by Diane Capri
I got back from Detroit about 6:30 at night. I hadn’t had a chance to call George to tell him about my conversation with Robin, so he didn’t yet know about the tapes. When I got home, the first thing he told me was that Grover was being held for questioning in the murder of Michael Morgan. George had called Ben Hathaway and told him we believed Grover had some knowledge of Carly’s whereabouts, so Ben agreed that we could come down to the station and observe him question Grover through the one-way mirror. Grover had refused a lawyer. What did he need one for? And even if he did need one, he’d never admit it.
Ben believed Grover had been blackmailing Morgan. Morgan’s bank statements showed several large payments to Grover’s partner, Fred Johnson, over the last four years. Ben wanted to believe the money went to Grover but if Grover knew, he wasn’t saying.
George drove us to the Tampa Police Station at about 10:30 p.m. Grover was in the interrogation room and we could both watch and hear. He consistently denied any knowledge of Dr. Morgan’s new research conclusions. He knew Dr. Morgan was working on a solution to the breast implant autoimmune disease issues and, he claimed, that’s why he refused to allow Morgan to be deposed in any of his cases.
He said he had not seen Dr. Morgan for several months before Morgan died and had no idea that he had reached any definitive conclusions. Grover admitted to being under financial pressure over the loans he had taken out to finance his breast implant cases, but he denied any involvement in Morgan’s death. He said he was going to be an even richer man when his cases settled. Why would he need to blackmail Morgan?
After an hour, Ben Hathaway came out and told us he would be keeping Grover for further interrogation the rest of the evening, but, unless something new came up, there wouldn’t be enough to arrest him. George and I went home after Hathaway promised to call us if an arrest was made.
On the way home, I told George what Robin had said about the blackmail. “What I can’t piece together,” I said, “if Johnson was getting the payments, as the bank records showed, why didn’t Ben detain Johnson instead of Grover?”
“Too simple, I guess. We’ll have to watch the tapes. The more interesting question is, where did Morgan get the money to pay Johnson?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. The only thing I can figure is that Morgan blackmailed someone else to get it.”
George seemed to consider that for quite a while before he said, “Yes, and there are so many possibilities. All those rich women with their secrets. Any evidence that Morgan kept a record of what they all told him? And what they might have paid to keep him quiet?”
It was an issue I hadn’t considered. What if whoever trashed Morgan’s apartment was looking not for “The Silicone Solution,” but for a record of blackmail payments? Wouldn’t that put a different spin on things? Things are not always what they seem, I had learned over and over in this investigation. But this time, I thought we’d been the victims of deliberate misdirection.
When we got back to Minaret, we walked into the lobby and there was Carly sitting on the couch. As soon as she saw us, she ran toward us, sobbing hysterically. She kept saying, “You’ve got to help me, you’ve got to help me” over and over and over.
We took her upstairs and managed to get her calmed down. Between sniffling and hiccupping, she managed to tell us the problem. “Christian’s been arrested. They think he murdered Dr. Morgan. You’ve got to help me get him out.”
I shook her, hard. It startled her into a less histrionic pose, but only for a moment. “What do you mean?” I asked her. “Grover’s not been arrested, he’s being questioned. Maybe he killed Dr. Morgan. And if he did, he’ll be charged.”
“Oh, Willa!” and she began to sob all the harder. “Christian didn’t kill Dr. Morgan. We can’t let him be charged with murder.”
“How do you know he didn’t do it?”
“I know him. He couldn’t have done it. Anyway, I know who did. That’s why I’ve been hiding. It wasn’t Christian,” she said while tears continued to pour from her eyes at about the same water volume as the Naguchi fountain in front of the Convention Center.
“Then who did kill Dr. Morgan?” I asked her, fully expecting her to name Johnson or Young or even Aymes.
“O’Connell Worthington.”
“But that’s not possible!” I said.
“That’s preposterous!” George said simultaneously. We both sat down heavily on the couch.
“Maybe,” Carly hiccupped, “but true. I saw him outside Morgan’s house that night. I went to see Morgan. I had convinced MedPro that he’d found The Silicone Solution and it was good news for us. I wanted to tell him they’d meet with him. It was what he wanted, and I knew he’d be happy.” Her nose was streaming at the same rate as her eyes and George gave her his handkerchief. George might be the only man on the planet who still has a freshly washed linen handkerchief at all times.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tampa, Florida
Monday 1:00 a.m.
January 25, 1999
“I CIRCLED HIS BLOCK a couple of times because there was a car pulled up on the side of the house and I didn’t want to meet anyone there, or” and she looked a little sheepish, “interrupt him if he was busy.”
We all knew what she meant.
“Anyway, on about the third pass, I saw Mr. Worthington leaving the house, pulling off a pair of surgical gloves. He dropped a gun into his pocket.” Her breath caught. She gulped air. “I left right away. But I’ve been afraid he saw me. I think he trashed my apartment.”
I sat dumbfounded. George was, too. No one said anything for a long time.
Not that I believed her. O’Connell wouldn’t have committed murder.
