Last to die

“Sorry,” said Lutu. “Got to get dis here plane up fast!”

Jack wedged himself between the seats to keep from slamming his head against the ceiling. The rain was cascading off the windshield, the wipers working furiously. He managed to catch a glimpse of the fast-approaching Jeep. It was a game of chicken, the plane against the Jeep, Lutu against the lunatic aiming his rifle straight at them. Jack saw the sudden recoil in the man’s shoulder.

They’re shooting at us!

“Wooo-hoooo!” shouted Theo, loving every minute of it.

The plane hit another huge hole in the airstrip, and Jack went flying. He had to grab something, so he grabbed Theo by the throat.

“Woooo-glupp!”

Lutu pulled back on the yoke, and the bouncing stopped as they lifted a few precious feet off the ground.

“Pull up!” said Jack.

“Watch this,” said Lutu. He held the plane steady, exactly the right altitude to decapitate everyone in the oncoming Jeep.

“Are you crazy?” shouted Jack.

The flying plane was closing fast. The men in the Jeep jumped out just before the plane passed, ditching the Jeep but saving their scalps.

“Wooo-hoooo!” shouted Theo.

“Oh shit,” said Lutu.

The tall trees at the end of the airstrip were fast approaching. Lutu pulled back on the yoke, all the way back, sending the plane on a mean vertical climb. Jack fell back in his seat and banged his head, nearly knocking himself silly. He fought to keep his bearings, got on his knees, and watched, his eyes shifting back and forth between the rising altimeter and the approaching treetops.

“Come on, baby,” said Lutu.

“Please, God,” said Jack.

They cleared the tallest tree by a good half-meter.

“Yes!” said Theo. He and Lutu were slapping high fives. Jack was checking the knotty bruise that was taking over the back of his head.

Theo glanced back, all smiles, and said, “You owe me big time for this one, Swyteck!”

“Yeah, and I can’t wait to pay you back.” He slid into his seat, searching frantically for both ends of the seat belt as the plane soared into the night, climbing by the second.

Thirty-nine

The mood in Vivien Grasso’s conference room was even more tense than Jack had expected. As personal representative of the estate, Vivien was seated at the head of the rectangular table. To her left were Jack and Tatum, followed by Deirdre Meadows and her lawyer. Seated on the other side of the table were Miguel Rios, Gerry Colletti, and Mason Rudsky, each with his own attorney. All eyes were upon Jack, as if to say, “This had better be good.”

Immediately upon returning to Miami, Jack had called Vivien to arrange a meeting in her office first thing Monday morning. Naturally, Jack hoped that sitting down face-to-face with the other beneficiaries might lend some insight into who was threatening Kelsey. But that was a secondary objective, one that he’d have to approach subtly, as the attacker’s warning had left Kelsey afraid to utter a word to the police or anyone else. Jack was far more direct when addressing the main point on his agenda.

“Rene told me that Alan Sirap was Sally’s stalker.”

Silence fell over the room for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, Vivien said, “So there really is an Alan Sirap?”

“No. According to Rene, it’s a phony name he shared with Sally in one of their communications over the Internet. But it’s the best information Sally had about him.”

“I’m not sure it’s good enough,” said Vivien.

“Good enough for what?” asked Jack.

“To establish his entitlement to an inheritance. I’m not saying it’s impossible. I’m sure that somewhere in the history of our jurisprudence a court has upheld a will where a nickname or perhaps even an alias is used to describe the beneficiary. But it would be up to that beneficiary to come forward and prove that he is in fact the person described in the will.”

There was silence again, as each of them pondered the implications. Jack said, “So by naming Alan Sirap as a beneficiary, Sally was inducing her stalker to come forward and say I’m the guy, I’m Alan Sirap. In effect, she was giving him a choice: Reveal yourself as a stalker and take your shot at forty-six million dollars, or just stay silent.”

“I’m not prepared to speak as to Sally’s intentions in this setting,” said Vivien.

“Well, I am,” said Miguel. “You people seem to keep forgetting that I was married to Sally when this stalker first appeared, and if you ask me, he’s the piece of shit who murdered our daughter. So let’s clear up one thing right away: This Sirap character isn’t going to come forward and reveal himself, not even for forty-six million dollars.”

“That depends,” said Jack. “Maybe he’s convinced that no one can prove he did anything but send Sally a few e-mails.”

The prosecutor piped up, as if this talk of “proof” was hitting too close to home. “With all due respect to Mr. Rios, we already know that Mr. Sirap-whoever he is-isn’t going to stay silent. Each of us received a letter from him that flat-out warned us to get out of the game.”

“That’s right,” said the others, a sudden chorus of agreement.

Rudsky continued, “So now we know several key facts. One, each of us has a warning letter from a Mr. Sirap. Two, we know that Sirap is the name used by the man who was stalking Sally Fe

Again there was silence, the exchange of uneasy glances-a silence that was broken by the slow, sarcastic clapping of hands. It was Gerry Colletti offering mock applause. “Very nice ploy, Swyteck,” he said dryly.

“What are you talking about?”

He glared at Jack and then glanced around the table, as if courting support from the others. “We all know there’s two ways to be the one who inherits Sally’s money. One is to outlive the others. The other is to persuade the others to withdraw. I think I’ve stated that correctly, have I not, Madam Personal Representative?”

“That’s correct,” said Vivien.

“So, short of killing each other off, we all have to come up with a strategy. We could cut a deal, say each of us takes one-sixth. We haven’t openly explored that route yet, but we’re all posturing, aren’t we? Each of us trying to get in a position to take a bigger share.”

“This meeting isn’t about posturing,” said Jack.

“Everything we do is about posturing,” said Gerry. “Some of us are clever, some of us aren’t. At least one of us is so transparent that he beat the crap out of me,” he said, looking straight at Tatum, “and tried to threaten me into withdrawing. But it now appears that Mr. Knight has managed to align himself with someone who has a more workable plan: Scare the daylights out of the other beneficiaries, make everyone think this mysterious Mr. Sirap is out to kill us, so that the weakest among us drop out of the race.”

“Are you suggesting that I staged this meeting purely as a scare tactic?” said Jack.

“What’s your legal fee if Tatum Knight wins, Mr. Swyteck? One third of forty-six million? Not a bad piece of change.”

“That’s pretty cynical of you,” said Jack. “All I can say is that I hope the others aren’t nearly so myopic and that they’ll take this seriously.”

“I hope they take it seriously, too,” said Gerry. “To that end, I’m prepared to make a blanket offer to everyone here, the same offer I initially conveyed to Mr. Swyteck’s client. I’ll pay two-hundred-fifty thousand dollars cash, right now. No strings attached. All you have to do is renounce your right to the inheritance.”

A few of them exchanged glances, but no one spoke.

“Any takers?” asked Gerry.