Last to die

“Hello.”

“You ready?” he asked. Again, it was a deep, mechanical voice that almost sounded underwater.

“You bet,” she answered.

“Go to JJ’s Italian Tile and Marble on One hundred thirty-second Court, west of the eight-twenty-six. Drive around back and find the gate entrance along the chain-link fence. There’s a padlock on it, but I’ll leave it open. Come inside and walk about a hundred yards straight toward the loading dock.”

“Why there?”

“Because I said so.”

“Look, I’m not so keen about meeting a total stranger behind some building in the middle of the night.”

“Then don’t come.”

“You’ll still give me the story?”

“Not if you don’t come. And by the way, when I say come, I mean alone.”

“Why are you doing it this way?”

“Because I want to know.”

“Know what?”

“How bad you want the truth about Sally Fe

“What makes you think I want it this bad?”

“Because this story has a pretty good payoff. Like forty-six million dollars.”

“How is the identity of Sally’s killer going to earn me forty-six million dollars?”

“It won’t cinch it, but it will bring you one step closer.”

“How?”

“Sally’s killer can’t inherit anything from her estate. That’s the law, right?”

Icicles went down her spine. She’d assumed that her caller was no genius, but apparently he was smart enough to know about the Slayer Statute. “That’s right,” she said. “Murderers are disqualified from inheriting anything from their victim.”

“There you have it. One down, five to go.”

“Are you telling me that Sally’s killer was one of her six named beneficiaries?”

“I’m saying be at JJ’s Italian Tile and Marble in ninety minutes or less. End of story. For now.”

Deirdre checked the clock on her dashboard. More than an hour had passed since that conversation, but the question still burned in her ear: How bad did she want the story?

Almost as much as the money.

Instinctively, she found herself reaching for the door handle. The door opened, and she stepped out of the car. The expressway was out of sight, somewhere beyond the block of windowless buildings, but she could hear the steady drone of traffic to the east. It seemed strange that hundreds of vehicles were racing by every minute, yet she felt so alone, not another car or human being in sight. Before shutting the door, she reached for the dash and flashed her parking lights. She checked over her shoulder and took a long look down the dark street. A set of orange parking lights flashed in response, then returned to darkness. Her boyfriend. It made her feel a little safer knowing he was just a hundred yards and a speed-dial away on her cell phone. She closed the car door, took a deep breath, and walked toward the gate, pea gravel crunching beneath each footfall.

This had better be good, she told herself.

Seventeen

It was last call at John Martin’s on Miracle Mile, the closest thing in downtown Coral Gables to an authentic Irish pub. Dark-paneled walls, Harp lager on tap, and classic pub grub like shepherd’s pie or bangers and mash were hardly the norm in south Florida, but John Martin’s was a nice diversion. The long, mahogany bar carved by local artisans was a beauty, and every now and then, the owner would book an authentic Irish band that was sure to get feet stomping and hands clapping. Even pretty waitresses with red hair and freckles, however, couldn’t completely obscure the fact that this was not exactly County Cork, especially at happy hour, when John Martin’s was affectionately known as “Juan Martino’s,” serving largely a Latin business crowd that, even on St. Paddy’s Day, would rather have a mint-colored mojito than a pint of green lager. It might sound strange, but to taste it was to love it.

“Another Jameson’s and water?” asked the waitress.

Gerry Colletti swirled the ice cubes in his near-empty glass, then decided that he’d had enough. “No, thanks. We’re about done here.”

He watched her ass move from side to side as she walked away, then turned his gaze toward the work papers on the table. Seated across from him was Bill Hanson, a man with the look and demeanor of an accountant on April 14, just coffee in his cup. Hanson was an actuary trained in the science of expressing the proverbial length of one’s lifeline in terms of mathematical probabilities. Once Gerry realized that he had to outlive the other named beneficiaries in order to inherit the entirety of Sally’s estate, he hired Hanson to provide a statistical analysis of how he might fare in the test of longevity that Sally’s will had created.

Gerry glanced at the charts and graphs one more time, then pushed them aside. “This all looks impressive, but I hate interpreting this stuff. Just explain it to me, will you, please?”

Hanson seemed disappointed, as if charts and graphs were his pride and joy. “You want the long or short version?”

“I want an answer to the question I hired you to analyze. We got six beneficiaries under Sally Fe

“I can’t tell you who is going to live the longest. All I can do is rank them according to the actuarial score I gave them.”

“And the score means what?”

“The higher the number, the higher the risk for the insurance company. Which, in your context, means the greater the likelihood of experiencing early death.”

“That means I want all these other jokers to have big numbers.”

“Exactly. Mind you, this is not as reliable as something I would put together in the case of an actual insurance application. Applicants are required to disclose all kinds of information relating to their family background and health. Here, I’ve used only what I’ve been able to dig up on these people.”

“I understand.”

“I’ve also thrown into the mix a few factors that I couldn’t legally consider in an insurance application. Things that, frankly, might get an insurance company sued.”

“But I’m not an insurance company, and anyone who’s stupid enough to sue me ought to have their head examined. Just give me what you’ve got.”

“Okay.” He cleared his throat, checking his notes. “The highest score goes to the prosecutor. High-stress job, smokes like a chimney, looks to be about forty pounds overweight. He’s fifty-eight and his father died of a heart attack at age fifty-five.”

“Beautiful. He could go at any time.”

Hanson shot him a curious look, seemingly uncomfortable.

Gerry asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

“I guess I’ve never done an analysis where my client is actually rooting for the big bony man with the black hood and sickle.”

“I’m not rooting. I just want you to tell it like it is.”

“I’m glad you said that. Because the second-highest score goes to you.”

“Me? I don’t even smoke.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Socially.”

“That aside, the biggest thing working against you is something I can take into consideration only because you’re a friend of mine and I know your lifestyle. Basically, you’re a horny divorce lawyer who hoses half the women who come through his door.”

“Say what?”

“Sorry, Gerry. You asked for my honest analysis. As many sexual partners as you’ve had and will continue to have, I put you at a high risk for HIV.”

“But I use condoms.”

“No, you don’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I saw those pictures that Lisa Bartow put on the Internet. You remember your old client Lisa, right? You sued her because she wouldn’t pay your bill, and so she retaliated by posting those photographs on the Web of you and her doing-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I remember.”