Nor would I allow Carly to accuse him. Probably seeking to divert attention from Grover, a much more likely suspect.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked her, quiet steel in my tone.
Carly looked down at her hands. Seemed to have difficulty answering the question. She’d twisted George’s handkerchief into a thin rope, and then pulled it as if she could shred the linen into pieces the way she’d done with her paper napkin that first day.
A dark stain spread over her neckline, wet with tears. She refused to meet my gaze.
“I told Christian.”
My temperature rose about ten degrees. George lay a calming hand on my shoulder. He should have covered my mouth.
Sarcasm. “Because he’s such a trustworthy man, I suppose?”
Two hiccups. More nose blowing.
She whispered, “We’ve been secretly living together for about a year. Don’t feel left out. No one knew.”
George’s hand on my shoulder squeezed hard. Not as good as duct tape over my mouth, but I got the message.
“Okay,” I said, drawing out the word into three syllables.
“Not about Morgan’s research. I wouldn’t tell Christian that.” More sniveling. “But about Worthington. He said no one would believe me. Worthington’s reputation is impeccable. Except for my relationship to you, which isn’t even legal, I’m a nobody. I’d had an affair with his nephew, which he disapproved of. Why would anyone believe me?”
I’d have politely disagreed, but why lie?
Carly nodded. “See? Even you think so. Christian was right.”
She took an enormous amount of air into her lungs and rushed the rest. “And we thought they’d find his body quickly and forensics would prove Worthington did it and then I wouldn’t have to say anything at all.”
She began crying again, but this time her tears flowed silently. We waited while her wave of tears passed. She blew her nose one more time.
“But then, they didn’t find the body and when they finally found it, they didn’t know who it was. The time dragged on and on. I got so stressed I couldn’t function.”
George asked, “What were they looking for? In your apartment?”
She smiled, albeit weakly. Reached into her pocket and pulled out a computer disk. “I’m not
sure, but I think he was looking for this.”
“What is it?” George and I asked at the same time.
“I think it’s Dr. Morgan’s solution report. I think it lays out all of his data and conclusions. He gave it to me the last time I saw him.”
“Why?”
“He said someone was trying to kill him, but I thought he was kidding.”
George frowned.
“He wanted you to hide this in your apartment?” I asked.
She shook her head. “He asked me to have it encrypted. We have sophisticated equipment for that. Thwarts intellectual property theft.”
“I see,” George said.
Carly seemed on firm footing now, discussing her work instead of murder. “If it checks out, and I’ve convinced MedPro to analyze it, Morgan said his solution vindicates all of the defendants. He planned to put an end to this litigation. Stop the bleeding, he called it.”
She looked up and met my gaze, much stronger. She’d found firmer footing. Seemed almost okay.
“We may be the evil empire,” she smiled, “but we’re striking back.”
After a few moments of silence, Carly said, “So what should we do now?”
It was well after midnight. I was dead tired. Not in the mood to traipse to the police station again. Hathaway wouldn’t release Grover on the strength of a statement from his lover, even if George and I vouched for them both.
Robin’s tapes beckoned.
Let’s be honest. I wasn’t about to accuse O’Connell Worthington, Tampa’s most prominent legal figure, of something that couldn’t be proved. CJ was on my back over a parking place mix-up. I could only imagine what he’d do to me after I accused his brother-in-law of murder.
No, I wouldn’t act on Carly’s story without more.
I admit my ego was involved, too.
I’d been with O’Connell Worthington almost every day during the trial, and never guessed he’d recently murdered a man. He appeared less distraught than Carly did now. In fact, his work defending his client had been excellent.
He believed in the manufacturers’ cause. Worthington wouldn’t suppress evidence proving his clients were right. Carly’s theory there made no sense.
Beyond all of that, I didn’t trust her. She’d been withholding information from me all along. Why take her at her word now? Wouldn’t that make me an even bigger fool?
But then I remembered Worthington’s temper tantrum the day of the Bar meeting. And his opulent surroundings.
Maybe money corrupts absolutely.
But for O’Connell, the code of honor he lived by was strong.
No, I didn’t believe he killed for money. No matter what Carly thought she saw.
She waited for my answer.
I stood, stretched, yawned.
“We’ll see Chief Hathaway in the morning, but not tonight, Carly. Let’s get some rest first. It’ll be a brutal meeting. We’ll need all the strength we can muster,” George said.
She agreed to wait, but she wasn’t happy about it.
“You can see Hathaway without us, Carly. Or you know where the guest room is. I’m exhausted,” I said.
She pouted all the way to her room and slammed the door. Her petulance made me feel better because it felt normal.
George and I fell into bed.
During the night, I either dreamed or hallucinated Morgan’s murder over and over, like a tape loop.
Never did I see O’Connell Worthington shoot Morgan. I couldn’t visualize it; couldn’t rationalize it, either.
O’Connell was small and slight, not to mention old.
He could have shot Morgan, sure. But no way he could he have moved the body into the trunk of his car.
O’Connell’s car? White BMW. Not dark blue sedan.
I couldn’t make it add up. When I stopped trying, I must have finally dozed off. But not for long.
