by Diane Capri
Merely knowing the dead man put Carly closer to murder than I wanted either of us to be, closer than I’d felt when I lived in Detroit and anonymous people were murdered every day.
“Hypothetically speaking, who does the bystander believe the dead man is?” I barely recognized my own voice, and I wasn’t sure Carly heard me.
I cleared my throat and said “Carly?” a little louder.
Noticing the change, she turned her head and looked at me directly, unblinking.
“Doctor Michael Morgan.” She thrust a small piece of newspaper toward me. “Here.”
She’d been holding it crumpled up in her hand. The paper was wet, the ink smeared with her sweat. I flattened out the creases. The story was short, from the Tribune, dated about two weeks earlier. No pictures.
DOCTOR MISSING
Once prominent plastic surgeon Dr. Michael Morgan has been reported missing. Dr. Morgan lives alone and has become a recluse in recent years following his conviction on drug possession charges eight years ago.
A few details followed, but nothing relevant.
I realized I’d been holding my breath. I sat back in my chair and tried to breathe normally; Carly continued, looking straight through me.
Dr. Morgan was a locally prominent plastic surgeon. Legendary. A boy wonder. Some said a genius. I’d never met him, but I’d seen his resume in my court files many times. Small town tax rolls listed entire populations in fewer pages.
Morgan had been published more than once in every major American medical journal, authored two textbooks and done plastic surgery on three-fourths of Florida’s affluent citizens, males and females alike. He taught at the medical school; lectured on medical legal issues at the law school. In short, he was about as close to medical genius as they come.
Cold sober now, I tried but couldn’t grasp the idea that Dr. Morgan had been so malevolently killed.
Here in Tampa, murder sells for about five hundred dollars. At least, that’s the rate for carnies, drug pushers and street people. I don’t know about doctors. But Michael Morgan? What could anyone have had against him?
I must have pondered too long. Carly rose, pushed her heavy rattan chair back from the table, and walked away. I figured she’d gone to powder her nose. We’d talk when she returned. Hash things out. Decide what to do.
But she didn’t come back.
After ten minutes, I went looking for her. The hostess said Carly left the building. I hurried outside to check the parking lot. No luck. No one around. Not even the valet.
Hustled back into the house, through the restaurant and took the stairs two at a time up to our flat on the second floor. Ran through the den and to the window overlooking the driveway.
Saw Carly’s gray sedan roll over the bridge from Plant Key to Bayshore Boulevard. Turned left, away from downtown, and lost sight of her between the palm trees and traffic.
I stood there a while, staring toward her vanishing point in the swiftly darkening twilight.
“Breathe in, breathe out; breathe in, breathe out,” I repeated to make my hands stop shaking as I slowly descended the stairs.
How like Carly to get herself into disaster and dump it into my lap. I’d been rescuing her from herself most of her life, but this time she may have gotten into more than I could handle.
For the first time, I noticed bustling activity in the dining room. Temporary staff my husband, George, hired to serve tonight’s fund-raiser worked purposefully.
Carly was gone; I had no idea where. I called her cell, her home, and her office. Left messages. I could do nothing more tonight.
Police Chief Ben Hathaway, along with everyone else who might be interested in Dr. Morgan’s disappearance, would be right here at George’s restaurant for the evening anyway.
Besides, George was so nervous about this party that I had to do my part to make it a success. Rumors claimed Senator and Victoria Warwick, and Elizabeth Taylor, the actress and AIDS activist, might attend.
Dr. Michael Morgan, and Carly’s involvement with him, whatever it was, would have to wait.
If he was already dead, I couldn’t bring him back to life.
Contrary to popular belief, judges know we are not gods.
CHAPTER THREE
Tampa, Florida
Wednesday 5:30 p.m.
