Secret Justice

by Diane Capri

  Death records for Miami going back fifty years had recently been updated in the Dade County database, but not integrated into the search service database.

  Which explained why I didn’t find it when I had looked the first time.

  I pulled out the tattered article George had given me from the Tribune the Sunday after Gasparilla and read it one more time. The article related the story of a former IRS agent who had made a living in much the same way as Dad did, by pursuing white-collar criminals. The agent compiled the more legal methods of changing your life and wrote a book about it. The article reflected the agent’s advice about how to hide your assets and disappear.

  The most difficult aspects of changing one’s identity were not the initial strategies, such as acquiring foreign passports under assumed names. Instead, the hardest thing to do, the agent said, was to cut all ties to your old self. Most people can’t manage it and eventually return to their old lives in some fashion.

  The article talked about well known, admitted former Mafia criminals who became government informants, but have abandoned the federal Witness Protection Program. The fear of Mafia retribution has disappeared and was probably overstated anyway, the agent claimed.

  But the big problem is that once one creates a certain lifestyle, it’s nearly impossible to abandon all of the past.

  Friends, family and co-workers are our firmly tethered human anchors. They drag us back when we float too far away.

  Some secrets never leave us alone. Eastern mystics say that no karmic debt ever remains unpaid. Scientists claim the human body replaces itself once every seven years. The problem is, the new body is exactly like the old one. It’s got the same scars, the same colors and a few more aches and pains.

  We think the past is past, but it’s the foundation for all that comes after. The past seeps into our very sinews and remains in our cells, just like the genes we’re born with.

  It doesn’t mean that humans can’t change. But it does mean we don’t change much at the fundamental level.

  Those cells just keep reproducing themselves, over and over and over.

  Americans attempt to reinvent themselves all the time, without hiding their assets and disappearing. How ironic that the Fitzgerald House case had found its way to my docket, obscuring my first clue to Otter’s identity.

  After all, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s myth of reinvention when James Gatz became Jay Gatsby, was the very reason for Fitzgerald House’s existence as a charitable organization.

  Like many clues, this one was right in front of me all the time, and I didn’t see it.

  Without Gatsby, Fitzgerald House would have had no historical significance. Without Fitzgerald House, Martin’s becoming Otter might never have been discovered.

  Yet, James Gatz did no more than get a fresh start by attempting to leave his past in the past. I thought of everyone I knew who has done the same thing.

  Jim Harper has become a good husband and father. Suzanne Harper has become a wife and soon-to-be mother.

  Mariam Richardson became a well-respected matron and wife of the Chief Judge.

  Sandra Kelley, an abandoned and adopted child, was now a wealthy socialite.

  Even George and I changed our lives from a staid banker and Detroit attorney to a Tampa restaurateur and judge.

  To David Martin and Gilbert Kelley, young men who were looking for fun and fortune gambling in Nassau and wound up on the wrong side of the Mafia-owned casinos, re-inventing the obscure David Martin must have seemed the logical answer.

  The readily accessible money from Kelley’s bank was an overwhelming temptation to solve their problems. They met the young, unchaperoned Margaret, another American, and added her to their youthful exuberance.

  In 1956, when the bank examiners arrived, Martin and Kelley must have panicked to learn that their actions had serious potential consequences.

  The suicide plot they concocted had the added benefits of stopping the investigation and forcing the bonding company to pay off their debt to the bank. They must have also found a source of living money for Martin “after death.”

  Exactly how they managed that, I couldn’t guess.

  Maybe that was when they got hooked up with the offshore banks. The entire scheme would only have worked if Martin had no ties to anyone.

  Either Kelley didn’t know that Martin and Margaret had married, or he didn’t care. Or maybe they just saw no way out.

  It was the kind of youthful solution that didn’t plan for all the consequences. Like maybe there was a child on the way.

  I had no way of knowing how long Martin had managed to stay away from Kelley. But, at some point, whatever money they had managed to get Martin for his fresh start must have run out.

