James Grippando - Last to die

“I feel awful. I wish I could fix this.”

“Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.”

He tried to step back and put some distance between their bodies, but she took his hand and said, “Are you sure?”

“The truth is we were going to have to deal with this sooner or later. Tatum really did meet with Sally. And she did try to hire him to kill her. The one item of damage control we have to address is Deirdre’s failure to include Tatum’s denial that he took the job.”

“Can I help you with that?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

They were standing just a foot or so apart, a little too close for Jack’s comfort. Kelsey had big, expressive eyes, and they were conveying a mix of emotions to him. Embarrassment. Remorse. She squeezed his hand and said, “It’s important to me that this doesn’t change the way you see me.”

He didn’t say anything.

She forced a weak semblance of a smile. “Do you think you can forgive a worried single mom for making a law student mistake?”

He considered it, trying to ignore the look on her face and the touch of her hand, trying to blur his memory of the one bright moment they’d shared together on her front porch and the nights he’d spent alone wondering what “might be” between them. It would take a while for him to sort out his own emotions, and it bugged him a little that she’d played the single mom/law student card in this setting. But he said what he thought she needed to hear, just words, no feeling behind them. “I can forgive you.”

She smiled just enough to show her relief. “Is everything going to be okay between us?”

“Sure. But the verdict is still out on the much tougher question.”

“What’s that?”

“Will Tatum forgive you?”

The bar was packed, mostly a twenty-something crowd, young sheep who would drink battery acid so long as it was two-for-one. Deirdre Meadows was on her fourth gin and tonic, sharing a booth with her best girlfriend, Carmen Bell, a freelance journalist and self-proclaimed poet who would admit to no one but her buddy Deirdre that her true ambition in life was to write sappy greeting cards for Hallmark. They got together for drinks every Wednesday, “Ladies’ Night,” after Deirdre met her deadline, but tonight was more special than most.

“Page one A,” said Carmen. “Nice work, girl.”

Deirdre crunched an ice cube with her teeth and smiled. “Best is yet to come.”

“Tell me.”

Deirdre checked over her shoulder, as if to make sure no one was listening. The booth behind them was filled with the usual after-work crowd, three guys shooting tequila while their girlfriends took turns trying the old teaspoon hanging from the nose trick.

Deirdre said, “Remember how pissed I was when my editor nixed my idea for a three-part investigative piece on Sally Fenning?”

“Yeah, budget problems, blah, blah, blah.”

“Well, no more budget problems. It’s now a green light.”

“Woo-hoo! You are on your way.”

Deirdre picked a peanut from the bowl of party mix. “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

Carmen leaned into the table and spoke in the low voice she used only when trading secrets. “So tell me. Who’s the source?”

“Carmen! I’m surprised at you.”

She smiled knowingly and said, “You don’t have any idea who he is, do you?”

“Nope,” she said, and they shared a little laugh.

Then Carmen turned serious. “Are you scared of him?”

“A little.”

“Just a little?”

“Well…” she said with a roll of her shoulders. “I’m less scared now that I’ve talked to the police.”

“Wait a minute. Since when does a journalist tell the police about her sources?”

“This is different. This is a source who threatened to kill me.”

Carmen’s eyes widened. “He what?”

“Nothing. Forget I said that. This is a celebration. Last thing I need is for you to get me all spooked out.”

Carmen gnawed her plastic stirring straw until the full two inches protruding from her cocktail were completely flattened with teeth marks.

“Will you please stop that?” Deirdre said sharply.

“Sorry. Just don’t like it when my friends are getting death threats.”

“I’m being very careful, okay?”

“Good. And I hope you’re being smart, too.”

“Oh, I am. How’s this for smart? Johnny, I’m scared, can I sleep over tonight? Johnny, can you hold me? Johnny, it would help me sleep so much better if we could wake him up just one more time and put him right-”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” she said with a smile.

“Do you really get it?”

“Well, technically speaking, no.”

“Then that’s one more way in which my life beats the hell out of yours right now, isn’t it?”

“I hope you get crabs.”

Deirdre laughed as she fished a ten-dollar bill from her purse. She laid it on the table, then flashed the key to her boyfriend’s townhouse, and said, “Sorry to drink and run, but Johnny puts the chain on the door if I don’t get there before eleven.”

“Shit, Deirdre. When you gonna find a man who doesn’t make you drive your own ass over to his place in order to see him naked?”

“As soon as I inherit forty-six million dollars.”

“Not that the money matters to you.”

“Of course not. Who needs money?”

They managed to keep a straight face for about two seconds, then burst into laughter. “I’ll see you later,” said Deirdre.

She zigzagged through the noisy crowd, and she could have sworn she was getting checked out more than usual. It was all in the attitude, and as of this morning she had a new one. A stranger even opened the door for her.

“Thanks,” she said with a smile, then stepped outside.

The sun having long-since dipped into the Everglades, it was one of those perfect autumn evenings with just enough bite in the air to make you forget the cursed summer heat and humidity that had stuck around till Halloween. Valet was a rip-off at eighteen bucks, and as usual Deirdre had come with no coins to feed the meters on the street, so she’d wedged her little Honda into a free spot in the alley beside the drugstore. This had seemed like a good idea when the store was open, but its windows were now black and there were no more customers coming and going. Nightfall had a way of changing everything.

She dug her key from her purse as she quickly crossed the lot. A guy in a red pickup truck was sitting behind the wheel, and the look on his face gave her concern at first, until she saw the mop of blond hair bobbing up and down in his lap. Pretty safe bet he wouldn’t be following her. Her car was just around the corner, and the muffled drone of the bar crowd faded with each step farther into the darkness.

Her car alarm chirped as she hit the remote button. She got in, slammed the door shut, and aimed the key for the ignition. Jittery hands made a challenge out of the simple process of starting the car, definitely more nerves than the drinks.

Damn it, settle down, girl.

The engine fired on the second try. She put it into the gear and pulled away so fast that she sent some loose gravel flying. She turned on the radio to calm herself.

She’d lied to Carmen. Her source had her more than “a little” scared. She was well aware that submitting the story about Tatum Knight to her editors was an outright defiance of his orders. She wasn’t sure what he might do about it, but he would surely do something. She’d gone to the police, hoping they might offer protection. They gave her a pamphlet filled with canned advice for stalking victims, told her to come back when she was willing to agree to a wiretap on her home and work telephones. Maybe then they’d talk protection.