Last to die

“Are we a team?” he said. It was that mechanical voice again.

Deirdre grimaced, as her arm was throbbing with pain from the dog bite. “What the hell did you just do?”

“A night watchman will do anything for a little extra cash. Even disappear and loan me his dog whistle. Fu

“I don’t think this is fu

“Relax. I’m giving you a choice, Deirdre.”

“What choice?”

“A very simple choice. You can be a wi

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We’ll talk later, after you’ve calmed down. In the meantime, you breathe a word about this to anyone-I mean anyone-and you’re definitely a loser. Big-time loser. You hear?”

She didn’t answer.

“Do you hear?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Good. The key to the lock is taped to the light pole. Now get the hell out of here.”

With a chirp of her phone, the call was over. Deirdre rolled onto her side and put pressure on her arm to stop the bleeding, fighting back tears in the darkness.

Nineteen

Probate Judge Leonard Parsons looked mad as hell. Worse, he was looking down from the bench and straight at Jack’s client.

The phone call from the judge’s chambers had come at 9 A.M. A battered Gerry Colletti had filed an emergency motion, and the judge ordered each of the beneficiaries under Sally Fe

“Good morning,” the judge said. His tone was cordial, but the eyes were two smoldering black coals beneath bushy white eyebrows. A scowling judge was a bad sign in any courtroom, but especially so in the relatively courteous world of Whisper Court.

“Good morning, Your Honor.” The reply was a mixed chorus of lawyers and clients. Even Gerry Colletti, supremely confident in his own abilities, had retained counsel for this hearing. Counting Jack and his client, there were ten suits altogether. Eight of them-Colletti, Sally’s ex-husband, the prosecutor, the reporter, and their counsel-were crowded around a single table near the jury box, the opposite side of the courtroom from Jack and his client, as if they suddenly couldn’t put enough distance between themselves and Tatum Knight. Seated behind them was Vivien Grasso, the personal representative for the estate. She seemed to be staking out a position of neutrality, sitting at neither table, choosing instead a seat at the rail that separated the lawyers from public seating.

The courtroom was otherwise empty, Jack noted, which meant that the sixth beneficiary was still a no-show.

“Mr. Anderson,” said the judge, addressing Gerry Colletti’s lawyer. “Would you speak to your motion, please?”

Colletti remained seated. The right side of his face was purple and swollen, and he had a large Band-Aid across his forehead. His lawyer rose, thanked the court, and stepped forward.

“Judge, it’s quite obvious that Mr. Colletti is in pretty bad shape. Although this is an evidentiary hearing, we request that the court accept my client’s written and sworn affidavit as a substitute for his live testimony. If counsel would like to cross-examine him, he is available.”

“Seems reasonable to me. Any objections?” asked the judge.

“None here,” came the chorus from the other side of the room.

“No objection,” said Jack.

“Thank you,” said Anderson. “Basically, the evidence before the court is that, late last night, Mr. Colletti was viciously attacked as he walked to his car in the parking lot behind John Martin’s Pub in Coral Gables. He sustained a variety of injuries, mostly bruises and contusions, not to mention a concussion. Thankfully, none of them are life threatening. As set forth in Mr. Colletti’s affidavit, the man who unleashed that attack upon him is his fellow beneficiary Tatum Knight.”

“What a crock,” said Tatum, grumbling.

“No interruptions, please,” the judge said sternly. “And, Mr. Knight, watch your language.”

“Did I use a bad word?”

“Borderline. When in doubt, remember, we’re in Whisper Court.”

“Our apologies,” said Jack. “It won’t happen again.”

Colletti’s lawyer continued, “As I was saying, the beating occurred late last night. Early this morning, Mr. Colletti found an interesting e-mail on his computer. It was delivered electronically last night at six forty-three P.M., a few hours before the attack, but he didn’t get it until after. We’ve printed out a hard copy for the court. It’s fairly short. It reads simply: ‘Life is short enough. Get out of the game-now.’”

Jack glanced at his client. Tatum leaned into Jack and whispered as softly as possible, “I don’t even own a computer.”

“Who sent it?” the judge asked.

“We don’t know. It was sent from one of those business/copy centers in Miami that leases computer terminals by the hour, so it’s not traceable to anyone. Still, I believe that this message ties in quite logically with the beating Mr. Colletti suffered at the hands of Mr. Knight. As the court is well aware, we are operating under a rather unusual will. There are six beneficiaries, but only one shall inherit the estate. The only way to win this game, as the e-mail described it, is to outlive your fellow beneficiaries, or to persuade them to drop out and renounce their inheritance. Mr. Colletti submits that this was exactly the purpose of Mr. Knight’s beating. It was an appalling attempt to strike fear into the fellow beneficiaries and to encourage all of them, and Mr. Colletti in particular, to drop out.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Tatum, grousing into Jack’s ear.

“Mr. Knight!” said the judge. “One more outburst like that, and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“Outburst? My own lawyer barely heard me.”

Jack shushed him, mindful that all that whispering in Whisper Court must have improved the judge’s hearing. That, or his hearing aid was turned way up. “Sorry, Your Honor,” said Jack.

The judge scowled, then turned his attention back to Colletti’s lawyer. “What relief do you request?”

“Mr. Colletti has not yet had time to evaluate all of his legal options. At this point, we simply ask the court to enter a restraining order that would prevent Mr. Knight from communicating with the other beneficiaries, except through his legal counsel. Further, we ask that the court prohibit Mr. Knight from coming within five hundred yards of any of the other beneficiaries, except for court hearings or required meetings with the personal representative.”

“All right,” said the judge. “Mr. Swyteck, what does Mr. Knight have to say for himself?”

Jack started to rise, but Tatum grabbed his arm and whispered, “I want to take the stand.”

“No. We agreed-”

“I don’t care what we agreed. I want to testify.”

The judge said, “Mr. Swyteck, if you please.”

Confused, Jack looked up at the judge, then glanced back at his client’s eager expression. “Your Honor, I’d like to have just a couple minutes to speak with my client.”

“All right. But be aware that I’ve allotted one hour for this hearing. Every minute you spend jabbering with your client is one less minute you have to present your case. We’ll take a five-minute recess,” he said with a crack of the gavel.

“All rise,” said the bailiff.

Jack and the others were on their feet, watching in silence as Judge Parsons disappeared through the side exit. Jack took his client by the arm and said, “Let’s talk.” They walked quickly down the aisle, through the rear entrance and into the hallway. Jack found an open waiting room by the elevators, pulled Tatum inside, and shut the door.

“I swear, I didn’t lay a hand on Colletti.”

“I told you this morning when Colletti served his papers on us: It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” said Tatum, his voice rising.

“For purposes of this hearing, I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter if you’re i