were coming from inside the townhouse.

“Johnny, it’s me!”

The door closed, and the chain rattled on the inside. The knob turned, and Deirdre pushed her way inside. She rushed in, eager to see him, eager to see anyone. He grabbed her, she poured herself into his arms, the door slammed, and she was firmly in his grasp before she could realize what had happened.

It wasn’t Johnny.

A cold knife was at her throat. “Fucking bitch,” he said in an angry whisper. “You were told to write the story, not print it.”

She screamed, but it was heard only in her own mind, as the sharp blade slid deeply across her throat, sinking all the way to the neck bone, silencing her forever.

Forty-seven

At 4 P.M. Friday afternoon, Jack and Tatum were back in probate court.

It had been less than two days since Deirdre’s murder, and everything had changed. Or at least everything had intensified, and Jack couldn’t get away from it-media coverage, phone calls from lawyers for the surviving heirs, questions from investigators. It was a neighbor who’d spotted the blood seeping out from under the front door on Thanksgiving morning. The cops found her body in the foyer, and her boyfriend was tied up in his bedroom closet, unharmed but blindfolded. He hadn’t seen a thing, a useless witness. Naturally, Detective Larsen turned to Jack and his client for answers, as the judge’s restraining order had already labeled Tatum as the thug in the group. Mason Rudsky’s hit-and-run death was still a mystery, and it didn’t help matters that Deirdre Meadows had turned up dead the same day the Tribune ran her story that Tatum was hired to kill Sally Fenning.

“All rise!”

Judge Parsons entered the courtroom from his side chambers. The crowd rose on command, and the foot shuffling was noticeably louder than at most hearings. All fifteen rows of public seating were packed with spectators, mostly members of the media. This was the first court hearing since a state prosecutor and an ambitious reporter had met untimely deaths in a race for forty-six million dollars, and the local news geniuses had finally taken serious notice, even without a sex scandal.

“Please be seated,” the judge said.

Jack and Tatum returned to their seats, the two of them once again splintered off from the others. Miguel Rios, Gerry Colletti, and their lawyers sat at the table nearest the empty jury box. Vivien Grasso, as personal representative of the estate, took a seat alongside the edge of their table, not quite on their side, but definitely not aligning herself with Jack and Tatum.

Alan Sirap was still a no-show.

The bailiff called the case, “In re the Estate of Sally W. Fenning,” and the judge took over. He seemed overwhelmed at first, or perhaps he was waiting to make sure the television cameras were ready and rolling to catch his speech.

“Good afternoon,” he said in a voice suitable for a funeral. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t express my grave concerns over the tragedy that has befallen this matter. Especially on this day after Thanksgiving, I wish to convey my heartfelt sympathies to the friends and families of Mason Rudsky and Deirdre Meadows.

“That said, I want to assure everyone that I come to this courtroom with no preconceived notions as to who is responsible for these terrible events. I say this because we have before us today a very serious motion by Mr. Colletti, one of the potential heirs. I want Mr. Colletti and everyone else here to understand that this court will not rely on emotion or outrage to adopt any extraordinary measures. I will insist upon proof, and if the proof exists, I will grant the requested relief. But not before then. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” came the lawyers’ reply.

Tatum leaned toward Jack and whispered, “I like the sound of that.”

Jack gave a little nod, hiding his concern. It was eerily reminiscent of the speeches he’d heard from the bench when he was a federal prosecutor, where the judge would rail against the government for some “outrageous tactic” that “shocked the conscience of the court” and then proceed to dispatch the defendant on a millennium-long tour of the land of the walking dead.

“Mr. Colletti, proceed, please,” the judge said.

His lawyer started up from his chair, but Gerry waved him off and stepped forward first, as if to say, I’ll handle this. It was an obvious last-minute change in plans, and Jack knew exactly what was going on. The spotlight was shining far too brightly for Gerry Colletti to defer to another lawyer.

Gerry approached the lectern in the center of the courtroom, stealing one last look at the television camera before showing his back to the crowd and addressing the court. “Your Honor is exactly right. This is a very serious motion that I’ve filed. And I have filed it with good reason.”

“I will be the judge of that,” the judge said dryly.

“You will indeed. As the court knows, the State of Florida has a law on the books that is commonly referred to as the Slayer Statute. That statute prohibits a murderer from inheriting under the will of his victim.”

“I’m familiar with the law. As I made clear in my opening remarks, I’m interested to know what evidence you intend to present to demonstrate the law’s application to this case.”

“Tatum Knight is a beneficiary under Sally Fenning’s will. This motion seeks to invoke the Slayer Statute to disqualify him from inheriting under her will.”

“Based on what evidence, Mr. Colletti?”

“Certainly you read the article in yesterday’s newspaper. It appears that Mr. Knight is a contract killer who was hired to kill Ms. Fenning.”

