It was 2 A.M., and Deirdre Meadows was at the scene of a crime. A white van had been parked outside the grocery store for almost a week. The doors were locked, but a security guard detected the putrid odor of something like spoiled meat and rotten eggs. Deirdre heard the call on the police radio-she always kept it playing in her car, just in case something broke-and she arrived just minutes after the police had cordoned off the area. One of the officers on the scene confirmed off the record that a body was inside, which got Deirdre’s heart pumping. Foul play was the rhythm that Miami crime reporters danced to, and homicide was enough to make Deirdre bailar la bamba.
“Man or a woman?” asked Deirdre. She was standing just on the other side of the yellow police tape, talking to a uniformed officer.
“Don’t know yet,” he said.
She rattled off a string of questions, gathering facts, writing the story in her head as she assimilated information. This was what she did day after day, night after night, for surprisingly little pay and even less recognition. She hoped that would change soon, with a little luck from Sally Fenning.
Her cell phone rang. She tucked her notepad into her purse and took the call.
“Hello, Deirdre,” said the man on the line.
It seemed like a contradiction, but she recognized the disguised voice immediately. It was that same distorted, mechanical sound as the last call. “What are you doing awake at this hour?” she asked.
“None of your business.”
She reached into her purse, pulled out her Dictaphone, and held it up to the phone.
“Put the recorder away,” he said a moment before she clicked the Record button.
She froze, not sure how he knew.
“I can see you,” he said.
She looked around. Two media vans had pulled into the lot and were setting up for videotaping. Three police cars and the medical examiner’s van were parked on the other side of the crime scene. The large parking lot was otherwise empty, a flat acre of asphalt bathed in the yellowish cast of security lights.
“Where are you?” she asked.
He laughed, which sounded like static through the voice-altering device. “I’m everywhere you go.”
She swallowed hard, trying to stay firm. “What do you want?”
“First, I want to congratulate you.”
“On what?”
“For staying silent at the court hearing. You didn’t mention a thing about the dog attack outside the warehouse. You showed very good judgment. The same good judgment you showed by not contacting the police.”
“How do you know I haven’t contacted the police?”
“Because you’re an ambitious bitch.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I know you wouldn’t just go to the police and tell them what you know. You’re the kind of person who would expect something in return from them, some juicy tidbit that would have appeared in the newspaper. But I haven’t seen anything of interest under any of your by-lines lately. So I can only assume you didn’t go to the police.”
Deirdre was silent, a little unnerved by how well he seemed to know her. “What do you want now?”
“Why do you assume I want something? I’m a very giving person, Deirdre.”
“What are you offering?”
“A news flash. The first of Sally Fenning’s six beneficiaries is going to die.”
She felt chills, but she tried to stay with him. “When?”
“Two weeks from today.”
“Which one?”
“That’s sort of up to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Here’s the deal: It can be you, or it can be someone else. If it’s you, it won’t be quick and painless. You gotta decide. Do you want to live and share the forty-six million dollars with me, your partner? Or do you want to die?”
“Is this the choice you mentioned last time?”
“Exactly. You can choose to keep your mouth shut and make us both rich. Or you can choose to warn the others, make me mad, and make yourself dead.”
“How do you expect me to make a choice like that?”
“Easy. Here’s how it works. You keep quiet for a couple more weeks, and I’ll take that as your acceptance. I’ll assume we got a deal.”
Her hand was shaking as she spoke into the phone. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I know that you will make the right decision.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Don’t be a fool, girl. Your half of forty-six million dollars can buy a lot of grief counseling. So remember, two weeks from today, the first victim falls. If you’re smart, it won’t be you.”
“You’re sick.”
“You’re right. But I’m also right about one thing. If you’re at all thinking that you should do something to save the others, trust me: They aren’t worth saving.”
She thought for a moment, wondering what he’d meant by that, but a moment was too long. There was silence on the line. The call was over. Deirdre put the phone in her purse and walked away from the crime scene, no longer interested in some story about just another body in the back of a van.
Twenty-five
Jack was eager to see what part of the five-year-old investigative file the state attorney was ready to disclose. The judge had given Mason Rudsky two days to turn over anything he’d shared with Deirdre Meadows about the murder of Sally’s daughter, and the government waited until the fifty-ninth minute of the forty-seventh hour to notify Jack that the materials were ready for his inspection. Jack might have busted their chops about stringing things out, except that he’d been busy for two days trying to convince a jury in another case that it really wasn’t robbery if his client took forty bucks and change from the cash register but dropped his wallet on the way out with fifty-eight dollars inside. It was sort of the criminal defense version of net-net economic theory. Didn’t work, at least not where the defendant had left his photo ID and Social Security number at the scene of the crime.
The government’s entire production on the Katherine Fenning murder investigation consisted of one videotape. It was in a sealed envelope with an affidavit from Mason Rudsky in which the prosecutor swore that he’d shared nothing else with Deirdre Meadows. Jack brought Kelsey with him. It was nice to have another point of view.
“What is this?” asked Jack.
A police officer was seated in a folding chair near the door to the conference room. He didn’t answer.
“Excuse me, Officer. I asked what’s on the tape.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m under strict orders from Mr. Rudsky not to answer any of your questions.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To make sure the tape does not leave this room.”
“Seeing how this room has no windows, maybe that’s a job you could do from the other side of the door. My colleague and I would like to be able to talk freely while viewing the tape.”
The cop considered it. “I suppose that’d be okay.”
Jack thanked him and closed the door. Kelsey was examining the videocassette. “Interview of S. Fenning,” she read from the label. “It’s almost five years old.”
Jack said, “Sally’s ex-husband told me they were both interviewed. They must have videotaped Sally’s.”
“Why?”
“It’s a smart thing for law enforcement to do if there’s a chance of getting a nice voluntary confession that will play well to a jury.”
