Twisted Justice

by Patricia Gussin

  Finally, and most important to Laura’s team, was Chuck Dimer. If Laura didn’t kill Kim Connor, they needed the best private investigator in the Tampa Bay area to find out who did, and that meant Chuck. It was a good thing Laura had that mysterious pot of money, because Chuck’s fees were legend, but so was his scorecard of success.

  “Honey, you’re up already?” Celeste peeked out from beneath the ivory satin sheet.

  “I’ve got to go in early.” Greg bent over his fiancée and kissed her on the forehead.

  She smiled sleepily. “I love that gray suit.” She reached over and stroked the herringbone-patterned fabric she’d had imported from Hong Kong.

  “And I love you.” He smiled back.

  “I love you too,” she murmured, “Listen, call me later at the office. Maybe lunch before I leave for the airport?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, knowing full well he’d never be able to spare the time. “Go back to sleep, darling.”

  “That’s about all we know,” Greg concluded, looking at the serious faces assembled around the polished oval table in his well-appointed conference room. “I can tell you that my first impression was to plead her. I mean, finding the gun right there, but I’ve done a one-eighty. I don’t believe Laura Nelson killed Kim Connor. Once you meet her, I think you’ll agree. Anyway, it’s our job to get her off.”

  The walnut paneled room was lined with shelves of bound legal texts interspersed with assorted artifacts that Celeste had chosen to make the place feel more comforting, less intimidating. He got up to pour himself another cup of coffee as the others scribbled on notepads.

  “What happened Sunday night is still hot Wednesday morning,” Chuck Dimer whistled, glancing at the Tampa Tribune featuring a picture of Laura leaving the jail with Greg.

  Chuck was six foot six, with the bulky build of a linebacker, a physique that served him well in his line of work. He had deep blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair that he wore in a flattop crew cut, a tough guy façade he enhanced by dressing mostly in black — pants, shirts, loafers. Chuck owned and operated Dimer Investigations, a highly respected firm in the Tampa Bay area with an extensive network across the country and even beyond it. He’d been one year ahead of Greg at Notre Dame Law and had joined the FBI after graduation, staying with the bureau for ten years before coming back to Tampa to care for his aging mother about a decade ago.

  “The celebrity aspect will keep this one in the papers for a while.”

  “You’re not kidding,” Carrie said. “Her own husband goes on television and all but convicts her.” She got up and selected a cranberry muffin from a platter of baked goods after refilling her coffee cup. “I can’t imagine Don doing that.”

  “Soon to be ex-husband, don’t forget,” added Rob. “Just vindictive, or does he really think she did it?”

  “Could be vindictive, but I think it’s ego,” Greg mused. “He was a big TV guy, lost his job, and now he’s trying to pump up his own self-image. After talking to him, I think he may really believe that she did it to get him back. It’s like the guy’s arrogance is clouding his grasp of reality. ‘A crime of passion,’ he keeps repeating like some kind of a mantra. Laura absolutely denies she wanted him back.”

  “I wouldn’t want a jerk like that either,” Carrie said with a frown. “Those poor kids.”

  “Dr. Nelson is here,” announced an officious female voice over the intercom.

  “Okay, Betty, please show her in,” said Greg. To the group before him he said, “Let’s get to work.”

  Betty Harmon, a buxom woman with a square face surrounded by a halo of white wavy hair and large round glasses, ushered Laura into the conference room. Flashing a smile, Greg’s longtime secretary was assuring Laura that Klingman Law Associates had assembled an excellent contingent of lawyers. Rob Wilson rose as he offered her the remaining empty chair.

  Greg could only stare. Laura looked so different. So wholesome, so “California.” Shoulder-length blonde hair now clean and shining instead of tied in that scraggly ponytail. Her complexion was clear of blotchy patches, and he suspected that she wore makeup, though it was not obvious except for the tinge of eye shadow and mascara that highlighted her now luminous green eyes. Gone were the glasses that made her look so bookish. With tailored gray slacks and a simple white shirt open at the collar, she seemed a different woman from the one he’d left last night in wrinkled shorts and tee shirt. Right, he could finally see her as a professional. Quite a beautiful professional in fact.