  Martin/Otter seemed to have an insatiable appetite for spending that could only have been a problem from the very beginning.

  So Martin resurfaced as Armstrong Otter, and Kelley had been helping to feed Otter’s voracious demands for cash from the vaults of the Tampa Bay Bank, via offshore banking deposits.

  When did Ron Wheaton find out that Margaret’s one true love was not dead? That he was, instead, alive and well and living just over the bay in Pass-a-Grille?

  It was likely a long while ago. The Wheatons didn’t socialize with the Kelleys and their set, but it was unlikely that Martin/Otter would have been able to stay away from Margaret. Or maybe he saw Margaret by accident.

  In any event, Ron definitely knew about Otter and planned to protect Margaret in death as he always had in life.

  There were just a few loose ends yet for me to tie up, and I would have it all resolved.

  I picked up the phone and called the CJ’s chambers, dialing the number for his secretary instead of himself. I confirmed that CJ was in his office, grabbed my purse, and walked the short block between my building and his. It took me only about ten minutes from the time I’d made the call.

  When I arrived, unannounced, CJ consented to see me. He wasn’t in a position to antagonize me today, since I still hadn’t completed my testimony in his ethics hearing. I tried to keep the envy from putting an unnecessary edge in my tone as I sat in his palatial chambers, admiring the rich mahogany and beautiful upholstery.

  He offered me coffee. I declined. I didn’t want to get too comfortable—with him or in these surroundings.

  I said, “I came to ask you some questions about Armstrong Otter.”

  CJ looked down at his desk, then back up at me, with resignation. “I was afraid that was why you’re here.”

  I came right out with it. “Why was Otter asking you for money outside Minaret Friday before the Knight Parade?”

  He jerked back, startled. “How do you know about that?”

  “I was the one who walked past the two of you. Didn’t you recognize me?”

  Shaking his head, he said, “I didn’t want to recognize you. I was hoping you were a misplaced tourist.”

  “But, I wasn’t. Tell me what you were arguing about.”

  For a few seconds, CJ looked like he would refuse. Or, at least, come up with an excuse not to answer the question.

  He spent some time rearranging the pens on his desk, fidgeting in his chair. He looked past me to the Picasso on his wall that his wife had given him when he was elected Chief Judge. Then, he sighed with resignation, and told me what I’d come to find out.

  CJ said, “Otter had been in trouble for a long time, but I didn’t know about it. I swear, I didn’t. I didn’t even know that he was involved in a criminal case until after I’d tried to get you to dismiss Fitzgerald House.”

  CJ sounded insistent, because he was. He needed me to believe he hadn’t known that Otter was being prosecuted for a massive fraud that could have put Otter in prison for much longer than the rest of his life.

  The curious thing was that I believed CJ hadn’t known. Because I hadn’t known.

  Just because we’re judges, doesn’t mean we’re any better informed than most other citizens on a lot of issues. There’
s no way I could know all the cases pending on my docket. There were just too many of them to keep track, except on the computers.

  I nodded my understanding and CJ continued, “Well, in the past, Otter resolved complaints against him by offering restitution of some kind, counting on people like me and Mariam to keep quiet because of shame and pride. Or, if that didn’t work, he’d deny the validity of the complaint and threaten to counter-sue. He told me later that the complaints that got the U.S. Attorney’s attention were started by that restaurant guy in Michigan. Otter said the guy had bought millions of dollars worth of gems, intending to re-sell them for billions. When the guy wasn’t able to make the profit he wanted, he collected a bunch of other claims and filed a criminal complaint.”

  Otter’s version of the facts wasn’t too far from the allegations made by the U.S. Attorney. It was easy to believe that Otter probably would have been convicted. There didn’t seem to be much of a defense building there.

  I asked, “How does that relate to Otter trying to get money from you?”

  “He was shaking down everyone he knew. He thought if he could get enough money together to pay off the restaurant guy, he could get the criminal complaint dismissed and then avoid going to jail.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said, with some sarcasm. “At least, it would have been better than getting himself killed to stay out of prison.”

