by Diane Capri
“And why is that?”
“Because I have proof.”
Ursula leaned back against the seat and struggled to keep her face impassive. She’d been in broadcast journalism a long time.
Just because he looked normal didn’t mean he was. The ones who looked normal were too often the ones you had to be most careful about. But the earnest expression on his face, the heat of truth burning in his eyes, made her blood run cold. Whatever he thought he had on Michaels, at least he believed it to be true.
He unfastened his leather briefcase and pulled out a manila folder. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Then, with one more surreptitious glance around the room, he slid the folder across the table. She let it lie there.
“I have the original in my briefcase. This copy is for you.” He tapped the folder with two fingers.
She called on the steely determination that had served her so well in her field all these years and flipped open the folder.
The image that stared back at her hit her like a physical blow to the stomach. A gasp had puffed from her lips before she clamped them shut and swallowed hard.
She’d seen her share of heartbreaking crime scenes and photos. No way to avoid it in her line of work.
This one was hard to look at.
It was a full body shot of a woman standing upright. Mottled bruises marred her light brown skin. Her slim neck was bisected by an angry welt that raised from the rest of her skin.
Even in the grainy image, which must have been snapped hours after her attack, it was clear to see she’d suffered. But it was her face that had Ursula’s throat aching.
The woman gazed into the camera, brown eyes empty, head bowed. Dead inside but left alive. Beaten in every sense of the word.
The wine Ursula sipped threatened to come back up and she pursed her lips tighter until she regained her composure.
“You’re saying Michaels did this?” she finally managed, after a long pause.
The man nodded. “He did.”
“And then he murdered her?”
He broke eye contact then and stared down at the gleaming silver flatware on the table before him. “Maybe he didn’t pull the trigger, but he might as well have. After the rape, she couldn’t take the nightmares and constant fear.” His voice shook with conviction. “He drove her to it.”
Ursula weighed her words carefully. “Did she go to the police at the time?”
His jaw clenched, and he busied himself, buckling his briefcase, refusing to meet her gaze. “No.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s crucial. Why didn’t she report this?”
“He threatened her. She was nobody.” His mouth twisted into a grim smile. “Thirty years ago. A brown girl trying to pay her way through school by working at one of the fancy country clubs. And he was an Ivy Leaguer with a daddy in politics and a bright future. You do the math.”
His face was a mask of pain. A surge of pity pulsed through her, and she instinctively reached for his hand in a gesture meant to comfort.
“I’m so sorry she suffered this. But I’m not sure what I can do to help. The crime is decades old, and without proof that Michaels was the one responsible, I—”
He jerked his hand away and lurched to his feet, dark eyes blazing.
“I know all that,” he said, harshly. “I know it’s probably too late for her.”
He leaned toward her. His voice dropped to a near-whisper that was no less intense. “But men like this? They don’t just stop and magically turn into model citizens.” He stabbed the folder with two fingers. “That woman was my mother. He did this to her. And he’s done worse to others.”
Ursula’s stomach lurched. “You have proof he’s done this again?”
“He takes what he wants and damn the cost. He’s on the shortlist of candidates and, the word is, it’s looking good for him. You want a man capable of this,” he stabbed the file folder again, “do nothing. Otherwise, do your job. Make sure the world knows who he really is.”
She reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Tell me your mother’s name. I can’t do anything unless I know her name.”
He shook her grip from his arm. “I’ve given you the proof. The rest is up to you.” He left the folder on the table between them and stalked away.
Ursula stared after him, still shaking when she heard her name.
“Ursula!” She turned to see George winding through the diners toward her table.
Quickly, she shoved the picture back into the folder and slid it into her oversized purse.
“Willa arrived a few minutes ago,” he said as he approached. “She’s in the Sunset Bar armed with a bottle of 1964 Bertani Amarone she’s been saving until you came to visit. Come on.”
“Excellent,” she said, weakly. She collected her belongings and realized that the man had left his coat. She picked it up. “Let me give this to Desiree. He might come back for it.”
George took the coat from her. “Maybe Desiree can catch him. You go ahead. I’ll join you later. We’re overbooked in here tonight. Don’t wait for me to open that wine.”
She nodded as he hurried away. She hated that her conversation with the man had ended so abruptly. Once she sorted it all out, she’d try to e-mail him again. But the crime was thirty years old. He could wait until tomorrow.
She threaded the crowd toward Willa, but her mind was a million miles away. On the woman in that photo and the man who’d allegedly hurt her.
Her instincts had predicted the story was going to be bad. And now that she’d seen that photo, she could never unsee it. It was burned behind her eyelids as she let them drift briefly shut.
In that moment, prudent or not, she decided to get that woman justice, or die trying. And she knew precisely who could help her make good on her promise.
She returned Willa’s delighted wave and hustled a little faster toward that wine.
CHAPTER THREE
“Well, if it isn’t the big-time New York television star.” Willa grinned as Ursula approached, green eyes sparkling, and then slid from her barstool to pull her in for a hug. “As I live and breathe.”