After a couple of hours, I gave up. Padded to the kitchen. George was already there with the coffee, looking more exhausted than I felt.
“Can’t make the facts fit. Even if he would have done it—which I don’t believe—he couldn’t have done it. O’Connell couldn’t have put removed and dumped the body. He’s not big enough; strong enough.”
“Adrenaline can do that,” George reminded me.
“I don’t believe it. The effort would have killed O’Connell, too.” I plopped my head in my hands, bleary eyed, and wired.
George looked no better. We were on the same mental wavelength, though.
He said, “Unless he had help. If he didn’t do it alone.”
“A conspiracy? How could he trust anyone to keep quiet about such a thing?” Lifted my head, swigged the last of my coffee. Took my cup to the pot for a refill. The pot was empty. I started a fresh one.
“Maybe it’s time to look at those video tapes Robin gave me. I’ll bring your coffee if you’ll set up. The red box is on top of the television.”
George grunted; left to get the television in the den organized. None of the other tapes would play on our home equipment. For the rest, we’d ask Frank Bennett to use his editing booth at Channel 8.
The coffee brewed, I carried both cups toward the low sound emanating from the tapes. When I reached the perfect vantage point, I saw the television screen filled edge-to-edge with an older, male version of Carly Austin’s face.
I dropped both mugs of coffee all over George’s favorite of Aunt Minnie’s wool antique rugs.
“God Damn it, Willa! What’s the matter with you?” George jumped up, ran to gather wet towels to soak up the coffee before stains grew dark and permanent.
George pushed the “mute” button on the remote. No sound distracted.
I stood transfixed.
Morgan’s blue eyes sparkled, as Kate said, just like Carly’s. His red hair was identically curled. His complexion was ruddy where her skin was flawless, but that might have been from age or drink. His smile was hers, and so were his teeth. Even the nose, although he could have afforded a more substantial one.
Why didn’t I know this earlier?
Morgan. Carly’s father. The best explanation for her fixation on him.
Anything less would never have captured Carly’s attention to the same extent.
So many clues. Why hadn’t I figured it out? I’d seen photographs of him, certainly, but always black and white. I’d never met him. Yet, I should have known. I felt like an idiot.
George returned with his wet towels, saw me still staring at the television.
“What the hell?” he said.
I grabbed his arm and pointed his gaze toward the screen.
“Look, George. Look at him. Who do you see?” I whispered.
“Michael Morgan, I presume,” he said, mocking the old “Dr. Livingston” routine. “But if he upsets you that much, I’ll turn him off.”
He collected the remote and did just that.
George still didn’t see it.
I guess if you didn’t know, maybe it wasn’t so obvious, and I felt a little less like the loser in the old “I spy” child’s game: One child picks out something in plain sight and the others try to find it.
Having a good grasp of the obvious is a positive character trait.
I’d always believed I possessed it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tampa, Florida
Monday 4:30 a.m.
January 25, 1999
WHY WAS MY AWAKENING so jarring? I’d tired of Carly’s quest long ago. Partly, I thought her unrelenting quest disrespectful to her mother. Now, I didn’t know what to think.
George said, “Are you planning to fill me in here?”
So I related the entire tale. What Kate had told me about Carly’s father, and what I had already known.
“It’s him. Michael Morgan. Carly’s sperm donor,” I said.
“That’s not possible.”
“It’s the only possible explanation, George. I’ve eliminated every other possibility. Look at the guy.”
I
punched the remote, left the sound muted. George watched Morgan talk, move, gesture.
Distractedly, he said, “The resemblance is uncanny.”
No kidding.
Of course he was Carly’s father. Otherwise, why put Carly in his will?
He asked, “Does Carly know?”
“She must,” I said. “But if not, should we tell her? Or should we confront Kate?”
That idea did not appeal to me. At all.
We hashed it around for a while before we punted. We’d watch the tapes, then decide.
Carly knew what Morgan looked like. She must know more. Interesting that she’d never mentioned the resemblance, if that’s all it was.
I picked up the phone. Dialed.
“Who are you calling at this hour?” George demanded, watching the video still.
He picked up on the third ring. “Frank. Willa Carson here. I need a favor.”
Maybe, if he hadn’t had that crush on me, he’d have refused. But I’d never called him before dawn. Once a news man, always a news man.
“Robin Jakes suggested I call you.”
Instantly alert he replied, “Oh?”
I explained what we had, what we needed.
He said, “I’ll meet you at the station in fifteen minutes.”
We left Carly asleep in the guest room. Where would she go, after all?
As promised, Frank had set up the editing booth with three chairs and minimum fuss. He knew when to accept a gift horse. Altruism had nothing to do with his decision.
“Start with this one,” I said, handing him the edited tape airing later in the week on national television.
“Dateline’s” familiar format featured guest journalist Robin Jake’s interviews with Morgan, interspersed with commentary and reportage about him and his theories, as well as history of the “breast implant crisis.”
George smirked. His oft repeated low opinion of the media was that nothing short of a “crisis” was deemed worth covering beyond a ten second sound bite.
