Last to die

Tatum staggered. That last blow to the forehead had been a direct hit. Theo said, “Every second of every minute of every day, lightning strikes the earth a hundred times. But only a few people get a good, direct hit all year long. What does that tell you, Tatum?”

“Stand still and I’ll tell you.” He took another swing. Whiff.

“When somebody says the chances of Theo Knight getting off death row, or chances of Tatum Knight staying out of prison, are about as good as getting hit by lightning, what does that tell you?”

He unleashed another combination, then backed away before Tatum could answer.

“What the hell are you jabbering about, Theo?”

“Don’t you get it? It’s not that lightning don’t strike. You just gotta be standing in the right place.”

“You’re talking shit.”

“I’m talking about missed opportunities. There’s all kinds of ways to miss opportunities. Ain’t that right, Tatum?”

Tatum just grunted.

“You can blow them all by yourself,” said Theo as he landed another punch, then pulled away quickly. “Or sometimes you don’t have to do anything at all. Opportunities just pass right by you. Because your older brother went ahead and fucked up everything for you.”

Theo could feel the old anger rising from within. With a flurry of punches he came straight at Tatum and pi

“Enough!” shouted Tatum.

For an instant, it was as if they were no longer in the ring. They were on the street corner outside their aunt’s apartment in Liberty City, and Theo was pounding on his brother for having hocked their aunt’s wedding ring to buy some dope. Theo abandoned the boxing mode and wrestled his brother to the mat, locking Tatum’s head in a two-handed hold that could have busted his neck. Theo spoke directly into his brother’s ear in a low, angry whisper, so that no one could overhear. “I vouched for you with Swyteck. I told him you didn’t kill that woman.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not lying, man. I didn’t kill her.”

“Swyteck was like lightning for me, you understand? You think a guy like me gets off death row without Jack Swyteck? You think a guy like me gets anywheres at all without a friend like Swyteck?”

“I hear you, okay?”

He shoved Tatum’s face into the canvas. “He’ll help you, too, man. If you let him. But the last thing he needs is another scumbag client who lies to him.”

Theo tightened the headlock. His brother grimaced and said, “No lies, I promise.”

“I swear, bro. You lie and embarrass my friend-you blow this opportunity I’m giving you-I’ll bust you wide open.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Did Sally Fe

“She tried.”

“Did you kill her?”

“No. I didn’t touch the bitch.”

Theo kneed him in the belly, then pushed him down to the canvas. “She wasn’t a bitch,” he said as he walked to the ropes. “She was a mother.”

Theo used his teeth to unlace his gloves, then pulled them off and tossed them into the plastic crate in the corner. He swatted the line of hanging punching bags on the way to the locker room, a boxing rhythm that matched his walk. At his locker, he dug out his cell phone and dialed Jack’s number, catching his breath as the phone rang five times in his ear.

“Jacko, hey, it’s me.”

“What’s going on?” said Jack.

Theo blotted away a smear of blood on his wrist. He was sure it wasn’t his. “You don’t have to worry about my brother smokin’ you no more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say Tatum passed a lie detector test. He didn’t kill Sally Fe

“You sure of that?”

“Sure as I can be.”

“Did she hire him to kill her?”

“Tried to. He sticks by that, yeah.”

Theo took a seat on the bench, waiting for Jack to speak. He sensed that something was still troubling him. “What now?” asked Theo.

“It’s the same thing Kelsey and I were talking about last night. Here’s a woman who goes through the worst nightmare imaginable, the brutal murder of her own child, but it takes five years, a new marriage, and a mega-million-dollar prenup settlement for her to decide that she can’t go on living anymore.”

“Maybe it was just something that ate her up over time.”

“That, or maybe something else pushed Sally over the edge. Something more horrible than having your child murdered in your own home.”

“What could be worse than that?”

“I don’t know. But I aim to find out.”

Theo smiled thinly and said, “As usual, boss, I aim to help.”

Eight

At 1 P.M. Monday Jack was in the law office of Vivien Grasso. His client, Tatum Knight, was at his side.

Vivien had yet to make an appearance. Her secretary had simply escorted Jack and his client back to the main conference room, where three men and a woman were waiting at the long mahogany table. They were the other beneficiaries, Jack presumed, but he was reluctant to jump to any firm conclusions.

Jack introduced himself and his client to the group, which precipitated an exchange of names only. Everyone seemed cautious, if not suspicious, reluctant to divulge anything about themselves.

“Deirdre Meadows,” said Jack, repeating the final introduction as if he recognized the name. She looked familiar, too. Plain but potentially attractive, her simple clothing, minimal makeup, and efficient brown curls befitting of a woman who was perpetually on deadline.

Jack asked, “Don’t you write for the Tribune?”

“I do,” she answered.

“What, they got you covering this story from the inside?”

“No. I was invited to this meeting. Just like everyone else.”

“Did you know Sally Fe

“Sort of.” She looked away, as if catching herself in a lie. “Not really.”

“Are you a beneficiary under the will?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Jack checked around the table. “Does this arrangement strike anyone else as odd? I get the sense that everyone knows there’s a lot of money at stake, but no one quite knows why they’re here.”

“I know why I’m here,” said the guy across the table. Miguel was his name, and he’d introduced himself only by his first name, as if he were under strict orders to be tight-lipped.

“Be quiet,” the older man next to him grumbled. He was short and stocky, like a fireplug in a double-breasted suit. His hair was slick and dyed black, his mustache perfectly groomed, his midsection soft and round, as if he spent all day looking in the mirror from the shoulders up. His name was “Gerry”-just Gerry, as he was evidently operating under the same brilliant first-name-only strategy.

“You two together?” asked Jack.

They answered simultaneously: “Sort of,” said Miguel; “None of your business,” said Gerry.

Jack said, “Let me guess. Gerry, you’re Miguel’s lawyer.”

Gerry didn’t answer.

“That’s Geraldo Colletti,” said the reporter. “The divorce lawyer. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Made quite a name for himself in family court by snaking other lawyers. First thing he tells his client to do is spend some money interviewing the five best divorce lawyers in town. That way, the other spouse can’t go out and hire them, because Gerry’s client has already revealed enough confidences to make it ethically impossible for them to represent the other side.”

“That’s hogwash,” said Gerry.

“I have heard of you,” said Jack. “I don’t do divorce work, but aren’t you the same Gerry who got himself into trouble for ru

“Gentleman Gerry,” he said, obviously a

“I see. Tell me, Gentleman Gerry. What’s your take on this?”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

Miguel made a face. “Oh, what the hell are we being so coy about? I’m Miguel Rios, Sally’s first husband.”