Gerry reached for his keys as he approached his BMW. Counting his, just three cars and a van remained in the entire lot. Naturally, the crummy van was parked right beside his limited edition, paid-extra-for-it, emerald-black paint job. He walked to the front of his car and looked down the driver’s side, checking for fresh dings. It looked clean, but it was too dark to be certain. He considered etching a retaliatory scrape into the side of the van with his key, but just as he started down the narrow opening between his car and the van, the passenger door flew open and hit him squarely in the face. Gerry was knocked backward and fell onto the hood of his car. Someone jumped out and grabbed him by the shirt collar.
“Stop!” Gerry screamed.
The attacker whirled him around and landed a fist to Gerry’s right eye. A flurry of punches continued, one blow after another. The man wore leather gloves, but that in no way lessened the beating. His fists felt like iron, as if weighted by rolls of quarters. Gerry had no chance, no way to fight him off. A blow to the belly knocked the wind from him, followed by a direct hit to the side of his head that unleashed a sharp ringing in his ear.
“Stop already!”
There was a pause in the frenzy, and Gerry collapsed onto his back, splayed across the hood of his car. He wasn’t seeing or thinking clearly, and just as he raised his head and tried to focus, his attacker grabbed him by the hair and slammed the back of his head into the car hood. Dazed, Gerry slid down the side of the car and landed in a heap.
He didn’t move, couldn’t even raise his head. A door slammed, and an engine rumbled. The van pulled out. Gerry lay with his cheek against the pavement, his battered eye throbbing as he watched the blurry van disappear into the darkness.
Eighteen
The sign on the metal gate read TILE DELIVERIES ONLY, as if to reconfirm that Deirdre was in the right place. The padlock on the latch was open, just as her caller had promised. The hinges squeaked as Deirdre pulled the gate open. She stepped inside the chain-link fence, then paused in the darkness and listened. She heard nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Goose bumps tickled the back of her neck, but it was a warm night, and she knew it was just nerves.
This was risky, to be sure, but she’d taken bigger risks before for less important stories. Like the night she’d spent downtown, sleeping in a cardboard box beneath the expressway as part of her field research for a day-in-the-life piece on a homeless crack addict, which was never published. Or the time she’d crashed a teenage “rave” party and popped ecstasy so that she could write firsthand about the effects of the drug. She’d nearly fried her brain and ended up in the emergency room, all for eight columns of work that the editors cut to three paragraphs. In retrospect, those seemed like foolish risks. But this story was different. Much more than a byline was at stake.
At first, Deirdre had dismissed Sally Fenning’s forty-six-million-dollar test of survival. She didn’t seriously think she’d ever see the money. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized: Why not her? There were six beneficiaries. One out of every six people die in accidents-drownings, car crashes, airplane disasters, hunting with morons who didn’t know their friends from a duck. Just like that, her odds were down to one-in-five. Florida had the death penalty, so if tonight’s source could eliminate yet another beneficiary as Sally’s murderer, that would reduce her odds to one-in-four. Who wouldn’t take that bet? She was young and healthy. She had a better shot than anyone. She’d be rich. Filthy rich.
And with this story, she might be famous to boot.
She drew a deep breath and entered the back lot. Her caller had told her to go to the loading dock. She could see it straight ahead, fairly well lit by two glowing security lamps. Getting there, however, was a walk through a man-made canyon. The long driveway was just barely wide enough for two trucks to pass in opposite directions, and either side was lined with countless pallets of boxed ceramic tiles, some stacked twenty feet or higher.
She took a step forward, then started at the sound of her cell phone ringing. She grabbed it quickly, recognizing the number as her boyfriend’s.
“What are you calling for?”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said.
“I told you I’d call if I got into trouble.”
“I know. But it’s too dark, too deserted. I don’t like the looks of this, baby.”
Deirdre hated it when he called her “baby.” “Just stick to the plan, okay? Where would Woodward and Bernstein be today if they’d refused to meet Deep Throat in a dark parking garage?”
“This isn’t exactly Watergate you’re breaking open. Come on. Let’s split.”
“No, damn it. I’m not going to blow this chance. Now, sit tight until I call you.” She switched off the phone and shoved it in her purse. Strangely, the call from her boyfriend made her that much more determined to go through with this. She continued down the dark driveway toward the loading dock, passing one stacked pallet after another. Between each stack were narrow crevices, perfect hiding spots. As she passed each opening, she peered into the long, black tunnel to make sure no one was lurking in the darkness. With endless rows of stacked boxes, it was like staring into the entrance of a labyrinth.
Her phone rang again, giving her heart a jolt. She snatched it from her purse and answered in an angry voice, “What now?”
“Chill, lady.”
Deirdre froze. It wasn’t her boyfriend. It was the deep, mechanically altered voice of her source. “Where are you?”
“Never mind that.”
“What do you mean, never mind? I’m here. Are we meeting, or not?”
“We’re not.”
“You son of a bitch. You said-”
“I said you could see Sally’s ring first.”
She reeled in her anger. “Is it here?”
“Just keep walking toward the loading dock.”
She was just a hundred feet away. She checked left, then right, searching for her caller in the dark crevices between stacked pallets. But she saw nothing. “Okay,” she said, putting one foot in front of the other. “I’m walking.”
“Keep going.”
“Are you watching me?” she asked.
“Do you feel watched?” he said.
She checked over her shoulder. “A little.”
“Good. Maybe that will keep you from running off with the ring.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Look, but don’t touch.”
“How will I know it’s really hers?”
“The band is engraved on the inside. Read it. Then go check it out. You’ll see it’s the real thing.”
Deirdre was fifty feet away as she entered the circle of light surrounding the loading dock. “When do I find out who killed her?”
“As soon as we strike our deal.”
“What deal?”
“My piece of your forty-six-million-dollar inheritance.”
“What makes you think I’m going to inherit it?”
“Because you’re going to live longer than anyone else.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m going to make sure of it.”
Deirdre stopped. It wasn’t something she’d decided to do. Her feet had just stopped moving. “What are you saying?”
“You and me. A team.”
“I’m not interested in being on anybody’s team.”
“That’s not the answer I want to hear.”
“I don’t care. This is getting too weird.”
“Don’t blow this, Deirdre. You get half, I get half. You get the story to boot.”
“What kind of a sick bastard are you?”
“A greedy, sick bastard. Just like you. Except that I lack your ambition.”
Her grip on the phone tightened. “Look, I think I know what you’re saying, and let me make myself clear. I don’t want any part of any plan you might have to hurt any of those other potential beneficiaries.”