Last to die

by James Grippando

  Jack paused, perplexed by his response. “Wait a minute. The first time you and I talked, you told me the same thing you told the police in their investigation into your daughter’s murder. You said that Sally never told you or anyone else that she was being stalked until after the murder.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “That seems inconsistent with what you just said-that you knew Sally was seeing someone. That you always knew it.”

  Miguel narrowed his eyes, seeming to resent the way Jack was picking apart his words. “You fucking lawyers, always trying to twist things.”

  “I’m just trying to reconcile your own statements, that’s all.”

  “All I meant was, you know-when I said that I knew she was having an affair, I didn’t realize she was a cheater until after our daughter was murdered, after Sally claimed that she was being stalked.”

  “No, that’s what you said the last time we talked. What you just said was different. You said you always knew it.”

  “What do you want from me, Swyteck? You like playing these little word games? Yeah, I said always. Ever since our daughter was found dead and Sally came up with this stalker story, I always had my doubts. That’s always. I didn’t mean from the beginning of the fucking world.”

  Jack thought for a second, figured maybe he had pressed too hard. “Okay, gotcha.”

  “I had my doubts, all right? I always had my doubts as to whether she was speaking the truth when she said she didn’t know who her stalker was. The prosecutor had the same doubts after she failed the polygraph.”

  “Okay, I got it.”

  “Maybe I should remind you that I was the one who passed the polygraph when the cops asked me three different ways if I murdered my daughter, stabbed my daughter, or hurt my daughter in any way.”

  Jack let his gaze linger. Miguel was starting to sound like the many clients he’d visited in prison, the ones who proclaimed their innocence a little too forcefully.

  Miguel said, “I’d love to sit and talk all day, but I got some things I gotta do.”

  “Sure,” said Jack. “Thanks for your time.”

  “You bet.”

  Miguel walked him through the living room, through the enclosed front porch that Miguel had converted into an office area. Jack didn’t stare, but he quietly took it all in as they headed for the door. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but his gut was suddenly telling him to learn as much about Miguel as he possibly could, right down to the paint color on the walls and the type of computer he owned.

  Miguel opened the door, and Jack stepped out. “Call me if there’s anything I can do for you.”

  “I will,” said Miguel.

  The door closed, and as Jack started down the sidewalk, he had the distinct impression that he wouldn’t be hearing from Miguel. Not anytime soon.

  Sixty-one

  Javier was sitting in the TV room when Theo returned to the kitchen. Theo walked around the bar stools, pulled up a chair, and straddled it, his arms resting atop the backrest. Javier was no small man, but Theo still dwarfed him, not with size but attitude.

  “So, how’s our friend Kelsey?” asked Theo.

  The goofy grin slid off Javier’s face. “You know her?”

  “Know her? I’m the one who told her to give you a call.”

  “You? Well, hey-thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me, moron. You didn’t think that was real, did you?”

  “Were you listening to us?”

  “Hell no. I scripted it. It was Kelsey’s job to drag you off to fantasy land, so I’d have time to look around your bedroom.”

  His mouth fell open, but the words were a few seconds behind. “You went in my room?”

  Theo shot him a look that would have sent most men running. “If there’s one thing I hate more than a guy who threatens a single mother, it’s a guy who threatens her kid. So, where is it, lover boy? Where’d you hide the revolver with the polished nickel finish? The one you shoved in Kelsey’s face.”

  Javier looked as if he were about to explode. He started to rise, then stopped.

  “Sit the fuck down,” said Theo as he took aim with the borrowed pistol.

  “Hey, that’s mine.”

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Guns make really shitty pets. Turn on you in a minute.”

  “Be careful, all right? That thing’s loaded.”

  “I know. I can tell from the weight.” It was a nice way to let Javier know he was no stranger to guns with a magazine full of ammunition.

  Javier settled back into the couch, his eyes darting nervously from the stern expression on Theo’s face to the black hole at the end of the barrel.

  Theo said, “I think I will have that drink you offered earlier. Not beer, though.”

  Javier pointed with a nod toward the liquor cabinet. “Help yourself.”

  Theo rose and walked to the cabinet, keeping one eye and the gun trained on Javier at all times. “Let’s see what you got here,” he said as he sorted through the variety of bottles. “Scotch. Rum. Bourbon-if you can call this bourbon. My grandma used better liquor than this to make bourbon balls at Christmas.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  He nodded, smiling on one side of his mouth only. “Sit tight, friend. I’ll teach you a thing or two about begging.”

  Javier sank a few inches into the couch.