  CJ gave me a grimace. “I’m sure Otter didn’t plan on his arm-twisting scheme getting him killed. He’d had good luck with it in the past.”

  Yes, I thought, he certainly had. For years, he’d been collecting money from every available source.

  I was sure now that Otter had killed Ron Wheaton because he’d found out that Ron had life insurance and other assets worth over $7 million.

  That was probably why he’d contacted Margaret again after all the years he had been living in the Bay area, too. He could have found her at any time. His buddy, Gil Kelley, certainly would have told Otter where to find Margaret.

  And Otter’s desire to stay out of prison explained, to a certain extent, Gil Kelley’s continued embezzlement from Tampa Bay Bank.

  Otter was probably using their past crimes to support his ongoing ones.

  I didn’t doubt that Kelley also had a gambling problem. That’s one addiction that can easily take over your life. Gambling, plus Otter’s voracious and insatiable appetite for luxurious living, gave Kelley a powerful motive for murder, too.

  Otter had been bleeding Kelley for decades. And who knows? If they were both involved in Mafia money laundering, they might have wanted to stop. The Mafia has a low tolerance for quitters. The sky was literally the limit to their need for money.

  But as I sat there working it through, I knew Gilbert Kelley wasn’t Otter’s only source of cash. Otter never would have thought Kelley could give him enough to satisfy all of the creditors listed in the U.S. v. Otter criminal indictment.

  “One last thing, CJ,” I said. “Did you give Otter any money?”

  His defeat was now complete. He shrunk before my very eyes. The man who had seen fit to lecture me on appropriate judicial conduct had let himself down. He couldn’t meet his own high standards, to say nothing of the lower standards set by the law for the behavior of judges. Paying a blackmailer was more than the appearance of impropriety.

  There was no way his behavior, and the reason for it, wouldn’t become public.

  The voice was barely recognizable to me when he said, “What else could I do? Mariam couldn’t be humiliated again.”

  So, I added two more names to the list of possible suspects in Otter’s death, although I continued to believe whoever had killed him hadn’t intended to do so.

  Lack of intent could keep the killer off death row, anyway.

  I had to make one phone call and then I could do the final interview.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Tampa, Florida

  Monday 4:30 p.m.

  March 5, 2001

  GILBERT AND SANDRA KELLEY lived in a new house in the gated community at the foot of Gandy Boulevard. Technically they had a Bayshore address, although their house was on a cul-de-sac that served six homes. All were three-storied, peach-colored structures built to have a waterfront address without Bayshore Boulevard running between them and the water.

  The Kelleys had moved here from their home near the Tampa Yacht Club a couple of years ago. We attended the housewarming party, but we hadn’t been back since. Even though Gil Kelley is a charter member of Minaret Krewe, the Kelleys are not in our social circle. Avoiding the Kelleys was mostly my doing, but George didn’t protest.

  The gate wasn’t guarded, but it did have a system that required a numerical code to open. I knew another couple with a home in this development, so I rang them on the intercom and asked their maid to let me in. Like many communities in Tampa, if you know the staff, you can expect quite a bit better treatment than if you don’t. I make it a point to cultivate the domestic help of my friends and acquaintances, just as I cultivate my friends’ office staffs. You never know when you might need a favor.

  I’d had enough experience confronting killers to know that I needed backup. I’d called Chief Hathaway from my car and asked him to meet me here in half an hour. He wouldn’t be able to wait that long. I expected him sooner. I only had about fifteen minutes to speak to Gil Kelley alone. What surprised me when the maid let me into the front hall were the loud, angry voices from the sitting room on the right. One of those voices belonged to Margaret Wheaton.

  The maid tried to keep me waiting, but I pushed past her and went into the room where Gil and Margaret were arguing. I caught the tail end of Margaret’s accusation.

  “You didn’t have to kill him!”

  “No, Gil,” I said as I entered the fray, “You didn’t. So why did you?”