  “Everyone, this is Dr. Laura Nelson.” Greg made formal introductions. Betty Harmon, prim and proper as usual in a black linen suit and frilly white blouse, poured coffee into a blue porcelain cup for Laura before closing the door behind her.

  “Laura,” Greg began, “we’ve got a lot to do. Not only do we have to find who really killed Kim Connor, we also have to focus on your defense. Since we’ll be pursuing several paths in parallel, we’ll need your absolute cooperation on all fronts. Right now, Rob is digging into the police work. He’ll be working with the D.A. and law enforcement. You and I and Carrie and Chuck, will explore everything that you know about Connor. That’s our first priority, okay?”

  “Of course. I don’t think I have much to tell you about her though,” Laura said. “Steve would know more. One thing Steve did say was that she had a boyfriend who beat her up.”

  “Right,” Greg said.

  “There’s a good start,” Chuck nodded. “Wonder what the cops know about this guy?”

  “We’ll find out soon,” said Rob. “It’ll be tops on my list.”

  “There is something else before we go on,” Laura said. “I need to know where I stand with the hospital. Have you spoken with the CEO, Cliff Casey, at all? I have cases, a surgical schedule. Not only will my patients be waiting, it’s my week for emergency back-up.”

  The members of the legal team exchanged glances. Laura had obviously not been informed that her hospital privileges would be suspended until the case was cleared up.

  Greg shook his head. “No, I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Chances are they’ve put you on leave pending resolution of the charges you’re facing,” Rob ventured.

  “Perhaps, but I’m three lung resections behind, two for cancer and one for TB, plus whatever comes in through the ER today. I need to verify that everything’s being handled.”

  Greg looked at Carrie, who stood up. “Dr. Nelson, let’s go to my office right now and call the hospital to see how they want to handle this. It’s Cliff Casey we need to speak with, right?”

  Laura nodded, also standing. “He’ll be upset. There’s really no one else qualified to do these difficult thoracic procedures.”

  Laura followed Carrie into her cherry-paneled office and sat across from the desk as Carrie dialed the phone. When she identified herself as Laura’s attorney, Cliff Casey picked up immediately. After they exchanged greetings, Cliff asked how Laura was.

  “She’s fine. She’s right here as a matter of fact —”

  “As well as all over the newspapers and television,” he interrupted. “You can appreciate the scandal for the hospital. I’ve always admired and supported Dr. Nelson, but now —”

  “Dr. Nelson would like to be assured at this time that her schedule has been reassigned —”

  “That’s been taken care of, of course, Ms. Diamond,” he said quickly. “If and when this murder charge is cleared up, we’ll have to reconsider Dr. Nelson’s contribution to the hospital. As you can imagine, we can be seriously discredited by such an ordeal.”

  “I understand,” Carrie went on in a calm, complacent tone. “And we as her defense team need her undivided attention, so we appreciate anything you can do to lighten Dr. Nelson’s responsibilities.”

  “Did you hear what I said? That’s been done already. Tell Laura not to even step a foot into the hospital until this is cleared up.”

  “Of course, that’s our intention, to clear it up. Right now, I’ll let her know that th
e hospital is behind her, and that you’ll arrange for her receivables to be sent promptly to her.”

  “Agreed. One more thing, Ms. Diamond,” Cliff added, “tell Laura that any discussions with plaintiff attorneys are off-limits while she’s officially suspended from staff privileges.”

  “Meaning?” Carrie asked.

  “Just tell Laura to stay out of the Ruiz case. I know she’s been talking to Sam Sanders, that son of a bitch ambulance chaser. He’s got no ethics — just a goddamned predator. Tell her to stay out of it.”

  Laura was holding a framed picture of Carrie and a dark-haired girl in a frilly white dress when Carrie hung up the phone. “Your daughter?”