January 6, 1999
I DRIFTED BACK TO the Sunset Bar, swallowed my gin and let the watery liquid relax me. The tension was chemically erased from my stomach and the rest of my muscles would feel it soon, too. Along with some heat. The January sun, near the horizon, no longer warmed. How much colder would the Gulf waters be this time of year? Well below comfortable body temperatures, that’s for sure. Hypothermia kills, too.
George emerged from the kitchen, tossing words over his shoulder that I couldn’t hear. He wore his usual uniform: khaki slacks, golf shirt, and kilted cordovan loafers, sans socks. Today, the shirt was bright yellow. It set off his deep tan and dark hair like neon. Despite all the kicking and screaming about leaving Michigan, he’d become a perpetually comfortable Floridian about twenty seconds after we moved here. It’s culturally closer from Grosse Pointe to South Tampa than geography suggests.
He spied me, came over and bestowed a kiss, which I returned more desperately, wanting to feel something solid having nothing to do with cold water, dead doctors, and missing sisters in trouble.
Once released, he said, “Good, you’re home early. Take a quick walk through the dining room to make sure everything’s done?”
“Just sit with me for a minute. I’m sure Peter has everything under control.”
Peter, George’s Maître d’, could run the place with his eyes closed. A charity fund-raiser for six hundred people was no great challenge. He’d done it all before.
“I’ve had a crush on Elizabeth Taylor since I first saw National Velvet. I want to knock her off her feet.” He wiggled eyebrows like Groucho Marx to force my smile. He’s not clairvoyant, but seventeen years of marriage have given him a sixth sense of my moods. He knows which buttons to push.
“You act like all this is wildly important to you when you don’t really care whether they have a wonderful time or not,” I teased.
“Every event we have here is important to me.” Then, he relented a little, “Just because I didn’t vote for our democratic senator doesn’t mean I want the Tribune’s food critic or the Times’ society pages trashing my party.”
The Tribune or the Times find anything less than perfect? Unlikely as snowfall during a Tampa summer. George’s chefs have won the Golden Spoon Award five times and Florida Trend magazine removed his restaurant from the annual Best of Florida issue because nothing could compete.
“Bring your drink. I’ll keep your mind off Elizabeth Taylor.” I leered, mocking him, and this time, he was the one who laughed.
We moved to my favorite outside table. Wicker rockers invited us to kick back and enjoy the view. Sitting outside, watching either sunrise or sunset over the water, is one of the best things about living on Plant Key. I don’t care enough about the sunrise to get up for it. Now, if sunrise is the end of a perfect evening, well that’s something else.
We sat quietly, words between us unnecessary. Maybe the best part of marriage is comfortable companionship every day. George has been the best friend I could ever have, although when we met I imagined lifetime romance and lust.
Got that, too.
Like most evenings, he chattered on about today’s events at the restaurant and asked what had happened in my courtroom. Both of us too keyed up to relax, albeit for different reasons.
The sun disappeared at 5:49 p.m., one minute later than yesterday, one minute earlier than tomorrow. Normal Tampa sunset. No low clouds to create the spectacular effects we enjoyed in Michigan. No frigid January wind, either.
George jumped up to complete his preparations. Guess after seventeen years, I can’t expect to compete with Elizabeth Taylor.
As promised, I moved through the archway into the
main dining room for a final inspection. The former ballroom comfortably held about thirty round tables. Tonight, decorated in fuchsia and white, with red and green bromeliads, bird of paradise and other tropical plants that grew in carefully cultured gardens here on Plant Key. White tablecloths; fuchsia napkins.
Not the usual restaurant china, but Minaret’s best Herend china, Waterford crystal and sterling flatware. All came with the house when we inherited it from George’s Aunt Minnie; now set flawlessly in ten place settings per table.
Something truly spectacular was the ice sculpture on the head table. An eagle, its wings spread, and spanning more than four feet, majestically demonstrated the strength most AIDS patients lacked. Too bad the eagle would melt before morning; it’s never cold enough to keep ice frozen in Tampa overnight. Something else to be grateful for.