Ursula returned the embrace and then drew back, trying her best to remember what it felt like to act normal. “Not exactly a star. Just a hard-working reporter. Same as always.”
She followed Willa to a quiet corner of the Sunset Bar and slid a glass half full of ruby red liquid a little closer to her. “Always the soul of modesty. Now tell me about that new man. I’ve been dying to meet him. Marcus, right?”
She nodded and toyed with the stem of her glass. “I’d like to bring him here soon to meet you guys.”
“We’d be delighted.” Willa cocked her head, her keen eyes searching Ursula’s face for a long moment. “What’s up?”
The worry line between her brows creased, a beacon that something serious was on her mind. She wouldn’t burden Willa with the sad tale yet. Especially when her colleague’s reputation was on the line and Ursula had nothing but an accusation to work with. So far.
She forced a smile and shook her head again. “I’m just a little tired, really. But tell me how are Harry and Bess?”
Willa was crazy for her Labrador retrievers, and the question got a grin out of her. “Spoiled rotten, if you must know. George has taken to bringing them scraps of filet mignon from the kitchen on the weekends. Now they turn their noses up at their kibble and we have to run an extra two miles every day to get rid of the calories.”
“Lucky dogs,” Ursula said, pausing to take a sip of the pricey wine. “Oh my, is that good.”
“It certainly is,” Willa said, practically smacking her lips. “How about a cheese plate to go with it? George has a few wonderful bleus on the menu.”
The thought of eating now made her stomach pitch, but she nodded anyway. “Sure, sounds good. So what else? How is the job going?” She kept her tone light, but she was hoping for inside information on Aaron Michaels. “Anything new in the world of criminal justice?”
>
“Same old, same old. Actually, it’s kind of nice for a change. I love the work, but it’s been blissfully dull lately. Let’s drink to no drama for the rest of the year.” She held up her glass, and Ursula followed suit. They clinked the crystal goblets together before sipping.
No drama, indeed. Ursula shoved aside the guilt and cleared her throat. “I heard something about a new federal judicial appointment in your district. A couple of state court judges on the short list, according to the scuttlebutt. One of them from Tampa. Aaron Michaels? You know him?”
“Not well, but yes.” Willa’s eyes narrowed, and she gazed at Ursula with what felt like the same look she gave criminal defendants. “I’ve met him once or twice at meetings and charity events. Why do you ask?”
Ursula shrugged. Willa was too smart to fool for long, and her antenna was clearly twitched. “The network wants a human-interest piece—you know, making the public familiar with him.”
No such story existed yet. But it would. One way or another. And if the story was good enough, the network would want it. So she wasn’t lying to a federal judge. At least, not exactly.
Willa swirled the wine in front of her, considering it for a moment. “Well, I don’t know too much about h—”
The rest of Willa’s sentence was cut off by a terrified scream just outside the window.
Ursula reeled around, straining to see through the beveled glass, but in the next instant the door to the restaurant swung open and a woman rushed in, screeching for someone, anyone, to call nine-one-one.
Her face was white and her whole body was shaking.
George rushed to the foyer from one of the dining rooms. He leaned toward Desiree, presumably telling her to make the call. He stepped up to the woman, hand outstretched. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“Not me, not me.” She shook her head rapidly and then pointed out the door. “The man. I don’t—I don’t know what happened. I was just walking and he…”
Her voice broke on a sob as George led her outside. Willa stood to follow, and Ursula went after her.
A knot of premonition formed in Ursula’s stomach as they moved into the chilly night air. George was bent over a prone figure on the ground.
The woman’s shrill voice blathered, “I was just walking past, and there he was. Lying there, right in front of me. I don’t know what happened. Is there a doctor in there?” She shot a panicked glance over her shoulder toward the restaurant. “There has to be a doctor somewhere!”
The blood rushed in Ursula’s ears as she took another step closer, craning her neck to see past George’s wide shoulders. When she finally had a clear view of the body on the ground, her heart skittered to a stop.
The man she’d been speaking with only minutes before was lying on the pavement. He stared unseeingly up at the sky, the life fading from his eyes as blood pooled around him.
George knelt beside him.
“It’s too late for a doctor,” Willa said softly, her legendary grace under fire in full effect as she drew the now sobbing woman away from the body. She and George exchanged glances as she led the woman toward the restaurant’s entrance.
“Looks like he’s been stabbed several times. At least once in the kidney,” George said, barely audible over the voices of diners and staff rushing out of the restaurant. George was always calm and collected under any circumstances. His very reliability often infuriated his wife. But tonight, Ursula found him reassuring.
Dark red blood seeped from a deep gash in the man’s side, and the front of his gray suit had blossomed with a wide, scarlet stain before his heart stopped pumping.
Ursula’s mind raced as action exploded around them. A woman came outside and identified herself as a doctor and dropped to her knees beside his prone body, but it was all background noise. A small knot of diners had spilled outside. Sirens in the distance grew louder. She glanced toward Bayshore Boulevard and saw police and rescue vehicles speeding toward the Plant Key Bridge. They’d be on the island shortly.
