Florida Is Murder (Due Justice and Surface Tension Mystery Double Feature) (Florida Mystery Double Feature)

by Diane Capri

  “Christian Grover said breast implants stuffed this room,” I replied, grinning.

  “Christian’s a pig, but he’s usually right,” Kate responded. “Have you ever noticed how humans are creatures of selective attention?”

  When Kate gets into her Zen, or whatever it is, she’s a little too Eastern for me to take her seriously. “What?”

  “Attention focused on any thing creates that thing, Wilhelmina.”

  “So, I’ve created these implants through my imagination? They’re not really here? We’re not being invaded by an alien species of amazons?” I teased her.

  “Don’t mock me. You know what I mean. You’re so often in your own world that you don’t see what’s plainly visible.” Sometimes she still acts like my mother. I like it.

  The crowd stepped back a little and we could now observe its nucleus.

  Senator Warwick, speaking loudly enough to be overheard, holding forth on what he proposed to do if the good voters returned him to the Senate in the fall elections. He was talking to O’Connell Worthington and other members of the party who had gathered around him closest. The liberals were adoring fans--conservatives resembled sharks to chub.

  “Something has got to be done about the product liability crisis in this country. A number of our best corporate citizens have been put out of business by these frivolous product liability suits. When I return to the Senate, I’ll make sure America can compete in the global economy without fear of bankrupting its businesses.”

  “Blah, blah, blah,” Kate said.

  Preaching to the choir, though this wasn’t a political rally.

  His wife looked glassy-eyed. She might have been drinking before she arrived; George’s staff would not have served her.

  Kate noticed Victoria’s condition, too.

  “Duty calls,” she said, squeezed my arm briefly, approached Victoria and led her away.

  I turned to thread my way out when Christian Grover’s voice rose to challenge.

  “Come on, Senator. That’s a lie.”

  The collective gasped.

  Warwick replied, “So you claim, Grover. You’re not exactly objective.”

  Grover pressed on. “Maybe. But you are wrong. Statistics repeatedly show very few successful product liability awards to victims in this country. Corporations make billions of dollars selling defective products knowingly, intending to injure consumers. Big business owns you, Warwick. Don’t dress this up like an altruistic crusade.”

  Polite cheers greeted Grover’s comments, too.

  An uncomfortable battle was joined. The atmosphere hung now with hostility. I searched for George and spied him across the wide ballroom, willing him to look my way until he did.

  Warwick punched below the belt in reply. “I suppose you’re handling those seven-hundred lawsuits pro bono?”

  George assessed the situation at once; reached us in half a second; spirited Grover and his date away.

  Crisis averted.

  Red meat off the table; the swarm dispersed like magic.

  Now what?

  What I wanted to do was find Carly. Not an option. George would kill me if I left now. The second best option could be here in the room if Dr. Morgan had checked in. How to find out without making a fool of myself was the next issue. Maybe the solution was to ask a fool?

  Tampa’s not Savannah, but it’s a southern town and we have our share of eccentric characters, many of whom were present and accounted for.

  The medical community was prominently represented tonight. AIDS was their issue, after all. Several Tampa physicians and their spouses were in attendance. I saw Dr. Marilee Aymes, for many years the area’s leading cardiologist and still the only woman cardiologist in town, standing alone near the entrance. A few moments later, her most recent escort approached her with a champagne glass in each hand. Marilee qualifies as eccentric, but she’s certainly no fool.

  Speculation around town is that Dr. Aymes is a lesbian and she brings virile young male escorts to all the social events to convince people otherwise. The evidence typically cited in support of this theory includes her extremely short haircut and brassy manner.

  Tampa women are not abrasive, at least the socially successful ones aren’t.

  Dr. Aymes’s graduation from medical school in 1960, when she was the only woman in her class, must have meant she was a little odd. That she wears a tuxedo to black tie affairs fuels the rumors.

