James Grippando - Last to die

“We think it’s for real,” said Larsen.

Jack was seated in the uncomfortable oak chair on the visitor’s side of Larsen’s cluttered metal desk. “It was Sally’s?”

“When Sally’s daughter was murdered, she reported only one thing missing, a gold heart-shaped locket that she was wearing around her neck.”

“Could this be a duplicate?”

“Not likely. According to the file notes, Sally said it was fourteen karats and purchased at Latham’s Custom Jewelry in the Seabold Building downtown. We talked to the store’s owner first thing this morning. This is fourteen karats, and he’s positive this is one of his products.”

“So there’s pretty much only one way my caller could have gotten it.”

“Pretty much.”

“Okay. Thanks for the info.”

“No, thank you, Jack. I really appreciate you coming in with this. When you didn’t deliver on that interview of your client after I gave you that tidbit about Deirdre Meadows’s book, I was beginning to think you didn’t love me anymore. But I’d say we’re square now. Of course, now I fully understand why you didn’t want me talking to Tatum. This morning’s paper and all.”

“The paper?”

“Page one of the Tribune. You know-” His phone rang. He grumbled, apologized, and answered it.

Page one? Jack wondered. Larsen was getting deeper into some intraoffice confrontation that didn’t interest Jack in the least. He caught the detective’s eye, but Larsen just shrugged and continued his heated argument, managing to use the F-word as a noun, a verb, an adjective, and an adverb in a single sentence, a verbal testimonial to his veteran status on the force.

Jack needed to see a newspaper, and he wasn’t inclined to wait around for Larsen to finish his stupid tiff. He gave a little wave and silently excused himself from the detective’s office. Trying not to look like a fugitive, he walked to the exit as quickly as practicable, stopping at the little newsstand outside the station.

The Miami Tribune was staring right at him, practically screaming its message from halfway down the front page: MILLIONAIRE MURDER VICTIM MET WITH CONTRACT KILLER it read, BY DEIRDRE MEADOWS.

It wasn’t the banner headline, but it was prominent enough. And the tag line in only slightly smaller font was even worse: HIT MAN IS HEIR TO $46 MILLION ESTATE. Jack purchased a copy, sat on the public bench, and devoured the story.

He could hardly believe what he was reading. It was all there, everything he and Tatum had talked about. His meeting with Sally at Sparky’s. Her desire to die. Their discussion about hiring someone to shoot her. And, of course, there was a lengthy digression into the latest developments in the case, including the restraining order the judge had entered against Tatum for his alleged assault against Gerry Colletti, followed by a strong finish that referenced a separate article about last night’s hit-and-run, which had left Mason Rudsky dead.

One thing, however, was conspicuously absent from the article: Not a word was mentioned about Tatum’s refusal to do the job.

Nice piece of unbiased journalism, Deirdre.

He shoved the newspaper into his briefcase, grabbed his cell phone, and dialed Deirdre at the Tribune. It took a minute or two for the switchboard to get the call routed properly, but finally he heard her voice.

“Meadows,” she said.

“This is Jack Swyteck. I just read your story about my client.”

“I’m so glad you called. Do you confirm or deny?”

He could almost feel her gloating over the phone lines. “Does it matter? You didn’t even call me for a comment.”

“I was on deadline. There wasn’t time.”

“Better to be first than right, is that it?”

“No. But it is nice to be first. Particularly when I know I’m right.”

Jack rose from the bench and started walking toward the street, suddenly feeling the need to distance himself from the police station.

“Who’s your source?”

“Why in the world would I tell you that?”

“Can’t really think of a reason. At least not from a reporter who didn’t even bother to reveal her own biases to her readers.”

“What biases?”

Jack stopped at the corner, almost fell off the curb. “Are you kidding me? You are one of Sally’s five remaining potential heirs. If the other four withdraw or follow in Mason Rudsky’s footsteps, you stand to gain forty-six million dollars. Don’t you think your article should have spelled that out?”

“No. The story wasn’t about me.”

“This is all about you, and your readers should know it. Your article puts the heat on my client to withdraw from the game.”

“How does it do that?”

“You know how. And don’t expect me to spell it out for you so that you can twist it into some nifty quote in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

“I’m not being coy. I’m really at a loss. How does my truthful article about a meeting between your client and Sally Fenning put the pressure on him to renounce his inheritance?”

“Don’t change the subject on me. You should have disclosed your bias.”

“This story was not inspired by bias. It came from a reliable source.”

“That’s the whole point. The source could have had the same bias. Are you really that stupid, or are you just pretending to be?”

“Don’t insult me, Swyteck.”

“Then get off your J-school soapbox and play straight.”

“I’m not going to tell you who my source is.”

“Fine. But you should at least consider the possibility that the whole story is a plant.”

“Planted by whom?”

“By one of the other potential beneficiaries. Any one of them could have simply made the whole thing up and manipulated you and the Tribune into printing something that would disqualify Tatum from inheriting under the will. It’s like Colletti said at the meeting: It just improves everyone’s odds.”

“My source is not another beneficiary.”

Jack stopped at the crosswalk. He hadn’t expected her to tell him anything, and he certainly hadn’t expected that. “How do you know?” he asked.

“I don’t normally go to the police about my stories, but when Rudsky turned up dead last night, I made an exception. Now that I’ve told them, I might as well tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“A man called me a couple weeks ago. He’s my source.”

“I’ll ask again: How do you know he isn’t one of the other heirs?”

“Because he wants to split the pot with me if I win. Another beneficiary wouldn’t need to strike that deal. They’re already in the game.”

“Well, I’m not going to argue with that, but you’re proving my other point. This person-your source-is clearly biased. He has a stake in your winning the jackpot, so naturally he would say anything that would hurt Tatum and force him to renounce his inheritance.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“I know I’m right. A newspaper like the Tribune shouldn’t run a story based on a single source who has no credibility.”

“The Tribune would never do that. That’s why I went out and got a second source.”

He paused, almost afraid to ask. “Who?”

She let out a condescending chuckle and said, “Normally I’d tell you to shove it in response to a question like that. But you and your cocky ‘My Client Is Wholly Innocent’ attitude have me pissed enough to tell you this much: If my source were any closer to you…well, let me put it this way, I don’t think there is anyone closer to you.”

Jack was silent, as if she’d just punched him in the chest.

Deirdre said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline to meet.”

She hung up, but Jack didn’t move. He stared at his phone, still trying to comprehend what she’d just said, and the thought sickened him: No one closer.