  “Yes, Elizabeth. It was her First Communion.”

  “She has your eyes,” Laura said, putting down the picture. “How old is she?”

  “She just turned eleven.”

  “I’ve got ten-year-old twin girls,” said Laura, checking her watch distractedly. “I promised them I’d be home mid-afternoon.”

  “Then let’s get to work. About the hospital, all your surgical cases have been reassigned, so you don’t have to worry. Until this is over, your hospital privileges are suspended. It’s procedure. Mr. Casey will facilitate your receivables promptly so that you don’t even have to go in.”

  “I see,” Laura said sadly. “Well, thank you.”

  As they walked toward the conference room, Carrie almost brought up the Ruiz case warning, but one look at Laura’s anguished face stopped her.

  At noon, Rob left for police headquarters in search of any new evidence files, and Chuck took Laura in his custom Chevy van to Steve’s empty apartment to reconstruct the murder scene. Steve had moved back into their Davis Island house, and the police tape had been taken down around the house on Oregon. The front door was locked, different from that night when Laura had just let herself in. She tried hard to focus on other details: Which rooms she had walked into. What she had seen. How she had stumbled upon the body. The feeling of the gun as her hand touched it. How the police found her standing there. How she had reacted.

  “Did she see anybody? Could anybody have seen her?” Chuck kept asking.

  Something kept trying to play in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t get it into focus. Somebody she’d noticed that night, but she couldn’t remember and just wanted to get away from there. Finally, Chuck drove her back to the law office.

  Sandwiches and salads had been ordered in and they ate as they waited for Rob to return. They reviewed the crime scene report and the preliminary police notes, and when Rob arrived, the autopsy findings. Then the trio of lawyers and Chuck peppered Laura with questions. What did she know about Kim? Who could have killed her and why? What was Steve’s part in all this? Laura had no answers, and at five Carrie suggested that they break until morning.

  As Laura turned the shiny brass handle of her front door, still struggling to find the right words to make her children understand everything that had happened, a deathly quiet and a sickening sense of dread confronted her. The children were gone, she knew it. Flinging down her purse, she ran upstairs, just like the first time, frantically searching through each bedroom. This time there were signs of hasty packing, items of clothing strewn on the floor, dresser drawers open and half empty.

  And they were gone.

  Blind with panic, she flew down the steps looking for any sign as to where they might be. This time she’d follow them. But how? To where?

  She saw the white envelope. It had been placed conspicuously on the kitchen table anchored by Marcy’s favorite coffee mug, the one with the butterflies Patrick had made in art class. With shaking hands and a plunging heart, Laura tore open the envelope. She immediately recognized the handwriting on the notepaper as Marcy Whitman’s neat block lettering.

  Dearest Laura,

  Please try to understand. Right after you left this morning, Steve told me he was taking the kids to his father’s in Traverse City. He already had the plane tickets, including one for me. I told him there was no way I’d go, that I was not going to pick sides, that I was loyal to you both. He said that if I went with him the kids would have someone to watch out for them because his father’s not well. Please trust that the reason I’m going is so I can be with the children and help them understand that you love them and that there’s absolutely no way you would ever harm anyone, no matter what. That you have spent your whole life helping and healing people. Please believe me when I tell you that I am completely dedicated to you and I believe in your innocence.

  All my love, Marcy

  P.S. When I asked Steve if he was going to tell you where he was taking us, he said I could. Also, the police were here to question me about that night. I had to tell them what you said. About where you were going. An emergency at the hospital. I hope that’s okay.

  Laura sat at the table, tears falling freely as she struggled to think. Did she have any options? It was slightly past six. She picked up the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Oh, Greg, thank God,” Laura said.

  “I’m just on the way out. What’s happening?”

  “My husband took off with my children.”

  “What?”

  “I went directly home from your office,” she sobbed, “and they were gone.”

  “Do you know where —”

  “Steve’s taking them to his father’s in Traverse City. The housekeeper left a note.”