  Besides that, everyone will tell you, she smokes cigars, as if that clinches it. Tampa has never been on the crest of the fashion wave. Smoking cigars here is still something the men retire to after dinner with their port, while the ladies socialize. Oh, the tourists smoke cigars, and you can find trendy cigar bars in Ybor City open until the wee hours. But ladies? My dear, it just isn’t done.

  I saw Grover and Fred Johnson, Grover’s partner, himself another prominent plaintiff’s attorney here in town, deep in conversation with Dr. Carolyn Young. I certainly didn’t want to get involved there, so I joined Dr. Aymes.

  She ignored her escort; he looked like he’d stepped into the room from a Chippendales calendar.

  “I wonder how much of her body is real?” Marilee said, pointing her unlit cigar toward Dr. Young. “I’ve heard she’s actually sixty-five years old.”

  Dr. Young looked thirty-five, if that.

  “You laugh. From here, I can tell those breast implants are at least five years old, the nose has been done more than once, and there’ve been some collagen injections around the mouth recently. Botox too, probably. Just think what I’d discover if I had my glasses on and was close enough to actually see her.” She puffed on her stogie like George Burns while she talked.

  “Marilee, you can’t possibly tell all that from thirty feet away, can you?” I asked her, wiping mirthful tears from my eyes.

  “Those breasts look like cereal bowls sitting on a flat board. That’s what happens when implants get hard. As for the nose, you can see how small it is compared to the rest of her face. There’s no way she was born with that nose. In fact, if you give me a minute, I can probably name the surgeon. It looks like a signature nose to me.”

  Covered my mouth, trying not to make a spectacle of myself by guffawing. But I couldn’t help it. I could barely get the words out, but had to ask. “The collagen injections?”

  “She probably had them done last week. Look how plump the lines are between her nose and her mouth. And when she’s laughing, there’s not a sign of crows’ feet. Probably injected there, too.”

  She was precious. Tears streamed down my cheeks now, my carefully applied makeup a thing of the past. “Couldn’t she be young? A natural beauty?”

  Dr. Aymes snorted. “She could be. But she’s not. How old do you think she is?”

  My voice squeaked. “Thirty-five?”

  “Try fifty-seven. Look it up. Date of med school graduation is a matter of public record.”

  Dr. Aymes took another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. At this rate, she’d be more drunk than Victoria Warwick, but I was pretty sure she’d be more fun, too, if we could change the subject.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tampa, Florida

  Wednesday 9:15 p.m.

  January 6, 1999

  Marilee puffed on the unlit cigar. Asked, “And why do you think she’s talking to those two sharks?”

  “Grover and Johnson?”

  “She does explant surgeries for their clients. Breast implant ‘victims,’ they claim. About $5,000 a pop. Then she talks the women into reconstruction surgery for another $5,000.”

  “How many of those can she do?” I asked, not laughing now.

  “I can’t get an operating room for my cardiac surgeries two days a week because she’s doing explants. And that’s just at my hospital. I know she’s on staff at three others where she does the same thing. I’d say she does 25 a week. Add it up. Those two guys are going to make her a wealthy woman, and they’re just a couple of her sources.”

  I’d
been seeking an opening to ask her about Dr. Michael Morgan. Tampa is a very small town in many ways. Marilee practiced medicine here for years. I was sure she’d know him; might know who’d want to kill him, too. How to bring it up?

  Before I could ask, George joined the conversation. He heard the tail end of Dr. Aymes’ comments about Dr. Young.

  “You mean to say that Dr. Young is charging $200,000 to $250,000 a week to do reconstructive surgery on breast implant patients? What insurance company would ever pay for that?”

  George doesn’t particularly care for Dr. Aymes; says I shouldn’t be seen with her. After all, what would people think?

  Marilee was too involved in her subject to notice. “That’s just it. The insurance companies won’t pay for it. There’s no scientific evidence linking breast implants to any health problem. The lawyers pay for it.”

  “But where do they get the money?” He said, disbelieving. “I know those guys have made a lot of money in their lifetimes, but come on.”

