Last to die

“Sounds like a lot, but there are over six hundred thousand coffee and cocoa farms in this country.”

“That’s a lot of beans.”

“A lot of money,” she said, her gaze drifting back toward the workers in the field. “And a lot of kids.”

He glanced in her direction, catching a glimpse of the genuine concern in her eyes. He felt a strange rush of conflicting emotions, both sadness over the tragedy she was fighting and admiration for the passion with which she fought. It seemed like a strangely selfish thought, coming to him as it did while mere boys toiled in the fields around him, but Rene was definitely the kind of woman who could make a divorced man feel alive again.

“Turn down this road,” she said.

The dirt tracks turned into paved highway, and Jack realized that their little detour was over. “Where to now?” he asked.

“Almost as far as Daloa. Jean Luc has a house there.”

Jack had to think a moment, having almost forgotten that Jean Luc was the name of Sally’s rich second ex-husband. “Have you ever met him?”

“No.”

“Know anything about him?”

“He’s a French citizen, but he’s lived most of his life here.”

“Obviously wealthy.”

“Obviously. I just gave you some idea of his labor cost.”

“Good money in chocolate, I guess.”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘good.’”

“I assume Sally wasn’t unaware of his wealth when she set her sights on him.”

“He was reasonably handsome in the one photograph I’ve seen. But he was in his mid-sixties. Draw your own conclusions.”

They stopped at the gate at the end of the paved road. An armed guard emerged from the guardhouse.

Theo stirred in the backseat and said, “You want me to take care of this?”

“I’ll handle it,” said Rene. “This is one instance where looking like my sister should definitely be an advantage.”

“Like it’s ever a disadvantage,” said Theo.

She gave a little smile, then got out of the truck. The guard approached and met her halfway. Jack could hear them talking, but they were speaking French.

“What’s she saying?” asked Theo.

“Who do I look like, Maurice Chevalier? At this point, all we can do is trust her.”

“You’re cool with that?”

“I am.”

“Good. Cuz if she fucking sells me to this guy, I’m coming after your ass with that machete.”

Jack started humming “Thank Heaven, for Little Girls.” Rene and the guard finished their conversation with an exchange of smiles and multiple expressions of merci, merci, all of which Jack took as a good sign. She got back in the car, and the guard opened the gate to let them pass.

“What did you tell him?” asked Jack.

“A magician never reveals her tricks,” she said.

“Tricks, my ass,” said Theo. “You promised him fifty bucks on the way out.”

“Twenty-five. How did you know?”

“These things I know,” said Theo.

“Drive on,” she said. Jack followed the road past more cacao trees, small ones that grew in the shade of larger banana and coffee trees. After a half mile of ruts and dust, the road flattened into a relatively well-maintained driveway. It curved around a pond, leading to a huge house on the river at the foot of the mountain. It was the nicest house Jack had seen since landing in Africa, but it was a far cry from the mansion he had expected.

“Pretty simple digs for a multimillionaire,” said Jack.

“Typical,” said Rene. “You flash money here, you draw bandits. It’s the inside that looks like the lap of luxury.”

They parked in front beside two other SUVs. Jack brought along a dossier holding his legal papers. An African man came out and greeted them on the covered porch. The guard had apparently radioed ahead to alert him of visitors. He and Rene conversed in French, and then she turned to Jack and said, “This is Mr. Diabate, Jean Luc’s personal assistant. He wants to know the purpose of our visit.”

Jack opened the dossier and showed him a copy of Sally’s will and death certificate. “Tell him that I’m an attorney from the U.S., and that I have some questions for Sally’s ex-husband.”

Rene translated, then looked at Jack and said, “What kind of questions?”

“Tell him that it has to do with the money-”

“Jack, cork it,” said Theo. “Rene, do your trick again. Ask him if he wants to meet Andrew Jackson several times over.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” the man said in English.

Jack did a double take, but it was worth a few bucks if the guy could speak English. Jack checked his wallet, then pulled back. “Is Jean Luc even here?”

“In a ma

“What does that mean?”

Diabate tapped his foot, waiting. Jack handed over a few bills and watched him count in silence. The man stuffed the cash in his shirt pocket, seemingly satisfied, then looked at Jack and said, “Monsieur, Jean Luc is dead.”

Thirty-five

Tatum knew he shouldn’t do it. But with the lawyer away, the client plays. Especially when his brother goes with him.

Jack had given him a stiff warning before leaving for Africa: Under no circumstances was Tatum to have any communication with Sally’s other beneficiaries. Doing so would be a direct violation of the restraining order. Tatum promised “to lay low” and “not to do anything stupid.” Technically speaking, he never actually promised to heed Jack’s advice. Besides, there was only one beneficiary he wanted to talk to, which meant that there were four others he wouldn’t contact, which translated to 80 percent compliance with his lawyer’s instructions. In Tatum’s book, that was something to be pretty damn proud of.

Gerry Colletti was down the street from his house, walking his dog, when Tatum caught up with him. It was early morning, and Colletti was wearing his robe and slippers, the unwrapped morning paper tucked under one arm. Tatum approached from behind at a moment when he’d be most off guard, just as Colletti stooped down to collect fresh poodle droppings with his pooper-scooper.

“Thought you only talked shit, Colletti. Didn’t know you collected it.”

Colletti dropped the newspaper and looked behind him, obviously startled. He scooped the droppings into a plastic bag and said, “You’re in violation of your restraining order. Get away, or I’m calling the judge.”

“I’m not hurting anybody.”

“You’re within five hundred yards of me. It doesn’t matter if you hurt me or not.”

“Doesn’t matter? If that’s the case, I might as well beat you to a pulp. No sense doing time in jail just for talking.”

Colletti took a half-step back, trying to put more space between them. His little dog growled and bared its teeth. “Easy, Muffin.”

“Your dog’s name is Muffin?” said Tatum, taunting.

“Come near me and she’ll chew your leg off. What do you want to talk about?”

“I was hoping that you and me could come to an understanding.”

A modicum of tension drained from his expression, as if he liked the sound of Tatum’s approach. “What are you proposing?”

“First, you need to understand it wasn’t me who attacked you in the parking lot.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“What do you mean, you don’t care?”

“I already made the judge believe it was you. I can make the cops believe it, I can make a jury believe it, I can probably even make your own lawyer believe it. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, so long as I can prove it.”

“You can’t prove anything. You’re like that bag of dog shit in your hand.”

“You’re dead wrong about that, Mr. Knight. I put my best investigator on your trail. He’s uncovered some pretty interesting things about you.”

Tatum smiled and shook his head. “So I got an impressive résumé. Big deal. That don’t change the facts. It wasn’t me who pummeled you.”

“You’re missing my point. If you don’t step aside and renounce your claim to this inheritance, a guy like me can create a ton of problems for a guy like you.”