“Objection,” said Jack, rising. “Since when did we start convicting alleged murderers based upon newspaper articles?”

“I’ll sustain the objection,” said the judge. “Newspaper articles are admissible in certain circumstances, but if that’s all you’ve got, Mr. Colletti, I’d say this motion is highly premature.”

“Judge, I concede that I’m not in a position at this moment to prove that Tatum killed Sally Fenning.”

The judge snarled and said, “Then what are we doing here?”

“In light of the deaths of Mason Rudsky and Deirdre Meadows, I thought it was imperative to get this issue before the court now, in an abundance of caution.” He glanced across the courtroom at Jack’s client and said, “Just in case Mr. Knight kills me, too, before I have a chance to gather my evidence.”

“Objection,” said Jack. “This so-called serious motion is quickly devolving into a grandstand play without a shred of evidentiary support.”

“Mr. Colletti, do you have any evidence that you, personally, are in any such danger?”

“I do. That’s why I’ve combined this motion under the Slayer Statute with a request that Mr. Knight be held in contempt of court for violation of the restraining order. The court previously ordered that Mr. Knight should not come within five hundred yards of any of the other beneficiaries, except for court appearances and official meetings with the personal representative of Sally Fenning’s estate. As detailed in the affidavit filed with my motion, Mr. Knight assaulted me once again while I was outside my house walking my dog.”

The judge took a quick look at the file, peering through his reading glasses. “According to your affidavit, this happened almost a week ago. Why has it taken you so long to come forward with this evidence?”

“Frankly, this guy scares the daylights out of me. But now that two of my fellow beneficiaries have turned up dead, I decided it was incumbent upon me to bring this additional evidence to the court’s attention.”

The judge nodded, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. “Mr. Swyteck, we’ve all read Mr. Colletti’s affidavit. What’s your response?”

Jack rose and said, “If I may, I would like to question Mr. Colletti about the photographs he attached to his affidavit.”

“Photographs?” The judge thumbed through the file, apparently having missed them.

Gerry said, “I submitted several photographs that show the severity of the blows I received from Mr. Knight in this second meeting. As I state in my affidavit, he became very agitated, grabbed me by the throat, threw me to the ground, kicked me several times.”

Tatum whispered, “That’s bullshit.”

Jack laid a hand on his shoulder, calming his client. “Your Honor, I think I have the right to examine the witness about the authenticity of those photographs.”

“Authenticity?” said Gerry in an indignant tone. “Are you suggesting-”

“Swear the witness,” the judge ordered.

Gerry shook his head, as if this were all a waste of time. Then he took a seat in the witness stand, and the bailiff administered the familiar oath.

Jack approached and said, “Mr. Colletti, these photographs of your bruises-who took them?”

“I took them myself. I have a camera with a timer on it. You push a button, stand in front of it, and it takes your picture.”

“Exactly when did you take these photographs?”

“Immediately after my second encounter with Mr. Knight. The one described in my affidavit.”

“And the purpose of these photographs is what?”

“Well, I’m not one to brag, so I normally wouldn’t put into the public record photographs of myself naked from the waist up.” He smiled, clearly hoping that he’d just uttered the evening news sound byte.

The judge rolled his eyes, and the courtroom was silent. Gerry cleared his throat and said, “I filed them to show the court the severity of the beating I took once again at the hands of Mr. Knight.”

Jack walked back to his table and grabbed two more stacks of photographs. He handed up one stack to the judge and said, “Your Honor, I have several zoom photographs we created from one of Mr. Colletti’s originals. I apologize that I wasn’t able to file these with the court earlier, but since we just received the affidavit this morning, I just a few minutes ago got these back from the photo lab.”

“Apology accepted.”

Jack turned to the witness, handed him the first photograph from his stack, and said, “Mr. Colletti, does this zoomed photograph appear to be a fair and accurate representation of your left arm as taken from your original photograph?”

He examined it and said, “It would appear to be my arm, yes.”

Jack handed him another photograph and said, “Here’s a closer zoom. Does this appear to be a fair and accurate depiction of your lower left arm as taken from the original photograph?”

“I’d say so, yes.”

“One last photo.” He handed it to him and said, “How about this one? It’s an even tighter zoom. Does this appear to be a fair and accurate depiction of your left wrist as taken from the original photograph?”

“This is my wrist, yes.”

“That’s your Rolex watch, too?”

“Yes.”

“It has a calendar on it, does it not?”

Gerry paused, as if sensing where this was headed. “Yes.”

“Take another look at the photograph. If you would, please read the date depicted on that watch calendar.”

His expression fell, and he answered softly. “It says N-O-V-Two.”

“That would be November second, correct?”

