“I’m real sorry about this,” said Jack as they reached the curb.
“Sorry for what?”
“I asked you to come because I thought it would be fun for you. A more exciting side of lawyering. I didn’t mean to throw you to a recovering porn addict.”
“You didn’t throw me. I volunteered. I’m not going to shrivel up and die because some pathetic loser can’t look at my face without thinking about…well, whatever he was trying not to think about.”
“So you’re okay?”
“I’m okay. But as for the speech I gave in your office today-about how using your body is no different than using your brain?”
“Yeah?” said Jack.
“After meeting Javier, let’s just say my thoughts are evolving on that front.”
“Fair enough,” he said with a smile. They stood in silence for a moment, a little awkward, as Jack debated the next move. The yellow light from Club Vertigo’s neon sign was playing against Kelsey’s eyes, drawing flecks of gold from the intriguing pools of hazel. The divorce had left him pretty rusty at dating, but he hadn’t completely lost the ability to read the expression on a woman’s face or interpret her posture, the little things that said, “What’s next on the agenda?” as opposed to “I’m tired and I want to go home.” Part of him wanted to take a shot and ask her out for coffee or something, but it just didn’t seem right to be hitting on Nate’s mom.
“I really have to let the baby-sitter go,” she said. “Maybe another time.”
“Another time what?”
She smiled wryly. “For the past thirty seconds you’ve had one eye on me and the other on Starbucks across the street. So…maybe some other time.”
He fumbled nervously for the valet ticket in his pocket. “Sure,” he said, wondering if he was really that obvious or if she was just that perceptive. “Some other time.”
Sixteen
At 1 A.M., the warehouse district west of the Palmetto Expressway had all the charm and personality of Leavenworth after lockdown. The buildings all looked alike, simple cinder-block and sheet-metal construction. Outside each establishment, every inch of ground was covered with nondescript stacks of inventory on pallets. Protecting it all was a nine-foot-high chain-link fence with coiled razor wire running across the top like a man-eating Slinky.
A thick layer of clouds made the night moonless, and street lamps were few and far between. The little red Honda bounced and rattled across potholes so deep that the entire vehicle was coated with muddy splash. Street maintenance was a losing battle here, as countless trucks beyond the legal weight limit pounded the pavement from sunup to sundown, six days a week.
Deirdre Meadows was a long way from home, but instinct told her that she was nearing her destination. She stopped at the end of a deserted street to get her bearings, squinting to make out the dimly lit sign ahead.
“JJ’s Italian Tile and Marble,” she said, reading aloud.
She checked her notes. That’s it. Finally, after driving around in circles and checking out at least a dozen other places named So and So’s Italian Tile and Marble, she’d found it.
She killed the engine and switched off the car lights. The sudden blackness gave her pause. It was darker outside than she’d realized. She flipped on the dome light to check her purse. Pen and paper, of course. Dictaphone. Cell phone, battery fully charged. It was no panacea, but so long as she had her cell phone, Deirdre would go just about anywhere-anywhere for a story, that is.
The phone call had come just before midnight. Deirdre was in her living room, watching Letterman on television, the cordless phone at her side. She had Caller ID, which told her only that it was coming from a pay phone. It rang twice before she answered.
And one last time, she played it over in her mind.
“Hello.”
“You ready?” he asked. Again, it was a deep, mechanical voice that almost sounded underwater.
“You bet,” she answered.
“Go to JJ’s Italian Tile and Marble on One hundred thirty-second Court, west of the eight-twenty-six. Drive around back and find the gate entrance along the chain-link fence. There’s a padlock on it, but I’ll leave it open. Come inside and walk about a hundred yards straight toward the loading dock.”
“Why there?”
“Because I said so.”
“Look, I’m not so keen about meeting a total stranger behind some building in the middle of the night.”
“Then don’t come.”
“You’ll still give me the story?”
“Not if you don’t come. And by the way, when I say come, I mean alone.”
“Why are you doing it this way?”
“Because I want to know.”
“Know what?”
“How bad you want the truth about Sally Fenning.”
“What makes you think I want it this bad?”
“Because this story has a pretty good payoff. Like forty-six million dollars.”
“How is the identity of Sally’s killer going to earn me forty-six million dollars?”
“It won’t cinch it, but it will bring you one step closer.”
“How?”
“Sally’s killer can’t inherit anything from her estate. That’s the law, right?”
Icicles went down her spine. She’d assumed that her caller was no genius, but apparently he was smart enough to know about the Slayer Statute. “That’s right,” she said. “Murderers are disqualified from inheriting anything from their victim.”
“There you have it. One down, five to go.”
“Are you telling me that Sally’s killer was one of her six named beneficiaries?”
“I’m saying be at JJ’s Italian Tile and Marble in ninety minutes or less. End of story. For now.”
Deirdre checked the clock on her dashboard. More than an hour had passed since that conversation, but the question still burned in her ear: How bad did she want the story?
Almost as much as the money.
Instinctively, she found herself reaching for the door handle. The door opened, and she stepped out of the car. The expressway was out of sight, somewhere beyond the block of windowless buildings, but she could hear the steady drone of traffic to the east. It seemed strange that hundreds of vehicles were racing by every minute, yet she felt so alone, not another car or human being in sight. Before shutting the door, she reached for the dash and flashed her parking lights. She checked over her shoulder and took a long look down the dark street. A set of orange parking lights flashed in response, then returned to darkness. Her boyfriend. It made her feel a little safer knowing he was just a hundred yards and a speed-dial away on her cell phone. She closed the car door, took a deep breath, and walked toward the gate, pea gravel crunching beneath each footfall.
This had better be good, she told herself.
Seventeen
It was last call at John Martin’s on Miracle Mile, the closest thing in downtown Coral Gables to an authentic Irish pub. Dark-paneled walls, Harp lager on tap, and classic pub grub like shepherd’s pie or bangers and mash were hardly the norm in south Florida, but John Martin’s was a nice diversion. The long, mahogany bar carved by local artisans was a beauty, and every now and then, the owner would book an authentic Irish band that was sure to get feet stomping and hands clapping. Even pretty waitresses with red hair and freckles, however, couldn’t completely obscure the fact that this was not exactly County Cork, especially at happy hour, when John Martin’s was affectionately known as “Juan Martino’s,” serving largely a Latin business crowd that, even on St. Paddy’s Day, would rather have a mint-colored mojito than a pint of green lager. It might sound strange, but to taste it was to love it.