  Theo checked the labels on a few more bottles, then selected one. “Here we go. One-fifty-proof vodka. Now that’s what I call a drink. One for you, lover boy?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Theo walked toward him, unscrewed the cap, and shoved the gun into Javier’s cheek. “I’d really like you to have a drink.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Theo poured the vodka onto Javier’s head, emptying almost the entire two-liter bottle until Javier and the couch were soaked.

  “Say when,” said Theo.

  Javier was silent. Theo stopped the shower with about an ounce remaining in the bottle. Then he went back to his chair and poured the remaining vodka into a little puddle on the cocktail table in front of him. He pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket and said, “You can always tell the good stuff. True one-fifty vodka should burn with a nice blue flame.”

  Javier went rigid. Theo put the lighter to the spilled vodka, then gave it a flick. It burst into a blue flame that danced atop the cocktail table. Javier jerked back against the sofa, getting as far away as he could. Theo let it burn for about a minute, watching Javier sweat through his vodka-soaked pores. Then he slapped the table with the palm of his hand and extinguished the flame with a loud crack that nearly made Javier jump from his seat.

  He aimed the gun at Javier’s left eye and asked, “You a smart guy, Javier?”

  “What?”

  “You got a brain in your head? I just want to know.”

  “People say I’m pretty smart, yeah.”

  “Good. Because there’s something I want you to figure out for me. You think you can do that?”

  He shrugged, saying nothing.

  “I asked you a question,” said Theo, his voice gaining force. “Can you do that for me?”

  “Sure,” said Javier, his voice quaking. “Whatever you want.”

  “Let’s say I start your house on fire.”

  “Man, please-”

  “Shut up!” his voice boomed. “You let me finish, and don’t interrupt. Got it?”

  Javier nodded.

  Theo softened his tone, but it only seemed to put Javier even more on edge. “Let’s say I start your house on fire. And let’s also say you’re in it.”

  Javier was struggling to show no reaction, his left eye twitching. Theo said, “This is just hypothetical, okay, lover boy? Now, once the fire’s out, people are gonna say things like, ‘Hey, you hear Javier’s house burned down?’ And then some guy will say back, ‘Yeah, I hear he burned up with it.’” Theo scratched his head and said, “I just don’t get that, do you?”

  Javier loo
ked confused. “Get what?”

  “Listen to what I’m saying, numb nuts. Your house burns down, but you burn up. What the hell’s with that? Do the fires burn in different directions? Do the flames somehow magically meet in the middle? And if they do, at what point do you start burning down and the house start burning up?”

  Theo flicked his lighter, let the flame spike into the air. The look of fear on Javier’s face was instantaneous, as if he was suddenly aware of how flammable he was, soaked with one-hundred-fifty-proof vodka.

  “Watch that lighter, okay?” said Javier. “Please, don’t burn me.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t let you burn long. Maybe thirty seconds, tops, before I have to put a bullet in your head. Neighbors and what not. Can’t have you running around the living room screaming like a wild banshee. Flaming, no less.” His lips curled into a sinister smile. “Flaming wild banshee. I like that. Great name for a drink. One-fifty vodka and maybe a sliced jalapeño pepper. I’m a fucking genius, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, man. Whatever you say. Just put the lighter away, okay?”

  Theo sat back, his smile fading. Theo had a disarming smile, and it came naturally. But he could look as bad as Tatum if he put his mind to it, and at that moment he was doing his very best to be exactly like his older brother. “Tell me how you picked the name Alan Sirap, jerk-off.”

  “Who?”

  “The phony name you passed along to Sally Fenning over the Internet.”

  “I swear to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really? Then why’d you videotape her?”

  “What videotape?”

  “I saw your little library, all those tapes in your closet. Didn’t see one for Sally, but I’m sure we’ll find it here some-”

  “That’s not-”

  “Shut up!” Theo shouted. “What did I say about interrupting me?”

  “I’m sorry, okay? But-”

  “Don’t give me no lip, asshole. I’ll bet you weren’t even her bodyguard. You probably didn’t even work for her, did you? What were you, her self-appointed bodyguard? Bodyguard is a nice way of saying you were her stalker?”

  Javier was turning ash white.

  Theo flicked his cigarette lighter, then adjusted the flame upward until it was shooting a six-inch tongue of fire. “Show me your tape of Sally.”

  “There is no-”

  “I’ll turn you to toast, man.”

  “I’m telling you, there is no tape.”

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “I’m not lying! Please, don’t burn me, man. Just don’t burn me!”

  Theo extinguished the lighter, then ripped the “Pauline” tape from inside his coat and threw it at him. “Play it. Let’s see your work.”

  “This isn’t my work.”

  “Play it!” he shouted.