Colletti shifted nervously in his seat, seeming to search for a way out of Jack’s noose.

The judge took a good look at his copy of the photograph, then glared at the witness and said, “Mr. Colletti, your answer please.”

“I presume that’s what it means.”

“And the second day of November would have been, by my count, about two weeks before your alleged second encounter with my client, correct?”

Gerry didn’t answer.

Jack stepped closer. “Mr. Colletti, these photographs weren’t taken after your alleged second meeting with Mr. Knight on November fifteenth. These were taken after the alleged beating you received outside John Martin’s pub in the early morning hours of November second. Isn’t that right, sir?”

The courtroom was silent. All eyes were upon the witness, and he kept staring at the photograph, as if willing the date to change.Finally, Gerry shrugged impishly at the judge and said, “Gee, I don’t know how I could have gotten that mixed up.”

“I think I’ve heard enough,” the judge said.

Gerry said, “Well, just a moment, Judge. If this is going to be a full-blown evidentiary hearing, I’d like a chance to question Mr. Knight.”

Putting Tatum on the stand was the last thing Jack wanted. Had Gerry not overplayed his hand with the photographs, Jack might not have been able to prevent it. But now the momentum was his. “Judge, in all candor, it appears that there may have been a technical violation of the court’s restraining order.”

“Technical!” said Gerry. “He grabbed me by the throat.”

The judge said, “Yes, Mr. Colletti. We’ve all seen your photographs.”

A light rumble of laughter came from the galley. Jack said, “We’ll stipulate to the entry of a five-hundred-dollar fine, with the express understanding that no further breaches of the order will be tolerated.”

“I object,” said Gerry.

“Done,” said the judge, pointing with his gavel for emphasis.

“And I do mean zero tolerance, Mr. Swyteck. Next time, your client’s in jail.”

“Understood,” said Jack.

The judge looked at Gerry and said, “You may file your motion to disqualify Mr. Knight under the Slayer Statute if you wish. But let me make myself clear: Do not request a hearing and do not take this court’s time unless you have evidence to present.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said, grumbling.

The judge looked out on the crowd and said, “If there is no further business before the court, then we are-”

Vivien Grasso rose and said, “Your Honor, there is one more thing.”

All heads turned toward the personal representative. “What is it?” asked the judge.

She spoke with a pained expression. “I’ve been giving this very serious thought over the past few days, and I apologize for raising it now. But seeing what just went on in this courtroom only helped me reach my final decision.”

“Final decision as to what?” the judge asked.

“I wish to resign as personal representative of Sally Fenning’s estate.”

The crowd came to life, as if smelling something newsworthy.

“Excuse me?” said the judge.

“One of my most important duties as personal representative is to distribute the estate to the heirs. I’m simply not comfortable distributing anything where the beneficiaries may be beating each other up and killing each other to get the inheritance.”

The judge said, “Let me assure you that no one will be distributing assets or receiving any inheritance until the deaths of Mason Rudsky and Deirdre Meadows are fully explained and accounted for.”

“I appreciate that, Judge. But I’ve made up my mind.”

“I’m afraid that’s not enough. By law, this court cannot allow you to resign until a replacement PR is found.”

“I’ve taken care of that,” she said. “I’ve been in contact with several possible replacements. One of them agreed just yesterday to step in and serve if I decided to resign.”

“Who is it?”

Vivien turned toward the crowd and said, “She’s in the courtroom now. Rene Fenning, Sally’s sister.”

Jack turned so quickly he nearly cracked his neck. A woman rose from her seat in the middle of the eighth row of public seating. She was dressed in a blue business suit, her makeup done smartly, her hair perfect, like an ad from a fashion magazine. Jack had said good-bye to a very different-looking woman, no less beautiful, on that last rainy night in Africa.

The judge said, “Ms. Fenning?”

Vivien said, “It’s actually Dr. Fenning. She’s an M.D.”

“Dr. Fenning, has Ms. Grasso stated your intentions correctly?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” she replied.

“Step forward please. We may as well make the switch official.”

The courtroom was silent as Rene came forward save for the gentle scratch of pencils on notepads as reporters rewrote the lead paragraph of tomorrow’s press coverage. Jack, too, watched her every move. He’d gathered glimpses of her beauty through the dirt and sweat of Africa. He’d imagined what she might look like in another place, under different conditions, but even his own vivid imagination had short-changed her. He’d hardly expected to see her again, never would have guessed it would have been this soon. It wasn’t immediately clear what her involvement would mean for the administration of Sally’s estate, but on an entirely different level, one that had him smiling on the inside, he was glad she’d come to Miami.

Tatum whispered, “Damn, she’s even hotter than her sister was.”

Jack could have told him that she had a brain to match, but he let it pass, chalking it up to some Knight brother gene that could never let the obvious go unstated.

