The computer was turned off, and Jack had approached it in the same way Miguel had undoubtedly approached it day after day, before switching it on. The screen was black, but there was a reflection on the glass. Directly behind the computer was a typical work of framed commercial art that was sold at places like Z-Gallery, a huge replica of an Art Nouveau poster for the 1900 World’s Fair-Exposition Universelle. Across the top in big arching letters was the name of the host city, which reflected backward on the screen: S-I-R-A-P. Paris.
In a flash, Jack envisioned Miguel at his computer late one night, posing as the stalker and communicating in an Internet chat room with his ex-wife Sally in Africa. She suddenly asked for his name. Of course he couldn’t give his real name. He conjured up a bogus name, any old name that popped into his head. Without even realizing it, he typed in the name he’d seen in the reflection of his computer screen day after day, week after week, month after month, every time he approached that black screen and switched on the power. The name had been planted in his unconscious mind, just as it had been planted in Jack’s mind a few minutes earlier, the first time Jack had passed through Miguel’s Florida room on his way out the door, though it hadn’t really registered until he spotted that passing emergency vehicle with the backward letters-Y-C-N-E-G-R-E-M-E-painted across the hood.
“Sirap,” he said, the word coming like a reflex.
Jack heard the cocking of a pistol. Before he could move, the barrel of a gun was pressed to the back of his head.
“Don’t move.” It was Miguel’s voice, but it was from the opposite side of the room. Miguel had entered from the stairwell that led to the upstairs bedroom. Jack couldn’t see the gunman behind him, but it was obvious that someone other than Miguel was pressing the gun against the back of his head.
“Turn this way,” said Miguel. “Slowly.”
Jack turned, the gunman still behind him, the gun still at his head.
Jack was staring straight at Miguel. He, too, was pointing a gun at Jack.
“I knew it was you,” said Jack. “Sally cheated on you once, right before you were married. She admitted that much on the videotaped interview with the prosecutor. Was she cheating on you again, Miguel, is that what you were afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid of anything right now, Swyteck.”
He felt the gun press more firmly against the base of his skull. He needed to buy time, so he kept talking. “Interesting thing about that surveillance camera over the bed in your old house. There were no windows in the attic. It had to be installed by someone with access to the house-regular access, someone who could get up and down to change tapes. Got any ideas on who that might be, Miguel?”
“Just like I told the police. I got no idea.”
“I think it was someone who lived there,” Jack said, his glare tightening. “You were stalking your own wife, weren’t you. What was the plan, Miguel? Scare her so badly that she stops cheating on you?”
Miguel met his stare, but his expression tightened with anger. “Is that too much to ask for? A wife who doesn’t cheat on you?”
“That’s no excuse for killing your own daughter.”
“Yeah,” he said, scoffing. “That.”
The cold reaction confirmed Jack’s suspicions. “Call me nosy, but I checked this out when I was here earlier, and this second visit only confirms it. All the framed photographs around your desk, on the coffee table, hanging on the walls. I didn’t see a single one of your daughter.”
Miguel didn’t answer, but he was still aiming his gun at Jack’s chest.
Jack narrowed his eyes, giving him the look that had worked countless times on cross-examination in the courtroom. “She wasn’t yours, was she, Miguel?”
It was almost imperceptible, but the gun was starting to shake. Miguel was furious.
Jack said, “That’s how you passed the polygraph exam. The cops asked you, Did you kill your daughter? You said no. It was the truth. She wasn’t your daughter. How did it happen, Miguel? Was it the lover Sally took right before you got married?”
The look on Miguel’s face only confirmed that it was true. “You think you’re smart, don’t you, Swyteck? The only one to figure it out.”
“No,” said Jack. “I think Sally had it figured out, too. That’s why she flunked the lie detector test when the cops asked if she knew the man who murdered her daughter. She didn’t know in her mind. But somewhere, deep down in her heart, she knew. She knew in her heart that the killer was her husband. She was just too afraid of him to say it.”
Miguel glared at Jack, then lowered his gun. For a brief instant, Jack thought that maybe he’d miraculously gotten through to him. But he seemed to look past Jack, focusing instead on the gunman standing behind him.
“Shoot him, Tatum.”
Jack flinched. It wasn’t really a surprise, but hearing Tatum’s name gave him a jolt anyway.
Tatum said, “Actually, I think it’s your turn, boss.”
“Turns?” said Jack. “You idiots are taking turns?”
“Didn’t start out that way,” said Tatum. “But after I told Miguel that Colletti fucked his wife, literally, in the divorce, he couldn’t wait to smoke that dude. Which was okay by me. So long as we could make them all look like the work of this made-up psycho stalker, Alan Sirap, we were home free.”
“Whose turn was it when it came time to shove a gun in Kelsey’s face?”
“That would have been mine,” said Miguel, and at that moment Jack noticed that he was holding a revolver with a polished nickel finish. “No one ever wanted to hurt her,” said Miguel. “That was all about making people think that the killer wanted Tatum out of the game.”
“Sounds like you were in charge of the threats, eh, Miguel? The phone calls to Deirdre Meadows, the call to me after the prosecutor was murdered, the phony message on your answering machine this morning. Those were all you, weren’t they?”
“Does it matter? Could have been me, could have been Tatum. Go buy yourself a forty-dollar voice-altering gadget from a spy shop and it could be anybody.”
“Do you really think you can get away with this?”
“Maybe,” said Miguel. “Maybe not. But for forty-six million dollars, I say it’s worth the risk.”
“But you’re both named as heirs. One of you has to pull out of the game, and then the two of you split the pot, right? Or one of you has to kill the other and take it all.”
“First things first, Swyteck. Shoot him, Tatum.”
“No. I said it’s your turn.”
“What the hell does it matter whose turn it is? Shoot him.”
“It matters to me,” said Tatum.
“Why?”
“Because I know you can kill when your Latino machismo is on the line, like with Gerry Colletti. And I know you can dish out the threats, like with Kelsey. But I want to see you kill for money. Nothing but money. Like I did with Deirdre and Mason Rudsky.”
“All right, you pain in the ass. I’ll shoot him myself.”
Jack looked straight at him, hoping that direct eye contact might unnerve his would-be shooter. It seemed to work for a moment, as Miguel kept the gun at his side. But then he simply lowered his gaze, as if shifting the target from Jack’s head to his torso. His arm went up, and suddenly Jack was staring down the barrel of a gun.
Before Miguel could pull the trigger, the window exploded in a barrage of gunfire. Four quick shots, all slamming into Miguel’s chest. He stammered backward, pelted by each projectile, and then fell to the ground in a pool of blood.
Tatum dived for cover, pulling Jack down with him. He pressed the gun firmly against Jack’s head, keeping him as a hostage, his ticket out.
Jack was nearly crushed beneath Tatum’s weight. He couldn’t move, and he didn’t dare move anyway with the gun nuzzling up to his skull. With his cheek to the floor, Jack could see the bottoms of Miguel’s shoes at the other end of the room. A rivulet of blood drained slowly down the grout line in the ceramic tile.