  They were both startled into silence when I appeared. Margaret had been crying. Kelley seemed as cool and collected as ever. It was an act to keep Margaret from going completely wild.

  He asked, “Why did I what?”

  “Why did you kill David Martin?” Again, both were shocked by my statement.

  Margaret jerked her head over in my direction. Demanded, “How did you know about him?”

  “You told me, Margaret. Don’t you remember? You said you had been married before and you believed your husband had died. But he hadn’t. It didn’t take a lot for me to connect him to Armstrong Otter.”

  That was true, but some people would call breaking, entering and burglarizing Margaret’s home of her most personal possessions quite a lot.

  I tried not to add up the list of my own crimes. I was fairly sure Margaret would never file a complaint against me, and my intentions were good.

  I wish I had remembered the saying about “good intentions” and the road to hell.

  I asked, “Has he told you why he and David Martin faked Martin’s death?” I looked over at Gil Kelley and could see he was getting a little rattled now. He probably felt he could subdue and control Margaret Wheaton, but he knew dealing with me was another matter altogether.

  “They did it to cover up Kelley’s crimes,” I continued. “They’d been embezzling from the bank to cover those trips to Nassau where you met them.”

  Margaret drew a sharp breath.

  I pressed on. “When the time came to pay the piper, they needed the money from the bonding company to cover the debt. Killing David Martin was an easy way to get it, wasn’t it Gil? You didn’t care about Margaret or her husband, did you? You gave no thought to the child.”

  When I mentioned the child, out of the corner of my eye I saw Margaret lift her right arm.

  Watching Kelley, I didn’t turn fast enough to catch Margaret before she pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening.

  Gil slumped against the wall, holding his chest, while Margaret crumpled to the floor at the same time.

  I didn’t know who to help first, but the noise brought Sandra Kelley and the maid running into the room. I left
them to attend to Gil while I checked on Margaret.

  She was in shock, holding tight to the gun, which was still radiating heat where she held it out to her right side. I left it in her hand.

  I heard the siren of Chief Hathaway’s car as it pulled into the driveway, followed by his loud pounding on the front door.

  He was just in time to arrest Sandra Kelley for the death of Armstrong Otter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Tampa, Florida

  Saturday 10:30 a.m.

  March 10, 2001

  THE GASPARILLA FESTIVAL OF the Arts began on Saturday. For the first time during Gasparilla month, daylight brought a bright, warm Tampa morning. I looked forward to spending the entire day at the festival.

  George and I planned to walk around downtown on Ashley Drive and in Curtis Hixon Park with Dad and Suzanne, enjoying the many fine art pieces on display for the two-day festival. The live entertainment promised groups from schools in both Hillsborough and Pinellas Counties during the daytime. Jazz vocalists and Latin bands would round out the music in the evening.

  All of us were interested in the jewelry exhibits and the fate of Armstrong Otter’s “Gasparilla Gold” pin.

  We were looking forward to a day of relaxation, beauty and music.

  Margaret was going to the festival with us. I went to collect her while everyone else was still getting ready. When I pulled into the driveway of her small home, I saw that she already had a “For Sale” sign on the front lawn. I parked in the driveway and went to the front door.

  Fully intending to put my breaking and entering days behind me, I rang the bell.

  Margaret came to the door and ushered me inside to wait while she collected her fanny pack. She sat on the sofa across from my chair and tied on her red walking shoes. Today, she was dressed in a snazzy red silk slacks outfit that would have been more suitable for Suzanne. If I’d ever thought of Margaret as “grandmotherly,” she was so only in the thoroughly current sense that grandmothers can be so young and vibrant, too.

  I watched Margaret with recognition that, once again, life is often not what it appears. I had thought Margaret was an elderly, happily married woman, utterly content with the quiet life. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Instead, she was a lively woman with a life and a mind of her own. I would miss the Margaret I had created in my mind, but I felt more confident that this Margaret would get the most out of the rest of her life.