  “Okay, okay.” Javier took the tape, rose slowly, and walked to the television. Theo kept his gun trained on his head with every step. He inserted the tape into the VCR and adjusted the television. The screen flickered, then turned blue. Theo waited anxiously, expecting to see a crude surveillance tape of an unsuspecting woman sleeping in her bed or sitting on her toilet-a woman named Pauline whom this pervert had stalked with a hidden camera, just as he’d stalked Sally.

  But it was something else entirely. Theo heard a woman moaning, then a man grunting as the image on screen came into focus. A gorgeous blonde was lying on her back, floating naked atop a waterbed, her legs pointing up to the ceiling in the shape of a V with stiletto heels. Some guy with incredibly strong hips was directly underneath her, doing the absolute best he could in one of those painful front-to-back positions that made sense only if sex was intended to be fun strictly for viewers and not participants.

  “That’s Pauline Preston,” said Theo.

  “You know her?”

  “She’s one of my favorites.”

  “I got four of hers. Buddy of mine copies the tapes for me over at the video store. I keep them alphabetical by actress. Titles never mean anything to me.”

  “Are you telling me that every tape on those shelves in your bedroom closet is bootleg porn?”

  “It’s kind of a hobby of mine.”

  “A hobby? There must be a hundred tapes in there.”

  “Okay, it gets a little out of control sometimes. I admit it. I even told your buddy Jack when we met over at Club Vertigo. I think I’m-”

  Theo waited for him to finish, but Javier was suddenly glued to the set. It seemed that Pauline needed a shower, but somehow she’d lost her way and managed to wander straight into the locker room of a men’s rugby team.

  “You think you’re what?” asked Theo.

  “I’m addicted,” he said in a weak voice, unable to tear his gaze away from the screen. “I’m totally addicted to this shit.”

  Theo gave a little shrug and said, “Isn’t everybody?”

  Sixty-two

  You threatened to burn him alive?” said Jack. He was stopped in his car at a traffic light, one hand on his cellular, the other pressed between his eyes as if to stave off a migraine.

  Theo said, “It’s not like I doused him with gasoline or anything. I used vodka. It’s like that game you play as a kid where you squirt lighter fluid on your hand and then start it on fire.”

  “I think I missed that game,” said Jack.

  “The fuel burns, but your arm doesn’t. Anyway, worst that would have happened to lover boy was like a bad sunburn. But he was too stupid to know that, so he told me everything.”

  Jack wasn’t so sure that the stunt was as harmless as Theo thought it was. “Theo, no more tricks like that, okay?”

  “No need for it now. Turns out that the videotapes weren’t surveillance tapes after all. They’re all just bootleg porn.”

  “What?”

  “Lover boy is quite the pervert, but he’s no stalker. At least he wasn’t Sally’s stalker. I’m telling you, there’s nothing like the threat of fire to drag the truth out of someone. He’s definitely not Alan Sirap.”

  A misty rain was starting to fall, hard enough for little beads to gather on Jack’s windshield and then zigzag their way down to the wipers. Crazy Miami weather, sunny one minute, raining the next. “He could still be Tatum’s partner,” said Jack.

  “No way. Tatum wouldn’t have a partner this stupid.”

  “You may be right. To tell you the truth, I’m starting to get a gut feeling about Miguel.”

  “How do you mean?”

  The light changed, and he was about to pull into the intersection, but an ambulance was cruising toward him from the opposite direction. Jack stayed put, catching sight of the backward painted letters on the front hood of the emergency vehicle as it flew past him.

  And that was when it suddenly came clear in his mind.

  “Holy shit,” he said.

  “What?” asked Theo.

  “I’m going back to Miguel’s house.”

  “Jack, what’s going on?”

  “There’s something I want to check out.”

  “You want me to help?”

  “That’s okay. If I need a fire, I’ll rub two sticks together.”

  “That was harsh.”

  “I’ll call you.” Jack ended the call and pulled a U-turn. In less than five minutes he was back on Miguel’s front step. He had to knock three times before Miguel answered.

  “Back so soon?” he said as he opened the door.

  “I think I left my sunglasses here.”

  “I didn’t see them, but I’ll take a look.”

  “Mind if I wait inside? It’s starting to rain out here.”

  He hesitated, as if more than a little suspicious, then acquiesced.

  “Sure. Wait right here.”

  Jack stepped inside and closed the door. Like many Florida houses built in the sixties, Miguel’s house had no true foyer. The front door opened to what was originally a screened-in porch, but Miguel had enclosed it and converted it into a small home
office space.

  Out of the corner of his eye Jack could see Miguel in the living room as he checked for sunglasses behind the couch cushions, on the table, in the general area where Jack was seated. Jack had only a few seconds, which was more than sufficient. The computer was nearby, and all he needed was to get a look at the screen from the right angle. He took two steps forward, stole a quick glance, and froze.

  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.