Last to die

Jack laid his fork on the table, absorbing what she’d just said. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“It’s true. Unless Sally was the world’s greatest actress, I’m convinced that she had never even met her stalker, let alone fallen in love with him.”

“How do you know she tried to hunt him down?”

“Like I said, Sally came to Africa to try to get over the past. She was terribly distraught over the fact that her daughter’s killer had never been caught. Finally, over two years after the murder, her stalker contacted her by e-mail while she was here in Africa. We were down at the Internet café together, checking our e-mails, when she found it.”

“What happened?”

“I scrolled through my messages, then Sally scrolled through hers. All of a sudden, she went completely white. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, ‘It’s a message from that same guy who was stalking me before.’”

“Did you read it?”

“Yes. It was benign, really. Just, ‘Hello, how have you been?’ You’d never know it was from a stalker. But I guess that’s the way all communications from stalkers start out.”

“What did Sally do?”

“She started corresponding with him. She even had one or two on-line chats. She had a plan.”

“What was it?”

“She was trying to arrange a face-to-face meeting with him.”

“In Africa?”

“No. She was willing to hop on the next plane back to Miami if he would meet with her.”

“Wasn’t that a little risky?”

“That’s finally what I said to her: ‘Hey, Sally, this could be the man who murdered Katherine and stuck a knife beneath your ribs.’ Finally, I talked her into a safer approach.”

“Which was what?”

“Just continue the on-line communications, see if he’d divulge some tidbit of information that might help the police find this guy.”

“Did it work?”

“She tried. Week after week, doing her best to coax him into saying something about where he lived, what kind of car he drove, anything. He was smart, though. Never revealed much of anything about himself. He would always turn it around and ask questions about her: What she was doing, what she was wearing, how would she like a big you-know-what in the you-know-where?”

“Did she get anything at all out of him?”

“One night, she was totally frustrated. She threatened never to talk to him on-line again if he didn’t tell her his name. He gave her a name, but Sally and I both knew it wasn’t real.”

“What was it?”

“Gosh, I don’t remember. Kind of goofy-sounding.”

“Take a minute. Think about it.”

Her brow furrowed as the wheels turned in her head. “I think it was…no. Yeah, that’s it. Alan Sirap.”

Jack froze. “Alan S-I-R-A-P?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

She obviously had no idea that Sirap was the name of Sally’s sixth beneficiary, the “unknown” whom they’d been unable to identify. Jack settled back in his chair and said, “No, I don’t know him. But I’m starting to feel like I do.”

Thirty-three

After lunch Jack took a look under the hood.

He’d offered to drive Rene back to Korhogo, and her business was finished, so she’d gladly accepted. Unfortunately, their Land Rover had developed the automotive equivalent of a smoker’s hack. Jack was no mechanic, but he’d learned a thing or two from his treasured old Mustang back home, enough to know that he should at least check the filters before returning down the same dusty road that had brought them to Odie

Theo was reclining in the passenger seat, his feet up on the dash, fa

Jack was inspecting an air filter, blowing out the dirt. “How would you know? You haven’t lifted a finger all day.”

“I’m not talking about the Rover. I’m talking about this chapalo.”

“Your what?”

He raised the bottle and said, “It’s a millet beer my buddies from Belgium gave me. They said it would cure my hangover.”

“You think drinking more alcohol is the way to recover from drinking too much alcohol?”

“It’s not just alcohol. It’s pimenté, the way the Ivorians drink it. They add hot peppers to give it extra kick. All I know is that it’s kicking the crap out of my hangover.”

“Brilliant,” said Jack. “Next time I overeat, I’ll go stuff myself with a cheeseburger pimenté.

“Mmm. That sounds pretty good.”

Jack shut the hood, walked around to the driver’s side, and leaned into the open window. They were parked in the alley beside their hotel, taking advantage of the very limited shade of the two-story building. Jack asked, “Has your head stopped throbbing long enough for you to think about Alan Sirap?”

Theo sipped his beer and made a face, as if suffering from brief pimenté overload. “Doesn’t make no sense.”

“You mean Sally naming him as the sixth beneficiary?”

“This is the guy who stabbed Sally and killed her daughter. And Rene says her sister wanted to fly back to Miami and meet him? That’s what don’t make no sense.”

“Well, Rene talked her out of that. She realized how dangerous it could be.”

“Or how pointless it could be.”

“How’s that?” asked Jack.

“I’m thinking maybe the reason Sally wasn’t afraid to meet him is that she was convinced he wasn’t the man who killed her daughter.”

“So, you’re saying she was trying to prove a negative?”

“Huh?”

“The only reason she wanted to meet with the stalker was to rule him out as a possible suspect in the murder of her daughter.”

“Possible, ain’t it?” said Theo.

“Yeah. It’s also possible that she knew exactly how dangerous he was, but she wasn’t afraid of dying. Just like she wasn’t afraid to die two years later when she tried to hire your brother to shoot her.”

Theo squinted. The sun had moved just enough to create an a

“Of course,” said Jack. “It was the stalking that led to the prosecutor’s accusation that Sally was trying to cover up for the man who killed her daughter.”

“Okay. That means five of the six heirs are co

Jack looked away, then back. “Maybe he’s the guy who made her whole scheme possible. She rewarded him for killing her.”

“No, no, doesn’t fit. She didn’t leave this money to reward anybody. She was trying to punish people. The only reason for her to punish Tatum is not because he made her scheme possible by killing her, but because he almost made her plan impossible. He refused to kill her.”

“But think about it. Doesn’t it make it more of a punishment for the other five if she makes Tatum Knight the sixth beneficiary?”

“She don’t need Tatum for that. She’s already got Alan Sirap, or whatever his real name is. Why would she need two-”

Jack waited for his friend to finish, and then he realized why he’d stopped. “Two killers? Is that what you were going to say?”

Theo chugged his beer, then threw the bottle out the open window. It smashed against the brick wall. “Was you who said it, not me,” he said angrily.

“Theo, come on.”

“Come on nothin’. I didn’t come all the way over here to prove my brother was guilty. It’d be nice if you could just pretend for ten minutes that you think he’s i

“I’m not-”

Theo got out and walked toward the hotel. Jack followed him inside, but Theo continued straight through the lobby and into the restaurant, probably for a replacement bottle of chapalo. Rene was at the front desk, checking out.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“Bad case of pissed-off pimenté.” Jack grabbed her suitcase and said, “We can load up.”

He led her outside and put her suitcase in back. She took shotgun, and Jack sat behind the wheel. Even with the windows open, there was no breeze to cut the mid-afternoon sun. The simple act of carrying her bag to the car had caused Jack to break a sweat.