Last to die

“Meadows,” she answered.

“Want to know who killed Sally Fe

Deirdre didn’t answer right away. The steady drone of a newsroom full of countless other conversations hummed all around her. She plugged her open ear, as if to make sure she’d heard correctly. “What did you say?”

“I think you heard me.”

“Who is this?”

“Would I be altering my voice if I was going to tell you who I am?”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because I have a story that needs to be told. How’d you like to tell it for me?”

Her heart was thumping. She cradled the phone with her shoulder and scrambled for a pen and paper. “I’m listening.”

“I was at the on-ramp to I-395 where she was shot. I saw it happen.”

“What did you see?”

“Everything.”

“Let’s start at the begi

“No, let’s start at the real begi

She paused to choose her words. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Look, I can’t pay you for a story.”

“As a reporter for the esteemed Miami Tribune, that’s true. You can’t. But simply as a curious heir to Sally Fe

Her grip tightened on the telephone. She wanted this. Bad. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because I can show you the four-karat-diamond wedding band that Sally Fe

Deirdre felt chills. Instinctively, she looked over her shoulder, a subconscious confirmation that her supervisors wouldn’t approve. “We should talk about this.”

“You want to see the ring, don’t you.”

“Yes.”

“Then we meet on my turf, not yours.”

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Where?”

He chuckled. “Not so fast. Give me your cell phone number. I’ll call you and tell you where to go.”

She gave him the number, then asked, “When should I expect your call?”

“I work till midnight. Have your phone on then.”

“Midnight, tonight?”

“Yes. Unless you want to put this off. Or maybe you just want to forget the whole thing, and I’ll call someone over at the Sun-Sentinel.”

“No,” she said, checking her eagerness. “That’s fine. Tonight’s fine.”

“One last thing.”

“What?”

“I don’t want an audience. This is just you and me. Got it?”

She swallowed hard, then said, “Got it.”

He said good-bye. The line clicked, and her caller was gone.

Fifteen

Jack was driving his Mustang, ten minutes away from Kelsey’s house, when his cell phone rang. It was Nate.

“You have to speak up, buddy. I can hardly hear you.”

“I can’t,” said Nate. “Mom thinks I’m asleep. I’m under the covers.”

“Then maybe you should hang up and go to sleep.”

“No, no, wait. I have to ask you something.”

Jack stopped at the traffic light. “What?”

“Are you and my mom going out on a date?”

Jack could hear the hopefulness in Nate’s voice, the very thing that had kept Jack from even thinking about an attempt at romance with Kelsey. Dating the mom was a huge no-no in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program. If it didn’t work out, it was always the kid who suffered.

“No,” said Jack. “This isn’t a date. This is work.”

“Then why did she try on fifteen different dresses?”

Jack recalled the cleavage debate, but he definitely wasn’t going to go there. “That’s just what women do, Nate. You’ll see some day.”

Nate tried to pursue the dating issue further, but Jack put a stop to it. “I’ll see you this weekend, okay, buddy?”

“Oh, okay,” he said, grumbling. They said good night and hung up.

Jack slowed as he approached Kelsey’s house, but he was a few minutes early. He waited in the driveway, giving her enough time to try on dress number sixteen, then at precisely 10 P.M. he walked to the front door and knocked. Kelsey answered with a smile.

“Ready?” she said.

“Yup.”

She was wearing red, a good color for the South Beach club circuit. Rather than blatant sex appeal with a heaping helping of cleavage, she’d opted for a more tasteful, striking look, and she’d hit a home run. Her hair was up in a twist, and the dress was strapless, which let the beauty of her long neck and sloping shoulders play out. Jack had never really noticed before, but she had great arms, beautifully sculpted. Her walk was clearly that of a dancer, poised and graceful, perfect posture without a hint of stiffness.

“Nice dress,” said Jack.

“This? Oh, thanks. Just something I threw on.”

Jack smiled to himself, deciding not to tell that Nate had already ratted her out.

It was a fifteen-minute drive over to South Beach and a thirty-minute wait at the valet entrance to Club Vertigo on busy Washington Avenue. By the time they got inside it was after eleven, which was like the early-bird special in this sleep-till-noon, party-till-dawn neighborhood.

It seemed like forever since Jack had done the South Beach club scene, even longer since he’d done it with a woman who turned heads the way Kelsey did. One thing that never changed about South Beach was the utter lack of subtlety in the way people checked each other out. There was nothing casual about it. This was the stuff by which one’s clubbing worth was measured. If South Beach were in Silicon Valley, people would be wearing the high-tech equivalent of Web site counters around their necks. Naturally, the ones with the most hits would vault to the head of the line behind the velvet ropes.

“See your bodyguard friend anywhere?” asked Kelsey.

“I’m not even sure what he looks like.”

“Just look for the guy with the thickest neck.”

Jack chuckled. “He said to give our name to the woman bartender. She’d call him over.”

The line was moving slowly, and they were nearing the entrance. Each time the doors opened, Jack was hit with a flash of swirling lights and a blast of music, and he could feel the vibration in his feet. He suddenly had an u

Finally they were at the velvet rope. The goon at the door gave Jack a once-over, then focused on Kelsey. Her proverbial hit counter was overheating.

“You with him?” he asked, as if he couldn’t believe it.

Jack was about to give it right back to him, but Kelsey moved closer and locked arms with Jack. She was clearly just playing the game and pushing the goon’s buttons, but Jack liked the feeling nonetheless.

“Is that a problem?” she replied flatly.

Attitude ruled in South Beach, and it both amused and intrigued Jack to see that Kelsey had it in her. The goon unhooked the rope, and with a jerk of his head he signaled them to enter.

Club Vertigo was in an old hotel that had been gutted on the inside and completely reconfigured with a tall and narrow four-story atrium. The main bar and dancing were on the ground floor, and if you looked up into the towering atrium from the center of the dance floor, the mystery behind the club’s name immediately unraveled. Several large mirrors suspended at different angles made it difficult at times to discern whether you were looking up or down. With even a slight buzz, the pounding music, swirling lights, and throngs of sweaty bodies were enough to give anyone a sense of vertigo. The sensation worked both ways, with hordes of people-watchers looking down on the dance crowd from second-, third-, and fourth-floor balconies.