James Grippando - Last to die

“That was my take on it,” said Martin.

Jack asked, “Do you know what, exactly, Sally claimed was libelous?”

“I don’t. It was a strange conversation we had. Deirdre wanted my opinion on whether a libel suit would help or hurt her chances of getting published. She seemed to think it was a good thing, that publishers would like the added publicity.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I said, sure, the publicity department might like it. Hell, I know some publicists who would have an author set her hair on fire and run naked around the bookstore if it would move a few extra books. But publishers also have legal departments, and the lawyers weren’t likely to be too keen about a libel suit.”

“You didn’t exactly tell her what she wanted to hear.”

“I don’t think it fazed her much. She said she could verify everything she wrote. Supposedly she had the full cooperation of the prosecutor on the case.”

“Mason Rudsky?”

“She didn’t mention his name,” said Martin.

“Had to be Mason. He was the prosecutor assigned to the case.”

Kelsey said, “He’s also a beneficiary under Sally’s will. Just like Deirdre.”

Martin shrugged, as if not sure what to make of Kelsey’s last remark. His pager chirped, and he checked it. “Would you two excuse me for one minute?”

“Sure,” said Jack.

Martin left his coffee on the table, as if to promise a prompt return. As soon as he was gone, Kelsey looked at Jack and said, “A libel suit. I guess that’s why Deirdre’s on Sally’s list. She was telling lies about her.”

“It would be nice to know what the lies were.”

“What’s your guess?” asked Kelsey.

“I don’t have a clue. But if Deirdre was spreading falsehoods about Sally and her daughter’s murder, it could explain why Sally hated her and put her in the same category as the other named beneficiaries who had made her life no longer worth living.”

“But we have to consider the other possibility,” said Kelsey.

“Right,” said Jack, picking up her thought. “What if the charges in Deirdre’s manuscript-whatever they might be-are true?”

“Maybe Sally was ticked off not because Deirdre was spreading lies, but because she uncovered some horrible truths that Sally would have rather kept secret.”

“Could be,” said Jack.

“Especially if she had Mason Rudsky’s full cooperation,” said Kelsey.

They locked eyes, both considering it. Then Jack said, “Whether it’s packed with lies or dirty little truths, one thing’s for sure.”

“What?”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the store window and the wall of books inside. “I want to know what Deirdre Meadows wrote.”

“So do I.”

Then he looked at Kelsey and said, “Almost as badly as I want to know what you and Martin really talked about on the phone.”

“What?”

“Whatever you said that made him think we were dating.”

She blushed and lowered her eyes. “Silly boy. Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Stick to mysteries you can solve.”

“No mystery is unsolvable. Some are just more fun than others.”

She brought her cup to her lips and peered over the rim, saying nothing.

“Don’t you agree?” asked Jack.

No answer, but she didn’t look away.

“You know, you can’t ignore me forever,” said Jack.

More silence, but Jack knew there was a grin hiding behind that coffee cup.

“Oh yeah,” he said with a smile. “Now this is getting fun.”

A a court hearing on Tuesday morning, Jack was on the receiving end of a laserlike glare from Assistant State Attorney Mason Rudsky. Clearly, Rudsky wasn’t happy about his seat in the witness stand, especially when it meant cross-examination from a criminal defense lawyer.

It wasn’t Jack’s preference to take on the State Attorney’s Office, but he was being stonewalled. After he and Kelsey left Just Books early Friday evening, Jack called Deirdre Meadows and asked about her book. She didn’t want to talk about it. The following Monday morning, Jack visited Rudsky and explained how Deirdre had bragged to the owner of Just Books that the prosecutor had lent his “full cooperation.” Rudsky refused to confirm or deny the allegation, and he flashed the same phony smile and gave the same pat answer each time Jack asked a question: “I’m very sorry, but the investigation into the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter is still an open file. I can’t discuss it.”

Jack wasn’t one to take “Up yours” for an answer. If the reporter wouldn’t tell him what was in her book, and if the prosecutor couldn’t talk about the investigative file, then Jack was going to see the file for himself. He filed a lawsuit under the Sunshine Act, which is Florida’s very broad version of the Freedom of Information Act. The law was written to make sure that government was conducted “in the sunshine,” so that private citizens had access to government records. The law applied to criminal matters, except for active investigations. One thing Jack had learned as a prosecutor was that judges took a dim view of prosecutors who tried to circumvent the law by claiming that stale files were “active.”

Jack stepped toward the witness. The cavernous old courtroom was exceptionally quiet, not so much as a cough or the shuffling of feet from the gallery. The hearing was closed to the public, at least until the court could determine whether the file should be made public.

“Good morning, Mr. Rudsky.”

“Good morning.”

Rudsky was a career prosecutor who took his job and himself too seriously. He had an unusually large head, and when he got angry his face flushed red, as if his bow tie were tied too tightly. He was beet red already, and Jack hadn’t even started.

“Mr. Rudsky, you were the assistant state attorney assigned to the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter five years ago, were you not?”

“That’s correct.”

“Are you handling the murder of Sally Fenning as well?”

“No. Patricia Compton is heading that team.” He pointed with a nod to the lawyer seated on the other side of the courtroom. Compton was his attorney for purposes of this hearing.

“Are you part of her team?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Objection,” said Compton. “Judge, what does the composition of a completely different prosecutorial team have to do with the question of whether the investigation into the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter is active or inactive?”

“Sustained.”

“Let me put it another way,” said Jack. “Mr. Rudsky, does the fact that you are not assigned to the Sally Fenning murder have anything to do with the fact that you are a named beneficiary under her will?”

“Same objection.”

“I’ll overrule this one. The witness shall answer.”

“I don’t know,” said Rudsky. “I don’t make the assignments.”

“Other than your role as prosecutor in connection with the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter, Katherine, did you have any kind of relationship with Ms. Fenning?”

“No.”

“Were you surprised to learn that you were a beneficiary under Sally Fenning’s will?”

“Totally.”

“Can you think of any reason that she would have named you as a beneficiary, other than your role as prosecutor?”

“I couldn’t even hazard a guess.”

“Was Sally Fenning happy with the way you handled the case?”

Compton was back on her feet. “Objection. This is getting very far afield.”

“Sustained. I’ve given you a little latitude, Mr. Swyteck, but please don’t take advantage.”

“Yes, Judge. Let me put this in more concrete terms. Mr. Rudsky, no one was ever convicted for the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter, correct?”