Jack set his briefcase atop the hood of his car. “Sure. What about?”
“Sally Fenning. As I’m sure you know, I’m on her murder.”
“Yeah, I was glad to hear that.”
“Why?”
“You guys never caught her daughter’s killer. Seemed the very least she deserved was a detective on her case who was good enough to catch hers.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Which leads you to me,” said Jack.
“Actually, no. It leads me to Tatum Knight, which leads me to you.”
“You want to interview him?”
“Love to. But he won’t talk to us.”
Jack hid his surprise. Tatum had neglected to tell him the police had contacted him. “Did you ask nicely?”
“Of course. I told him he could play ball or be the ball. Either way, I intend to smack a home run.”
Jack chuckled. “I gotta hand it to you, Larsen. You’re the only detective I know who can say that line with a straight face.”
“And sometimes it even works. But all kidding aside, if your client won’t talk, I am going to turn up the heat.”
“What do you want to know?”
He removed his sunglasses, as if to look Jack in the eye. “Did he kill Sally Fenning?”
“The answer is no.”
“Does he know who did?”
“No.”
“Do you expect me to take those responses at face value?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Did he beat the crap out of Gerry Colletti?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t he take the stand and tell Judge Parsons that he didn’t do it?”
“That was his lawyer’s decision.”
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
“I watched the hearing. You’re hiding something.”
“Rank speculation on your part.”
On the other side of the fence, a transit bus rumbled down the street. The air was suddenly thick with diesel fumes, but the detective didn’t miss a beat. “Tell me this much: Why the hell did Sally Fenning name a thug like Tatum Knight in her will?”
“I wish we could ask her.”
“I wish I could ask Tatum.”
“What’s in it for him?”
“He can either play ball, or-”
“Oh, please. Strike two.”
Larsen smirked. “This is what bugs me. Of the five beneficiaries identified so far, four have a direct connection to Sally’s prior marriage and to the death of her daughter. How does Tatum Knight fit into that group?”
Obviously Jack couldn’t volunteer anything about Tatum’s meeting with Sally before she was killed, but a little dialogue might not hurt. “That’s interesting,” said Jack. “You seem so certain that all four of the other known beneficiaries had some connection to Sally’s prior life.”
“Just a little deductive reasoning on my part.”
“I think it’s more than that. Sally’s ex-husband, the divorce lawyer, and the prosecutor who failed to indict anyone for the murder of Sally’s daughter were all obviously connected to Sally’s past. But the reporter simply wrote a few fact-filled articles about a terrible crime, which hardly seems enough to put her in the same reviled category as the others.”
“I’ll grant you that. She’s a little different animal.”
“If we assume that Sally decided to leave her money to her enemies to fight over, exactly what did this reporter do to make herself into one of Sally’s worst enemies?”
“You asking me the questions now?”
“If you can answer that one, I’ll see what I can do about Tatum.”
“I need a bigger commitment than that.”
“I’ll encourage him to meet with you. That’s all I can promise.”
Larsen gave him a steely look. “All right. But only because I know you’re a man of your word, I’ll give you this much. Deirdre Meadows did more than write a few newspaper articles about Sally Fenning.”
“How much more?”
“A whole damn book. All about the murder of Sally’s daughter. No publisher has bought it yet, but I understand she’s still shopping it.”
“And?”
“And, that’s it, that’s all, folks. At least until I get to sit down and talk to Tatum Knight.”
Jack grabbed his briefcase. “Fair enough. Thanks for the tidbit. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” said Larsen.
Jack nodded and unlocked his car. Larsen gave a little wave as he started to walk away. Then he stopped, looked back, and said, “One other thing.”
“What?”
“That’s one tough client you got there, Swyteck.”
“Yeah. Just like his brother.”
He was suddenly stone-cold serious. “I promise you: He’s nothing like Theo.”
“You trying to tell me something?”
“Just be sure to do your homework.”
“I already have. Tons of it.”
“Do it again. For your own good.”
“That’s what everybody used to tell me about Theo, too. Till I proved him innocent.”
Larsen turned away, as if it hadn’t really registered. Jack stood and watched, nearly blinded by the sun, as the detectives crossed the parking lot and headed for the gate.
Twenty-one
Theo was too good for his own bar. That was the drunken dis he heard from his bandmates whenever they played at Sparky’s. Not that they considered themselves above a raunchy rat hole like Sparky’s. The comment was directed strictly at the audience. As much as Theo wished he owned a true jazz bar, he’d purchased a going concern with an established clientele. They were loyal, they kept him profitable, and they unflaggingly believed that the history of music had reached its apex with “Achy-Breaky-Heart” and had been on the decline ever since. The sax was Theo’s passion, but the rednecks paid the rent.
Charlie Parker, forgive me.
He finished the set with a powerful solo worthy of the Blue Note. Two women wearing cowboy hats raced toward the jukebox, sending Theo into an Electric Slide panic attack. The table in front was filled with employees from the car dealership across the street. They were oblivious to the music, one of them laughing so hard that beer was pouring from his nostrils. But a few people clapped, and a woman in back even shot him two thumbs-up, which made Theo smile. Slowly, Sparky’s would change its stripes, he was sure of it.
Theo carefully laid his saxophone in the stand, an old Buescher 400 that had been passed down from the man who’d taught him how to play. His great-uncle Cyrus was once a nightclub star in old Overtown, Miami’s Harlem, and it would have pleased him to know that not even four years on death row could strip Theo of the passion the