  “Bastard,” Greg breathed. Did Steve have the right to remove the kids to Michigan? His alibi at the time of the murder had been confirmed by the police. He had left Tampa well in advance of the murder. All confirmed by the kids. So he was not a suspect and, yes, he probably did have the right under these circumstances.

  “Okay, Laura, if they left this morning they’re already out of state and there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Nothing we can do? My children are my life. I’ve barely had the chance to talk to them about what’s happened. I need to go —”

  “There’s nothing we can do tonight, Laura. Tomorrow we’ll get a custody expert and develop our options.”

  “We’re still married. That means we share custody equally, right? I was supposed to see a divorce attorney yesterday. Obviously, I never made it.”

  “That’s too bad. Starting the proceedings might have helped. Regardless, what you need to remember right now is that you’re out on bail. If you leave Hillsborough County, they’ll put you right back in jail.”

  Laura shuddered at the memory. “But what if Steve is telling the kids that I killed that woman?”

  “Laura, we’ll work this out tomorrow. It’ll be complicated because they’re with their father and grandfather and you have no special custody rights.”

  “Custody rights? I’m their mother. I need to do something now. The last time he took them, I just waited around and didn’t ask for help and look what happened.”

  “You can’t leave Tampa.”

  “Then will you go?”

  “We have to wait until morning. Now tell me that you’re going to be okay. That you’ll just stay home, get something to eat, and rest.”

  But she couldn’t. Instead, Laura just hung up the phone and began wandering through the empty house, lovingly touching the kids’ things. There was Mike’s baseball bat, Kevin’s model planes, Natalie’s menagerie of stuffed animals, Nicole’s collection of Barbie’s, Patrick’s Tinkertoy constructions. Unable to eat, unable to sit, unable to even pray anymore, she paced and paced the house until she heard pounding on the front door.

  Greg had called her parents.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jim Nelson waited for Steve at the Cherry Capital Airport three miles from his home in Traverse City, Michigan, a charming, tourist town tucked in the crook of Lake Michigan’s Grand Traverse Bay. He held a copy of his son’s itinerary — a United Airlines flight from Tampa to Chicago, then a two engine prop to Traverse City.

  “Hey there, kids,” he called as soon as he spotted Steve, loo
king sporty in tailored tan slacks and a tangerine golf shirt. Following him were five kids, whom he hadn’t seen in five years, along with a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a bun.

  Jim shifted nervously, blowing his nose into a handkerchief, and running his fingers through his own thinning gray hair. Neatly pressed Bermuda shorts, a short-sleeved summer sports shirt open at the neck, and sneakers without socks made him look more like a tourist than a native. “Wow, you’ve all gotten so big, I wouldn’t recognize you.”

  “Yeah, Dad,” Steve said as slung an arm around his father’s shoulder, “it’s been too long.”

  “Son, you look great.”

  “And you look better than you sounded on the phone. That flu better?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to introduce Marcy, who stood grasping the hands of the twins. “Dad, this is Mrs. Whitman, my housekeeper.”

  “Marcy,” she said as she extricated her right hand from Nicole’s and offered it.

  “Jim here. Glad to meet you,” he said. “Thanks for coming, be needing your help with all these young ones. I am feeling better, but still sniffling a bit.”

  “Sorry you’ve not been well,” Marcy said.

  The kids all offered awkward hello’s.

  It was Cherry Festival time and the airport was crowded with visitors, forcing the Nelson entourage to make their way slowly through the small airport to the baggage claim area. Jim and Steve walked together with Patrick trailing closely behind. Mike and Kevin followed, silently hoisting backpacks and looking glum. Marcy and the twins were last, their hair braided and dressed in matching candy-stripe pinafores, their usually bright faces downcast.

  “How’s Laura doing, son?”

  “Like I told you on the phone, Dad, she’s a wreck, meeting with her lawyers day and night. That’s why I had to get the kids out of there. That, and the media’s everywhere.”

  Jim frowned. “I just hope they don’t follow you here.”

  “So do I. How’re you doing?”