As the doctor worked, and George ushered his guests back inside, Ursula looked on in disbelief. Her gaze skimmed over the scene. Nearly everything about the young man looked the same. Except for his briefcase. His briefcase was gone.
Willa returned outside and stood next to Ursula. Her gaze was troubled as she looked down at the man.
“Have you ever had a mugging here on your island before?” Ursula asked.
“Too much effort for too little reward. Muggers usually rob their victims.” Willa shook her head. “But diners here rarely carry cash. What would a garden-variety mugger hope to gain?”
CHAPTER FOUR
First responders arrived moments later and went to work, scattering in an organized form of chaos. The lead officer talked quietly with George. The medical team triaged the victim and loaded him into the ambulance, closed the doors and sped across the bridge toward Tampa Southern Hospital.
After the body was removed, Willa touched her arm. “Thank you for not making an immediate media circus out of this Ursula. Let’s go back inside. They’ll come find us.”
When they were settled into their seats again with coffee instead of wine, Willa said, “Okay. Who was that guy and what were you two talking about?”
Ursula blinked, taken aback. She cocked her head, “What do you mean?”
Willa’s eyes narrowed. “I saw you with him when I first came in. That’s why I didn’t join you right away.”
“He is—was—a confidential source for a story.” Ursula wouldn’t lie to Willa. And anyway, what would be the point? The man was dead, and she didn’t even know his name, let alone whether anything he’d told her was true.
Willa rested her forearms on the table and leaned forward. “What kind of story? About Judge Michaels?”
Ursula paused, thinking about where to go from here. What did she really know for certain? Not much. Willa wasn’t a competitor seeking to scoop her story. And she’d want to keep a corrupt judge off the bench just as much, or more, than Ursula did.
“Yes, Judge Michaels.” She nodded and took a deep breath. “He’d sent me an e-mail and asked to meet with me. Something about his claims pushed my buttons, I guess. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to come home for a couple of days.”
“This could be important, Ursula. Maybe even related to his murder.” Willa leaned in, frowning. “What did he say to you?”
She hesitated. If she told Willa about the man’s accusations—hell, even if she showed the picture—without more, would his unverified claims make any difference? Probably not.
Could she find a way to verify his claims? Again, probably not. The rape victim was long dead, and the statute of limitations expired years ago. And even if the old case was somehow still viable, the dead man had admitted there was no evidence at all to tie the judge to the crime. No rape kit, no police report, not even a diary entry.
Still, it was her job to report the news. Verified allegations that Aaron Michaels was unfit to be a federal judge would be big news that might actually make a difference. Finding the killer of a man murdered in a parking lot was a job for the police.
Ursula squared her shoulders. “He didn’t tell me his name. He showed me this old photograph.”
She reached into her purse and grabbed the photo in its folder. She pushed the folder across the table to Willa. “He gave me this for evidence.”
Willa flipped the folder open and studied the grainy picture, her face impassive. She’d seen worse in her courtroom, and she’d long ago schooled herself against showing the emotions Ursula was sure she must be feeling.
Ursula continued. “He said Judge Michaels was responsible for beating this woman. That he’d raped her. And that he got away with it. He claimed that the rape drove her to suicide.”
Willa closed the folder and looked up. “Is that everything he said?”
“Yes.” Ursula paused and took another breath. “But I think the woman was his mother.”
“I see.” Willa fold
ed her hands on the table. “That’s not all, is it?”
Ursula shook her head. “He had a briefcase when he was talking to me. He had copies of this photo inside, and I don’t know what else. I didn’t see the briefcase near his body outside.”
Willa nodded. She sipped her coffee, thinking. “The police will take a statement from you tonight. It’s a crime to lie to police during an active homicide investigation, Ursula. You know that.”
“And you know that if I tell his story now, it’ll become part of the police report and be all over the news. The claims are too salacious for some of my less ethical competitors to ignore. I don’t know that any of what that man said is true. Revealing everything would damage Judge Michaels’ reputation at a critical time in his career, based on nothing but a photo and accusations.” Ursula shook her head and frowned. “That doesn’t sit well with me. Surely, you don’t think I should be a part of character assassination like that, do you? With absolutely no proof of any kind? Not even a second source?”
Before Willa could reply, a slouched and haggard looking Tampa Police Department plain clothes detective with a badge clipped to his belt approached them.
“I’m Detective Phil Mason.” His voice was deep and sonorous, but his expression brooked no argument. “Judge Carson, I have a few questions for Miss Westfield.”
Willa nodded. “Of course.”
Ursula pursed her lips and collected the manila file folder from the table and stuffed it into her purse before turning to face the detective again. “Lead the way.”
She followed Mason through one dining room, then another, until finally, they reached a little office in the back beside the fire exit. From there, she heard the clinking of pans, chefs swearing at their prep cooks, and the gentle sizzle of the burners.
The noise might have been enough to irritate her another time, but now she was all too grateful for the din. Any excuse to focus on something else was a welcome one.
