James Grippando - Last to die

“A magician never reveals her tricks,” she said.

“Tricks, my ass,” said Theo. “You promised him fifty bucks on the way out.”

“Twenty-five. How did you know?”

“These things I know,” said Theo.

“Drive on,” she said. Jack followed the road past more cacao trees, small ones that grew in the shade of larger banana and coffee trees. After a half mile of ruts and dust, the road flattened into a relatively well-maintained driveway. It curved around a pond, leading to a huge house on the river at the foot of the mountain. It was the nicest house Jack had seen since landing in Africa, but it was a far cry from the mansion he had expected.

“Pretty simple digs for a multimillionaire,” said Jack.

“Typical,” said Rene. “You flash money here, you draw bandits. It’s the inside that looks like the lap of luxury.”

They parked in front beside two other SUVs. Jack brought along a dossier holding his legal papers. An African man came out and greeted them on the covered porch. The guard had apparently radioed ahead to alert him of visitors. He and Rene conversed in French, and then she turned to Jack and said, “This is Mr. Diabate, Jean Luc’s personal assistant. He wants to know the purpose of our visit.”

Jack opened the dossier and showed him a copy of Sally’s will and death certificate. “Tell him that I’m an attorney from the U.S., and that I have some questions for Sally’s ex-husband.”

Rene translated, then looked at Jack and said, “What kind of questions?”

“Tell him that it has to do with the money-”

“Jack, cork it,” said Theo. “Rene, do your trick again. Ask him if he wants to meet Andrew Jackson several times over.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” the man said in English.

Jack did a double take, but it was worth a few bucks if the guy could speak English. Jack checked his wallet, then pulled back. “Is Jean Luc even here?”

“In a manner of speaking,” the man said.

“What does that mean?”

Diabate tapped his foot, waiting. Jack handed over a few bills and watched him count in silence. The man stuffed the cash in his shirt pocket, seemingly satisfied, then looked at Jack and said, “Monsieur, Jean Luc is dead.”

Tatum knew he shouldn’t do it. But with the lawyer away, the client plays. Especially when his brother goes with him.

Jack had given him a stiff warning before leaving for Africa: Under no circumstances was Tatum to have any communication with Sally’s other beneficiaries. Doing so would be a direct violation of the restraining order. Tatum promised “to lay low” and “not to do anything stupid.” Technically speaking, he never actually promised to heed Jack’s advice. Besides, there was only one beneficiary he wanted to talk to, which meant that there were four others he wouldn’t contact, which translated to 80 percent compliance with his lawyer’s instructions. In Tatum’s book, that was something to be pretty damn proud of.

Gerry Colletti was down the street from his house, walking his dog, when Tatum caught up with him. It was early morning, and Colletti was wearing his robe and slippers, the unwrapped morning paper tucked under one arm. Tatum approached from behind at a moment when he’d be most off guard, just as Colletti stooped down to collect fresh poodle droppings with his pooper-scooper.

“Thought you only talked shit, Colletti. Didn’t know you collected it.”

Colletti dropped the newspaper and looked behind him, obviously startled. He scooped the droppings into a plastic bag and said, “You’re in violation of your restraining order. Get away, or I’m calling the judge.”

“I’m not hurting anybody.”

“You’re within five hundred yards of me. It doesn’t matter if you hurt me or not.”

“Doesn’t matter? If that’s the case, I might as well beat you to a pulp. No sense doing time in jail just for talking.”

Colletti took a half-step back, trying to put more space between them. His little dog growled and bared its teeth. “Easy, Muffin.”

“Your dog’s name is Muffin?” said Tatum, taunting.

“Come near me and she’ll chew your leg off. What do you want to talk about?”

“I was hoping that you and me could come to an understanding.”

A modicum of tension drained from his expression, as if he liked the sound of Tatum’s approach. “What are you proposing?”

“First, you need to understand it wasn’t me who attacked you in the parking lot.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“What do you mean, you don’t care?”

“I already made the judge believe it was you. I can make the cops believe it, I can make a jury believe it, I can probably even make your own lawyer believe it. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, so long as I can prove it.”

“You can’t prove anything. You’re like that bag of dog shit in your hand.”

“You’re dead wrong about that, Mr. Knight. I put my best investigator on your trail. He’s uncovered some pretty interesting things about you.”

Tatum smiled and shook his head. “So I got an impressive résumé. Big deal. That don’t change the facts. It wasn’t me who pummeled you.”

“You’re missing my point. If you don’t step aside and renounce your claim to this inheritance, a guy like me can create a ton of problems for a guy like you.”

“You think it’s that easy?”

“My offer still stands. In fact, I’ll make it even sweeter. Three hundred thousand dollars cash is yours, no strings attached.”

“That’s it, huh? I’m supposed to give up my shot at forty-six million dollars just because you say so?”

“No, because you’re going to land in jail if you don’t.”

Tatum wasn’t smiling anymore. He could feel his anger rising. “You’re out of your league, Colletti.”

“To the contrary. You’re out of yours. This is business as usual for me.”

“You think you’re that good, do you?”

Colletti picked up his dog, stroking its head as he cradled the ball of white, curly fur in his arms. “How do you think I ended up in this game in the first place?”

“It’s pretty obvious. Sally Fenning was trying to dish out her own version of revenge to her enemies. You represented her husband in their divorce.”

“You think that’s what got me on the list?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Oh, Tatum, you are stupider than I thought. Miguel told me to go easy on Sally, which left me with a ton of ammunition and no way to use it. It seemed like such a shame to dig up all that dirt on Sally and then let it go to waste. Then the brainstorm hit me. If Miguel didn’t want to use it for his own benefit, I could use it for mine.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“All it took was a simple warning to Sally: If she didn’t give in to my demands, I’d make it a matter of public record that Sally was having an affair with the man who murdered her daughter, and that she was covering up for him.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“None of your business. But again, you miss the point. I was even less sure of my accusations against her than I am about my charges against you. But I still pulled it off.”

“Pulled what off?”

He flashed a thin, satisfied grin. “Ask any divorce lawyer who’s ever had a wounded wife as a client and he’ll tell you, getting her in the sack is like shooting fish in a barrel. But getting the wife to spread her legs when she’s the client of the opposing lawyer…Well,” he said smugly, “now that’s a good day’s work.”

“You think I’m just going to spread my legs, too?”

“No,” he said, his smile fading into a more serious glare. “You look more like the type to just bend over and take it.”