  “I don’t know, George.” Dr. Aymes snapped. Annoyed. George questioned what she told him as absolute fact. She wouldn’t be interrogated. Or disbelieved. “You’re the banker. How do people normally finance a business deal?”

  “I’m not sure, Dr. Aymes, I haven’t been in banking for quite some time. But speaking of banking, Willa,” he said as he turned smoothly to me, “I promised Bill Sheffield you’d speak with him briefly. Would you excuse us, Dr. Aymes?”

  I couldn’t think of a quick reason to refuse and found myself propelled. “See you soon,” I said, and meant it.

  George mumbled “What a most disagreeable woman. How preposterous.”

  He can be as stuffy as my father sometimes. I was still smiling. Marilee had provided more laughter than I’d felt since Carly ambushed me.

  We joined Bill Sheffield, a local stock broker, and his wife just as the rest of his group were moving away. They discussed the status of investments and the Dow Jones; I listened with half an ear while my mind wandered.

  I heard Bill suggest that George consider stock in medical products companies.

  “The breast implant mess has devalued the stock of a number of companies that are otherwise very sound, George. I have no doubt this crisis will blow over and those stocks will increase again. You can buy MedPro, for example, at $3.00 a share right now. It’s a local company and I think it’s going to turn around. It went public at $7.00 and it’ll definitely go higher.”

  “I’m investing in technologies right now. Last week I bought DataTech and it’s up fifteen points already,” George responded, the first volley in a lengthy set.

  I tried to pay attention, but Carly’s employer was not mentioned again and my mind wandered.

  Ten minutes later, both Mary Sheffield and I were long past any ability to feign interest. She opened a conversation about the next Junior League Show House, which I found only slightly more interesting than watching paint dry.

  Spied a more interesting conversation near the Sunset Bar. Again, I escaped.

  Chief Hathaway and Frank Bennett were doubtless talking shop. I approached, slightly obscured behind a passing waiter.

  “How long will it take to make a positive I.D.?” Frank asked Chief Hathaway.

  Ben replied, “The body’s in bad shape. Finger prints are impossible. Searching medical and dental records will take a while. Too long, maybe.”

  “Are you sure it’s the tourist, at least?”

  “In fact, we’re pretty sure it’s not.”

  Frank saw me lurking, invited me to join them, and caught me up. “Sorry for discussing business at a party, Willa. But I was asking Ben about the victim we discussed earlier. I’ve got to have something to report at eleven besides Elizabeth Taylor’s no-show.”

  I said, “You’re kidding, right? You’re not going to say that.”

  Ben ignored our nonsense, looked thoughtful for a few seconds and instructed Frank. “There’s no point to upsetting everyone until we get a little more information.”

  Frank acquiesced. “Can I quote you that it’s not the tourist, at least?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Can you give me something on the missing Dr. Morgan, at least?” Frank never gives up.

  Ben asked, “Isn’t he here, Willa? I saw his name on the guest list and Peter told me he’d checked in. I marked that case closed.”

  Relief flooded through me in palpable waves.

  Morgan wasn’t dead after all.

  Carly was ok.

  I was okay.

  I told them the truth. “I’ve never met Michael Morgan. But if Peter said he’s here, I’m sure he is.”

  Just then two waiters walked by ringing chimes to signal that dinner was served; I was grateful for the excuse to move on.

  By the time everyone was seated for dinner, I was ready to call it a night.

  Kate was seated at the senator’s table, as were George and I. Elizabeth Taylor’s place remained empty--a no show, as Frank said. The meal passed uneventfully.

  The senator gave a short speech thanking everyone for their contribution to AIDS research and reminding them of the work ahead. Privately, the senator was campaigning. I heard him tell Kate that it was a critical time for foreign policy and free trade, and the party needed him on the Foreign Relations Committee for another term.

  Elections were several months away, but early money is like yeast: its necessary to raise the dough to get elected. From the looks of the crowded room, I guessed he’d made the same pitch to all of them and several thousand packages of yeast would be contributed to his campaign in the next few days.