I walked the length of both dining rooms; examined the flowers and the table settings. If there were flaws in the presentation, I couldn’t find them. Nor had I expected to.
I flashed an “OK” sign across the way; George surveyed everything personally and barely noticed my appreciation.
Everything about our home is astonishing to me still. Often, I marvel that we actually live here. George claims we can’t be evicted, but is that true?
George’s Aunt Minnie married into the grand old building and bequeathed it to her favorite nephew when she died. Minaret, as it’s called, was built in the 1890s to house Henry Plant’s family. Plant was constructing the Tampa Bay Hotel, now the University of Tampa, which he hoped would be a vacation Mecca for the rich and famous. He wanted to surpass his rival Henry Flagler’s magnificent Palm Beach construction.
Henry placed Minaret to be admired like a sparkling solitaire presented on her private island.
Originally too shallow for navigation and devoid of landmass, Hillsborough Bay was dredged to allow passage of freighters into the Port of Tampa. Henry Plant persuaded the Army Corps of Engineers to build the landmass for Plant Key at the same time they created Harbour Island and Davis Islands.
Plant Key is marquis cut, about a mile wide by two miles long. Narrow ends face north toward Tampa and south toward the Gulf of Mexico. Key Bridge connects us to Bayshore Boulevard just north of Gandy.
The locals, and New York society, dubbed the enterprise “Henry’s Ego,” but like everything else Plant did, his island and his home surpassed all expectations.
Hard to fathom sometimes how much ostentatious wealth was accumulated and displayed in the days before income tax by those who were willing to live maybe just a bit outside the law.
How lucky can one woman get? I have George, Minaret, a job I love, and I never have to wear parkas. Life is good. Damn good.
Or it was.
An hour ago.
Before Carly’s bombshell.
No time to dwell on that now. By concentrating carefully, I hoped to avoid thoughts of Dr. Michael Morgan, dead or alive, for the next eight hours. A foolish plan.
Purchase Due Justice to continue reading ...
CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS
Judge Wilhelmina Carson
George Carson
General Albert Randall Andrews (Andy)
Deborah Andrews
Roberta Andrews (Robbie)
John Williamson
Donald Andrews
David Andrews
Senator Sheldon Warwick
Victoria Warwick (Tory)
Sheldon Warwick, Jr. (Shelly)
Olivia Holmes
Thomas Holmes
President Charles Benson
Charles Benson, Jr.
Chief Ben Hathaway
State Attorney Michael Drake
Chief Ozgood Livingston Richardson (Oz or CJ)
Margaret Wheaton (secretary)
Kate Austin
Jason Austin
CHAPTER ONE
Tampa, Florida
Thursday 8:50 a.m.
January 20, 2000
THE BULLET THAT KILLED General Andrews was the same one that pierced my heart, although we were thirty miles apart when it happened and no blood soaked my chest. The damage was permanent, if not immediately obvious.
The new millennium was off to a disastrous start.
Thursday morning, two days before Andrews died, held the blessed promise of a return to normalcy. I had thrown myself back into my office routine, but I was entirely preoccupied by televised coverage of the most important national event since the war: Senate confirmation hearings for U.S. Supreme Court nominee, General Albert Randall Andrews.
Once the hearings concluded that morning, I naively assumed, my husband would magically transform into the man I had loved and somehow lost. After seventeen years of marriage, another woman would have been easier for me to deal with than George’s passionate devotion to the greater good, working to defeat the Andrews nomination.
Seated at the battered desk in my hideously decorated chambers in Tampa’s Old Federal Courthouse, I tried to focus on the draft orders that had been prepared by my clerks and appeared on my desk with the regularity of the daily sunrise. I signed the orders, again and again, methodically moving them to my outbox on the front of my desk where my secretary would pick them up.
Like other United States District Court judges here in the Tampa Division of the Middle District of Florida, I had a never-ending, boatload of work that threatened to bury me long before I had a chance to die a natural death. Already, the workload made me feel much older than the thirty-nine years reflected on my driver’s license.
