James Grippando - Last to die

“Jacko, hey, it’s me.”

“What’s going on?” said Jack.

Theo blotted away a smear of blood on his wrist. He was sure it wasn’t his. “You don’t have to worry about my brother smokin’ you no more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say Tatum passed a lie detector test. He didn’t kill Sally Fenning.”

“You sure of that?”

“Sure as I can be.”

“Did she hire him to kill her?”

“Tried to. He sticks by that, yeah.”

Theo took a seat on the bench, waiting for Jack to speak. He sensed that something was still troubling him. “What now?” asked Theo.

“It’s the same thing Kelsey and I were talking about last night. Here’s a woman who goes through the worst nightmare imaginable, the brutal murder of her own child, but it takes five years, a new marriage, and a mega-million-dollar prenup settlement for her to decide that she can’t go on living anymore.”

“Maybe it was just something that ate her up over time.”

“That, or maybe something else pushed Sally over the edge. Something more horrible than having your child murdered in your own home.”

“What could be worse than that?”

“I don’t know. But I aim to find out.”

Theo smiled thinly and said, “As usual, boss, I aim to help.”

At 1 P.M. Monday Jack was in the law office of Vivien Grasso. His client, Tatum Knight, was at his side.

Vivien had yet to make an appearance. Her secretary had simply escorted Jack and his client back to the main conference room, where three men and a woman were waiting at the long mahogany table. They were the other beneficiaries, Jack presumed, but he was reluctant to jump to any firm conclusions.

Jack introduced himself and his client to the group, which precipitated an exchange of names only. Everyone seemed cautious, if not suspicious, reluctant to divulge anything about themselves.

“Deirdre Meadows,” said Jack, repeating the final introduction as if he recognized the name. She looked familiar, too. Plain but potentially attractive, her simple clothing, minimal makeup, and efficient brown curls befitting of a woman who was perpetually on deadline.

Jack asked, “Don’t you write for the Tribune?”

“I do,” she answered.

“What, they got you covering this story from the inside?”

“No. I was invited to this meeting. Just like everyone else.”

“Did you know Sally Fenning?”

“Sort of.” She looked away, as if catching herself in a lie. “Not really.”

“Are you a beneficiary under the will?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Jack checked around the table. “Does this arrangement strike anyone else as odd? I get the sense that everyone knows there’s a lot of money at stake, but no one quite knows why they’re here.”

“I know why I’m here,” said the guy across the table. Miguel was his name, and he’d introduced himself only by his first name, as if he were under strict orders to be tight-lipped.

“Be quiet,” the older man next to him grumbled. He was short and stocky, like a fireplug in a double-breasted suit. His hair was slick and dyed black, his mustache perfectly groomed, his midsection soft and round, as if he spent all day looking in the mirror from the shoulders up. His name was “Gerry”-just Gerry, as he was evidently operating under the same brilliant first-name-only strategy.

“You two together?” asked Jack.

They answered simultaneously: “Sort of,” said Miguel; “None of your business,” said Gerry.

Jack said, “Let me guess. Gerry, you’re Miguel’s lawyer.”

Gerry didn’t answer.

“That’s Geraldo Colletti,” said the reporter. “The divorce lawyer. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Made quite a name for himself in family court by snaking other lawyers. First thing he tells his client to do is spend some money interviewing the five best divorce lawyers in town. That way, the other spouse can’t go out and hire them, because Gerry’s client has already revealed enough confidences to make it ethically impossible for them to represent the other side.”

“That’s hogwash,” said Gerry.

“I have heard of you,” said Jack. “I don’t do divorce work, but aren’t you the same Gerry who got himself into trouble for running an ad that labeled you ‘Gerry the Genius.’”

“Gentleman Gerry,” he said, obviously annoyed. “And the ad didn’t get me in trouble. It was just ineffectual. Apparently, no one wants a divorce lawyer who’s a gentleman.”

“I see. Tell me, Gentleman Gerry. What’s your take on this?”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

Miguel made a face. “Oh, what the hell are we being so coy about? I’m Miguel Rios, Sally’s first husband.”

Jack did a double take. “What are you doing here?”

“I was invited, just like the rest of you.”

“I wasn’t aware that you and Sally were…on good terms.”

“I wouldn’t say it was good terms. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I was expecting her to leave me a mile-high pile of shit and an extra large spoon. I just wasn’t expecting her to leave me anything. But when you’re worth forty-six million bucks, maybe there’s enough to go around for everybody. Even your ex. So here I am.”

“For the money?” said Jack.

The lawyer jumped in, as if pained by Miguel’s words. “That’s enough information, Mr. Rios. We came here to sit and listen, remember?”

“Oh, put a sock in it, Gerry. You don’t represent me here, so don’t be telling me what to do.”

“Hold on,” said Jack. “Are you saying that Gerry the Genius is attending this meeting in some capacity other than as your lawyer?”

“Excuse me,” said the attorney. “That’s Gentleman Gerry.”

Miguel said, “Genius here got the same letter I got. He’s named in Sally’s will, too.”

Jack leaned back, thinking. “Interesting. We’ve got an estate worth forty-six million dollars, but so far, the only people who appear to be in the running to inherit any portion of it are a newspaper reporter, an ex-husband, the ex-husband’s divorce lawyer, and my client.” All eyes shifted to the man at the other end of the table. “Who are you, sir?”

“I’m an attorney.”

“Another lawyer,” said Jack.

“I’m here on behalf of Mason Rudsky.”

Rudsky was a name that everyone but Tatum seemed to recognize immediately. Jack said, “Mason Rudsky, the assistant state attorney?”

“That’s the one.”

Jack said, “The same Mason Rudsky who oversaw the investigation into the murder of Fenning’s little girl?”

“Yes.”

Miguel glared at him and said, “The same Mason Rudsky who in five freakin’ years never brought an indictment against anybody for the murder of my daughter.”

There was anger in the father’s voice, and it cut through the room like an Arctic blast.

The door opened, and all rose as Vivien Grasso entered the conference room. “Keep your seats,” she said as she took her place at the head of the table.

“Thank you for coming. Sorry for the late start, but I wanted to give everyone a chance to get here. I would begin by saying that there was one other invitee, but I have as yet been unable to nail down a current address for him. I’ll assume he’s a no-show.”

“Who is it?” asked Jack.

“Not important for present purposes. You’ll see soon enough when the will is filed with the court. He won’t lose any of his rights as beneficiary simply because he failed to attend the reading of the will.”

“Does that mean everyone here is a beneficiary?” asked Jack.

“Let’s have the will speak for itself, shall we?” Vivien opened her leather dossier and removed the last will and testament of Sally Fenning. Jack felt his heart thumping as she began, trying to imagine how the others must have felt. They-or at least one of them-might be just minutes away from the cushy side of a forty-six-million-dollar inheritance.