Last to die

Cameras flashed as the investigative team photographed the area. Others were slowly canvassing the yard, searching for anything and everything. The body lay facedown in the gravel. An assistant medical examiner was kneeling over it, examining it, while speaking into her Dictaphone.

A young cop in uniform, the first to have arrived on the scene, gave Larsen the quick rundown. “White male. Fifty-something years old.”

“He live here?”

“No. Owner of the house found him when she was taking out the garbage. She called the police.”

“She know him?”

“No. Says she’s never seen him before.”

“She see anything?”

“No.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Not yet.”

“Any identification on him?”

“None. He was wearing a T-shirt and exercise shorts with no pockets. From his shoes and outfit, looks like he was out walking or jogging. Except that he’s not in very good shape. Walking is more my guess, probably on a doctor’s orders to get off his ass and lower his cholesterol.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s about it. Medical examiner moved in and took over.”

Larsen made a few notes in his pad, then walked over to the body. The examiner was in mid-sentence, speaking into her recorder, “…early nonfixed lividity, torso and extremities blanch with touch.”

She switched off her tape recorder, looked up at the detective, and said, “How you doing, Rick?”

“Better than him.”

“That good, huh?”

He smiled just a little, about as much as he ever did. “What happened?”

“With a fractured right femur, at least six cracked ribs, a hyperextended elbow, a broken neck, and God only knows the extent of internal injuries, I’d say it was probably more than a slip and fall.”

“Hit and run?”

“Pretty safe guess.”

“How’d he end up in the driveway? Fly or dragged here?”

“Flew. I marked off his flight pattern. Probably became airborne somewhere south of the driveway, shot like a cruise missile right through that busted-up banana tree over there. Landed in the front yard, where we put that flag right there, then skidded into the driveway.”

“Anybody checking for skid marks?”

“No one’s found any yet. Street’s blocked off all the way to Main Highway. You can look for yourself.”

“Think I will.” He started away then stopped. It was a little ritual of his, always to get a look at the victim’s face before marching off to do the drawing, the measuring, the detail work. It was a sure way to remind himself that this job was about people.

He bent over and shined his penlight on the face, then did a double take. “Son of a bitch,” he said softly.

“You know him?”

“Don’t you? He’s an assistant state attorney.”

“I’ve only been with the Miami-Dade office a few months. Haven’t worked with many of them yet.”

“Well, here’s one you’ll never work with,” he said flatly. “His name’s Mason Rudsky.”

Forty-three

Jack was alone on his covered patio watching the brilliant display of lightning over Biscayne Bay, when the telephone rang. He hesitated, recalling how his ex-wife had been so paranoid about picking up the phone in a thunderstorm, as if a bolt of lightning might travel down the line into the house and fry you on the spot. She always said it took a complete and utter disregard for human life to expect someone to come to the phone when there’s lightning.

Maybe it’s her, he thought in a sarcastic moment. He picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Good evening, Mr. Swyteck.”

Jack gave his phone a quick shake. It was a mechanical-sounding voice, and he was begi

“Don’t hang up. You’ll be sorry if you do.”

The voice was still distorted, but he knew there was nothing wrong with his equipment. “What’s this about?”

“Mason Rudsky.”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

Jack suddenly needed to sit down. “Dead?”

“Yes, very.”

“What do you know about it?”

“I know this much: The stolen car that ran him down will never be found.”

“Where’s his body?”

“No need to worry about that. Cops are on the scene already.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

“Because you seem to be the one voice in the group of Sally Fe

“What is it?”

“Tell them this: The man who ran down Mason Rudsky knew that Rudsky had withdrawn from Sally Fe

Jack rose, as if pacing might help him think. “You’re saying this was homicide?”

“Definitely. No one hit the brakes. They won’t find any skid marks on the road.”

“Killed by whom?”

“Like I said, by someone who knows that Mason Rudsky accepted Gerry Colletti’s offer.”

“You mean the two-hundred-fifty grand?”

“I mean Mason Rudsky was killed by someone who knew that he was no longer in the ru

“I don’t understand. If he knew that, then what’s the motive for killing him?”

“That’s the part I need everybody to understand. Especially you, because I hear rumors that your client is feeling pressure to bow out, too.”

“I’m sure everyone’s feeling pressure. That’s the way the game is being played.”

“Well, that’s not the way it’s going to be played anymore,” he said, his disguised voice taking on an edge.

“Sally set it up that way,” said Jack. “You can win either by outliving the others, or by persuading the others to drop out.”

“I don’t care how she set it up. You idiots might think you can win the game that way, but let Rudsky’s death send a message loud and clear. There’s only one person who takes the money, and there’s only one person who walks out alive.”

“So, you’re saying what? No more dropouts?”

“Exactly. No more dropouts.”

“What is it then?” asked Jack. “A fight to the death?”

“It’s personal now. New ball game. My game.”

“What gives you the right to change the rules?”

“Go to your mailbox.”

Jack stopped pacing. “What?”

“Just go to your damn mailbox.”

Jack walked through the house with his cordless phone pressed to his ear. His mailbox was mounted on the wall outside his front door. He opened the door and stepped onto the porch, sca

“I’m here,” he said.

“Look in the box.”

He reached slowly for the lid, wondering if a snake or rat might fly out. He stood as far away as he could, raising up the lid with the tip of his fingers. It flew open, but nothing popped out. Inside was an envelope.

“What is it?” Jack said into the phone.

“Open it.”

It was unsealed. Jack opened the flap. Tucked inside was a gold locket in the shape of a heart. “It’s pretty,” he said. “But you don’t sound like my type.”

“It was Sally Fe

Jack suddenly felt guilty for having joked about it. “How did you get it?”

“Look inside,” he said, ignoring the question.

There was a latch on the side of the gold heart. Jack opened it like a book. Inside the locket was a photograph of a young girl. Jack had seen enough photographs to know that it was Katherine, Sally’s four-year-old daughter.

Jack felt a lump in his throat, but he talked over it. “Was Sally wearing this when you shot her?”

“I never said I shot her.”

“Was she wearing it the day she died?”

“No,” he answered. “Not possible.”

“Then how did you get it?”

There was silence on the line. Lightning flashed in the distance, and the phone line crackled. Finally, the man answered, “Sally was wearing it the night I stuck my knife inside her and drowned her little princess.”

Jack heard a click on the line, followed by the dial tone. For a moment he couldn’t move, but another clap of thunder gave him a start. He gently placed the locket back in the envelope, hurried back inside the house, and locked the door with both the chain and deadbolt.