Regardless of what time management methods I tried, I never seemed to get ahead. I rarely glimpsed the scarred surface of the old mahogany desktop I’d inherited from the little Napoleon who’d occupied this office before me.
I read the draft order in front of me: Marital Privilege is a legal term that means one spouse cannot be required to reveal confidential communications from the other spouse. Marital privilege was a concept that didn’t apply to me at the moment because my husband, George, and I weren’t communicating at all. For example, I had no idea where he was that morning. I knew I couldn’t reach him very easily by phone because I had already tried.
George was consumed with General Andrews and his confirmation hearings and I was consumed with desire for the entire process to go straight to hell and leave me and my marriage alone.
Wilhelmina Carson, I wrote, pressing the pen so hard that a hole appeared over the dotted ‘i.’ I placed the executed order on the top of the outgoing pile.
“Not since Clarence Thomas was appointed to the Supreme Court in 1991 has there been such a public display of outrage at a President’s choice,” the television analyst said. “Since General Albert Randall Andrews, formerly Tampa’s highest ranking Army officer, was nominated to join Thomas on the bench, the country has resided in a state of outrage over his offensive political and ideological positions on a variety of issues.”
The hyperbole brought a smile to my lips that didn’t lighten my heart. I found it hard to believe that anyone was taking the Andrews nomination seriously. Andrews was a rogue. To my mind, he was such an unsuitable candidate that he should never have been nominated in the first place.
Andrews was more obstinately opinionated than a cable television talk show host, and twice as vocal about it. There was no way he’d ever do the one thing required by the job: remain impartial and consider each case individually as it was presented to him. Once nominated, Andrews should have been summarily rejected.
But that’s not what happened.
The analyst continued reading from his prepared script. “Today, the crowd outside the Capitol building here in Washington, D.C. is larger than any of the earlier days of the hearings. . . .”
I felt sorry for the protesters. It’s not easy to have the courage of your convictions after standing outside for nine days in January ice showers.
At the beginning of the march, the protesters had been neatly organized, with the right to lifers on the left, the gays and les
bians on the right, and the anti-military group in the center, flowing out to the back. Today, the factions mingled into a single, huddled mass.
Icy rain soaked the homemade signs they carried. Blue magic marker ink ran off onto their heads, giving them an even more defeated look. Many huddled near fires in old barrels to catch a small slice of warmth. Even the commentator shivered as ice water dripped off his umbrella in the cold. I shivered, too, remembering how it felt to be chilled to the bone by bitter January cold only too well. It was a visceral memory that might never be baked out of me here in the Sunshine State.
I glanced out my window and saw clear blue skies, palm trees, and two homeless men across the street wearing short-sleeved T-shirts sharing a cigarette. It so rarely rains here in January that I leave the top down on my car for weeks at a time. The contrast between my world and the world I saw on television couldn’t have been more complete. This, at least, was a fact that cheered me.
In the nation’s capital, despite the horrid weather, the protesters had come and waited and every day their numbers had grown. They chanted, picketed, sang songs.
I shook my head and ran my fingers through my short auburn hair, causing it to stand straight up on top. The futility of their struggle would have persuaded me to quit long before now. I admired their determination. I liked to think I’d had that once.
When I was young and idealistic. Not anymore.
To do what these protesters were doing, what my husband had been doing, required the kind of conviction I no longer possessed. Before I was appointed to the bench, I practiced law long enough to learn that there are always too many sides to every story. I no longer believed in solid black and pristine white, self-evident truths and indisputable wrongs.
In politics, the question has always been “what have you done for me lately?” General Andrews was probably finding that out now. It must have been a hard lesson for a popular war hero to learn.
For almost an hour, the television commentators had rehashed the entire course of the hearings and predictions of the outcome, which ranged from promises of complete victory to devastating loss for both sides. Whether the nominee would be confirmed was alternately feared or cheered, depending on the speaker’s point of view.
