James Grippando - Last to die

“I wish we could ask her.”

“I wish I could ask Tatum.”

“What’s in it for him?”

“He can either play ball, or-”

“Oh, please. Strike two.”

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

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

“Just a little deductive reasoning on my part.”

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

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

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

“You asking me the questions now?”

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

“I need a bigger commitment than that.”

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

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

“How much more?”

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

“And?”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“Yeah. Just like his brother.”

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

“You trying to tell me something?”

“Just be sure to do your homework.”

“I already have. Tons of it.”

“Do it again. For your own good.”

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

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

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

Charlie Parker, forgive me.

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

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

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

“Club soda.”

“Hitting the hard stuff, are you?”

“Can’t drink. I’m on painkillers.”

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

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

“Got a real professional ass-kicking.”

“Looks that way.”

“From your brother.”

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

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

“What brings you here, Gent?”

“What do you think?”

“Stupidity.”

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

“That’s not my problem.”

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

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

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

“You got that right.”

“Who are you, his alibi?”

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

“How?”

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

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

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

“I saw what I saw.”

“I don’t believe you.”

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

“Then why you here?”

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

“Maybe.”

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

“You’ll what?”

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

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