All that was complicated, too complicated for a simple Sunday breakfast. Winter was just a couple of weeks away. The sun was shining warmly, joggers and cyclists everywhere; people wearing shorts and T-shirts were out window shopping and walking their dogs-all the telltale signs that life went on and that December in south Florida definitely didn’t suck. Jack was too wrapped up in the newspaper to notice that Theo had already finished his pancakes and was halfway through Jack’s. He skimmed through the rehashed material on page one A, then picked up the second half of the feature story on Sally Fenning with a mix of emotions, but mostly a sense of relief that it was all finally over:
“Sally was dying of AIDS,” says her sister Rene Fenning, a pediatrician working for a charitable organization in Africa, who also served as the final personal representative of the estate. “She never really wanted to go on living after her daughter was murdered, and although I personally never found out for certain that she had the disease until I saw her autopsy report, I would imagine that she became even more despondent after her second husband infected her with the deadly HIV virus.” Rene denies claims that her sister’s second marriage was strictly “for money,” but the Tribune has confirmed that her ex-husband was one of the twenty-five richest men in France at the time of his death. A large portion of that money, eighteen million dollars that grew into stock worth some forty-six million, went to Sally upon their divorce after less than two years of marriage. “The money never made her happy,” says Rene.
Eventually, that unhappiness led her to a murder-for-hire that was effectively a suicide. According to sources close to the investigation, Sally could apparently think of no better way to check out of this world than to let the people who had ruined her life fight for her millions-a deadly game of survival of the greediest in which a hired killer and a stalker known only as “Alan Sirap” were sure to make things interesting.
Jack skipped the lengthy description of Sally’s will, the game, the murders-things he already knew. He went straight to the end, picking up with a quote from Homicide Detective Rick Larsen.
“She [Sally] probably hadn’t scripted it this way, but she had to have known that alliances would form, that some players might even go to the extreme measures that Tatum Knight and Miguel Rios had gone to-effectively a tag team approach to eliminating the other heirs, all done in a way to make it look like the work of a psychopathic stalker, the missing Alan Sirap.” Larsen shrugs, almost philosophical in tone as he unscrews the cigar plug from his mouth and adds, “The consensus view among Monday-morning quarterbacks is that Sally probably figured it would come down to a final battle between Tatum Knight and Alan Sirap, never knowing for certain that Sirap was actually her husband.”
In the end, that gap in Sally’s knowledge had tragic consequences for Miami attorney Gerry Colletti, Assistant State Attorney Mason Rudsky, and Tribune reporter Deirdre Meadows. “Clearly this got out of hand,” says Rene Fenning. “I’m sure Sally expected some bickering and maybe even some lawsuits among the heirs. But I think she also expected people to drop out of the game before it came to physical violence. Never would my sister have put this thing in motion if she thought people were actually going to die over their own greed.”
Editor’s Note: Tribune reporter Deirdre Meadows contributed to this report through articles previously published in the Tribune and materials from a book she was writing before her death.
Jack pitched the newspaper aside. Theo was seated across from him at the little round table, chewing roundly, as if he were trying to swallow an entire pancake in the fewest number of bites ever recorded.
“Something wrong?” he said in a muffled voice, his mouth completely full.
“Pretty lame article.”
Theo’s whole body jerked as he swallowed too much food. Jack half-expected to see the bulge in his neck, like a python having a bunny for lunch.
“Lame in what way?”
“It doesn’t even come close to answering the really big question.”
“Which is?”
Jack reached for his wallet to pay the bill, knowing without even asking that Theo had “forgotten” his again. He looked at Theo and said, “The question five people just died trying to answer: Who gets the money?”
Sixty-four
I’m going back to Africa,” said Rene.
She was standing on Jack’s front step, dressed in a sleeveless shell and a pair of jeans that fit loosely but still couldn’t deny her figure. Jack stood in the open doorway to his house, not sure what to say. “So soon?”
“I’m afraid so. I was on my way to the airport. Just thought I’d stop by, say thanks.”
“I’m glad you did. Come on in, please. If you’ve got a minute.”
“Thanks.”
Jack stepped aside and let her pass. Theo came from the kitchen to greet them. He’d been out fishing in the boat he kept behind Jack’s house, and he smelled of it.
“Sorry for the odor,” he said.
“No problem. My tolerance is quite high.”
He had to think a moment, then Jack said, “Rene’s on her way back to Africa.”
“Ah,” said Theo. “Back to fight the slave traders, are you?”
“My work isn’t finished there.”
“Good for you. You’re one amazing babe, you know that?”
“Thank you. Sort of.”
“Hey, I was wondering about something,” said Theo. “A while ago on TV I saw something about how the same rush you get from eating chocolate also comes from having sex.”
“Theo, come on,” said Jack.
“It has to do with the part of the brain that’s stimulated,” said Rene.
“Exactly. Which means that people who don’t have enough sex are the ones who crave chocolate, right?”
“I suppose that follows.”
He raised an eyebrow and asked, “Does that mean that people who don’t have chocolate crave sex?”
She just smiled.
“Theo,” said Jack, groaning.
“Well, shit, Swyteck. She’s gonna be three thousand miles away sleeping by herself in some hovel by the time you ever get around to asking her.”
“Theo, would you mind getting us something to drink?”
He considered it, then said, “Got just the thing. Be right back.”
Jack waited until his friend disappeared into the kitchen, then he offered Rene a seat in the living room. They sat in armchairs on opposite sides of the cocktail table, facing each other.
“He’s nonstop entertainment, isn’t he?” said Rene.
“He’s nonstop. I’ll give him that much.”
They shared a smile, then Jack said, “You mind if I ask you something a little personal?”
“I might not. Depends on what it is.”
“It’s about Sally.”
“That seems like fair territory, after all you’ve been through.”
“It puzzles me that she put the whole forty-six million dollars into this game she created for six-or as it turned out, five-people she considered enemies. Seems to me that she could have accomplished the same objective with forty-six million or twenty-six million or even six million.”
“She went with everything she had.”
“That’s exactly what confuses me. A guy like Tatum would have fought just as hard for a lot less money. I guess what I’m saying is this: She didn’t have to completely disinherit her sister. She could have left you twenty million dollars and let the others fight over the remaining twenty-six.”
“She could have. But she didn’t.”
Jack waited for her to say more, then simply asked, “Why not?”
She lowered her eyes, as if searching for the fortitude to say what she was about to say. “That’s one of the things I came here to tell you.”
Jack didn’t even realize it, but he had scooted forward to the edge of his seat. “Yes?”
“Turns out she didn’t disinherit me.”
Jack blinked, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Say that again?”