Rene passed through the swinging mahogany gate and stood beside Vivien Grasso at the lectern. The judge greeted her with a pleasant smile, then briefly quizzed her on her background and her relationship with her sister. It wasn’t anything Jack didn’t already know about her, but somehow it was interesting to hear it all again in Rene’s own voice.

When they finished, the judge looked across the courtroom and asked, “Do the heirs have any objection to Dr. Fenning serving as personal representative of her sister’s estate?”

Silence. The judge said, “Seeing none I would ask Dr. Fenning to please stop by chambers at the conclusion of this hearing. There is some paperwork to complete, and an oath to be administered. Good luck to you, young lady. We are adjourned,” he said, ending it with a bang of the gavel.

“All rise!”

On cue, the crowd was on its feet. Silence reigned for the full ten seconds it took the judge to walk to his side chambers, followed by the rumble of a hundred different conversations that commenced immediately upon his disappearance behind the heavy wood door.

Colletti glanced at Jack from across the courtroom, but he and his lawyer were in an obvious hurry to get outside and make themselves available for press interviews. They packed up quickly and merged into the crowded center aisle, followed by Miguel Rios and his lawyer. Jack started to make his way toward Vivien Grasso, just to tell her “No hard feelings,” but Rene came to him and said, “Surprised?”

“In this case, nothing surprises me.”

“I guess your coming to Africa started to play on my conscience. It’s time I did my part to figure out what happened to my sister.”

“I think that’s the right decision.”

She averted her eyes, then looked back at him. “I suppose that we should get together soon.”

“Get together?”

“Yes. I mean, I’ll be meeting with all the lawyers, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” he said. “Anytime.”

“I’m sure you’re busier than I am. I’m staying at the Hyatt till I can find an apartment. Call me, let me know what’s good for you.”

“I’ll do that.”

A reporter called out her name from the other side of the rail. Several other members of the media were waiting in the aisle, eager to speak with the new personal representative, Sally’s sole living relative.

Rene looked at Jack and said, “Guess I’m about to get my first experience in the beauty of ‘No comment.’”

“If you’re smart.”

She raised an eyebrow, and Jack said, “And they don’t come any smarter.”

“Nice save.”

“It’s what we lawyers do.”

She smiled a little and said, “It’s good to see you again.”

“Good to see you again, too.”

She turned and headed for the exit. Jack gathered his things, then glanced over his shoulder on impulse, only to catch her glancing back at him. They exchanged a little smile, as if they were having the same embarrassing thought, something along the lines of I can’t believe I looked, but it’s nice to know you did, too. Then Rene disappeared into the crowd, and Jack suddenly caught sight of Kelsey standing at the rail. He excused himself from his client, then called her to his side of the rail. She pushed through the gate, and they stepped closer to the bench where they could talk out of earshot of all but the lip readers.

“Better be careful,” said Kelsey.

“Careful about what?”

“You and the new PR keep making eyes at each other like that, it’ll be all over tomorrow’s newspapers.”

“We weren’t-do we have to talk about this here?”

“Is she the reason you didn’t want me at counsel’s table with you for this hearing?”

Jack was starting to feel accused, and he didn’t like it. “It was Tatum who didn’t want you here. After the way you let your guard down and slipped attorney-client secrets to Deirdre Meadows, he doesn’t trust you anymore. I’m sorry.”

“And what about you?”

“Kelsey, this isn’t the place.”

“It’s a simple question: Do you trust me?”

He paused for a breath, as if the question was far too complex to answer in this setting. “Yes. I trust you.”

“More than Rene?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“I hardly know Rene.”

“Could have fooled me.”

He softened his voice, not because he feared someone would overhear, but because things were getting uncomfortable. “Kelsey, before I left for Africa, I thought we agreed that it was in Nate’s best interest that we put things on hold between us. So I’m not really sure how to respond.”

“Just be honest with me. How am I supposed to feel when you’re making eyes across the courtroom at another woman less than forty-eight hours after you told me everything is going to be okay between us?”

“I meant professionally everything was going to be okay between us.”

“Professionally? The way you were looking at me was no more professional than the look you were shooting Rene just now.”

“I wasn’t-” He started to deny it, but it didn’t ring true. He could see the disappointment all over Kelsey’s face, as if she would have preferred some kind of denial, any kind at all, over another heartache.

Jack said, “Look, I don’t know what you think you saw. But I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen.”

She shook her head slowly and said, “Then you’re blind.”

“What?”

“The woman’s been living in the friggin’ African desert for nearly three years. Knock yourself out, Jack.”

She walked away, and he didn’t follow. He just watched in silence, not knowing what to think, not wanting to think anymore about it. But he couldn’t stop himself from thinking, and it was making him feel guilty.

Because all he could think about was Rene.