James Grippando - Last to die

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

“I see.”

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

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

“Do you want me to or not?”

He didn’t answer.

“Jack?”

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

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

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

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

“There isn’t?”

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

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

“Old school?”

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

“Because it’s demeaning?” he suggested.

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

Jack thought for a moment, silent.

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

“Yeah. I was just wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

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

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

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

“Hopefully not by my hair.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve heard that one before.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Meadows,” she answered.

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

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

“I think you heard me.”

“Who is this?”

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

“Why are you calling me?”

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

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

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

“What did you see?”

“Everything.”

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

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

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

“Yes, you do.”

“Look, I can’t pay you for a story.”

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