  There was no question that the Republican candidate posed a serious threat to Warwick’s reelection, but I wondered whether the campaign contributions made to Warwick’s campaign would really support free trade or just his ego.

  The party ended and everyone gone by midnight.

  Left George to close up, trudged upstairs for bed.

  Called Carly again to tell her the good news: that Dr. Morgan had been here tonight, alive and in person.

  Still no answer; I didn’t leave another message.

  George and I usually like to dissect these events and rehash the various conversations. But tonight, I collapsed into deep slumber long before he came upstairs.

  Even though I consume mystery novels like candy, I was new to the investigator game. I had learned what I needed to know about Dr. Morgan without having to inquire. No one acted guilty, whatever that means.

  So I missed my best opportunity to investigate everyone who had a reason to kill Michael Morgan.

  In the long run, it would have saved me a lot of pain if I’d figured that out.

  But ignorance is bliss. I had the last sound sleep I would have for a while.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tampa, Florida

  Thursday 9:10 a.m.

  January 7, 1999

  On Thursday morning, we slept late and had the after party chat over breakfast and coffee that we didn’t have the night before. We shared laughter and outrage and he gloated a while before we kissed and left for work.

  I didn’t tell him about Carly just yet. George thinks I have a blind spot where Carly’s concerned. He calls it my Mighty Mouse Routine. I’m always saving the day for her, he says, and he views it as an unnecessary extravagance. He thinks Carly is old enough to take care of herself.

  That’s not the only thing he’s wrong about.

  The good news about Dr. Morgan would resolve Carly’s issues and then I’d give George the whole story without having to argue about how I’d handled her this time.

  That was the plan.

  For about thirty minutes after I reached my desk, it seemed the plan would work.

  One of the greatest things about my job is no obnoxious phone calls. George, Kate, and select family can reach me on a private line. Otherwise, my secretary takes messages and my judicial clerks talk to the callers. It’s one of the many advantages of being a federal judge. A state court ju
dge is elected; they have to talk to everybody.

  The point is, Carly could have returned my calls on my private line, my cell, or my home phone, but she hadn’t. I’d heard nothing from her since yesterday. Not an unusual occurrence. But just now, damned inconsiderate. And worrisome.

  My secretary brought in the message slips for calls I received through regular channels. I flipped through them quickly: CJ at 7:45 a.m. Ha! As if. In addition to making my own hours, my lifetime appointment means it’s not necessary to kowtow to a little guy who thinks he’s the boss. Gleefully, I crumpled it and tossed it into the trash can. She scores!

  Four more slips. A reminder of my hair appointment, Kate, President of the Women’s Bar Association, and, at the bottom of the pile, Carly.

  She’d called yesterday. Before she appeared at Minaret.

  For some reason, I felt a bit better knowing she’d tried to reach me first. Seemed not so desperate, maybe.

  Asked my secretary to schedule an appointment with the chair of the Women’s Bar Association, confirm my hair appointment, and make a date for late lunch with Kate.

  Studied yesterday’s pink slip reflecting Carly’s call. No further clues revealed themselves. Wondered aloud, “What’s going on with you, little sis?”

  Remembered the last time we’d met before yesterday afternoon. We’d argued then, too. The issues were not dissimilar.

  While I was still in private practice, I volunteered my time to teach a law school course. Despite her two brothers and me all being lawyers, Carly decided to go to law school. Or maybe it was because we were lawyers. Anyway, Carly threw caution to the wind and took my class four years ago.

  Even if she hadn’t been my “little sister,” I’d have thought she was one of those rare students who understood the subject and demonstrated desire to excel.

  She became a colleague that year and I found myself working with her to make sure she understood the basics of cross examination, jury selection and evidence.

  After she graduated, my personal relationship with Carly, always strained, finally achieved an uneasy truce: Carly began to look on me as an available, if not overly desirable, mentor. For a time. Too briefly.