James Grippando - Last to die

“What a surprise.”

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

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

“You may be right about that.”

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

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

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

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

“Why do you say that?”

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

“Low score?”

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

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

“What does that mean?”

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

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

Still not up there, you son of a bitch.

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

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

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

“Stop!” Gerry screamed.

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

“Stop already!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you calling for?”

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

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

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