by Diane Capri
“You know that stretch of Bayshore Boulevard as well as we do. If you’d been a block or two on either side of where it happened, we’d have video. But there’s no traffic cams at that site. No commercial buildings with cameras, either. And it’s dark there, between streetlight poles. We even checked with MacDill, but they said they don’t regularly monitor the roads that far from the base.” He glanced over with sympathy in his eyes. “It’s almost as if Hayden chose that spot because he knew he wouldn’t be seen on camera.”
Which could have been precisely what he’d done if he’d committed suicide. Or what someone else had done, if they’d shoved him into traffic. At this point, either option was possible. But it wasn’t likely that he’d simply been lucky enough to get hit by my car at the exact location where no one would witness his death.
Bayshore Boulevard is a picturesque linear park that runs the five-mile length of the shoreline between Gandy Boulevard and the Platt Street Bridge. The wide swath of traveled roadway and attractive buildings with spectacular views of Hillsborough Bay were bounded by green space and sidewalks. The area was heavily traveled by vehicles of all kinds at all hours. It was well lit and safe for pedestrians, bikers, rollerbladers, parents with strollers, joggers, and tourists simply enjoying the views, who were always present.
The wonder was that anyone could ever be on Bayshore without being seen, regardless of the time of day or the weather. There were always a few hardy (or foolish) souls out there even during hurricanes.
Sure, the incident happened late on a Tuesday night when most people were home preparing for bed, and the weather was lousy. Still, how was it possible that Hayden and I had simply been so unlucky?
It wasn’t possible. Was it?
I closed my eyes and visualized the drive. I’d rounded the curve after the Platt Street Bridge, passed the hospital, and continued beyond the Davis Islands Bridge. Up until that point, there were commercial buildings and high-rise condos, all of which would have been equipped with video cameras, as well as traffic cams. Not an inch of Bayshore would have gone unwatched.
After the Davis Island Bridge, large, old homes replaced the high-rises for a long stretch of roadway. After that, more high-rises mixed with individual homes and shorter condos. A traffic light at Howard and another at Bay-to-Bay, which was about the halfway point.
I recalled the precise point of impact. Between South Boulevard and Howard Avenue. Bushy crepe myrtles blocked the headlights from oncoming cars to avoid night blindness. Stately homes were set back from the roadway on the right. Between them were a couple of empty lots where old homes had been demolished and new ones were not yet constructed. At that point, the streetlights were not illuminated for some reason. Greta’s headlights were the only beacon in the darkness for about a hundred feet or so.
Right there. Startled by the memory, I jumped when I simply visualized the event again.
Hayden lunged into my travel lane. Back first, which was why I didn’t see him as a person. In the darkness, his dark hair and dark suit, wet from the rain, looked like a shiny trash bag in Greta’s headlights.
Until I slammed on the brakes. Hit him. Greta stopped. I got out of the car and went to help him.
The whole thing took a lot longer to describe than when it had actually happened.
“What about those construction zones? Neither one is directly adjacent to that dark stretch where…Hayden fell into my lane. But they might have video cams with wide-angle lenses to safeguard tenants at night.”
“We’ve been making calls. So far, no luck.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Willa. We’ll keep trying. But unless someone comes forward with it, looks like a no-go for video coverage.”
I nodded. I understood. We rarely had all the evidence we needed in situations like this. All we could do was work with what we had.
After a while, I asked casually, “Where did Hayden live?”
Ben grinned. “Don’t even think about going over there and hassling his neighbors.”
“Oh, come on. Why would you even say that?” I pretended to be wounded by the accusation, and he fell into a belly laugh that threatened never to stop. Which got me laughing, too. Tension, of course. Neither one of us was truly amused. But the laughter felt good anyway.
By the time the hilarity died down and I wiped the tears from my eyes, we’d returned to the parking lot where I’d left my rental. Ben dropped me off next to it.
Before I climbed out of his sedan, I asked, “What time are Hayden’s parents arriving?”
“Not until late tonight. Maybe let them alone until tomorrow. This won’t be easy,” Ben said.
“You’ll call me?” When he nodded, I left the sedan, and he pulled away.
It was past lunchtime, and I was hungry. I couldn’t go home, and I didn’t want to go to the office. So I called Kate and invited her to join me at Bella’s.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Saturday, November 12
2:30 p.m.
I arrived at Bella’s before Kate and found an empty booth in the back. She joined me a few minutes later. After we ordered, I said, “I’m checking into a suite at the Le Méridien this afternoon.”
A bit of poetic justice, really. Le Méridien was the luxury boutique hotel that now occupied what was once the decrepit old courthouse where I’d been imprisoned by CJ for way too long after everyone else had moved to the new building.
Kate frowned and her tone was laced with concern. “What are you doing, Willa? Why in the world would you leave George at a time like this? You need his support now. You two should be presenting a united front.”
“Even if that means George’s business will suffer?” I shook my head. “We can’t afford that, even if I was willing to punish him that way.”
“George agreed to this?” Kate cocked her head and narrowed her eyes.
“You worry too much,” I replied to avoid the question. I smiled. “Le Méridien is one of the nicest places in town. A little expensive, but if I can’t live at home, I’ll pamper myself in luxury and make sure CJ finds out about it.”
“You’re not usually so petulant,” Kate replied, frowning.
“Not so much petulant as practical,” I assured her. “Look, it’s a short walk to work from Le Méridien, which is easier than getting a parking pass for my rental in the secured private garage at the new courthouse. For that, I’d probably need CJ’s approval. Never gonna happen—because I wouldn’t ask, and he wouldn’t consent even if I asked.”
The waiter delivered our food and I deftly turned the conversation to her children while we ate. Kate could always be distracted by family matters.
“You know you’re just hurt and angry, don’t you?” Kate asked me over cappuccino after we’d finished our pasta. There were many restaurants in Tampa, but Bella’s was an old favorite of Kate’s. It was intimate and comfortable. Not to mention that the food was excellent.
“Of course I’m hurt and angry,” I replied in an angry tone. Kate smiled. Which annoyed me to no end. I took a deep breath. “Why does Oz hate me? Do you know?”
“Don’t be so dramatic. Oz doesn’t hate you. He just doesn’t want you on the bench in his court. He made that plain from the moment your name was floated for the job,” she replied as calmly as always.
My greatest sin in CJ’s eyes was that I’d been nominated to fill a seat too many other people wanted. People who were much older and much more qualified, at least in their opinion. People who had paid their dues and waited in line.
None of them had been satisfied with the president’s choice of a young woman new to Tampa and with no prior judicial experience. They’d used every opportunity since I’d been sworn in to try to oust me. Which CJ had helped them with whenever he could without showing his hand to the entire world.
I should have been used to it by now, but I had to admit, it still bothered me. No one liked having to constantly look over their shoulder to see what dangers might be looming.
“Well, he
lost that fight a long time ago,” I said.
“He’s never going to give up. He’s never going to give in, either.” She smiled again and shook her head.
“It ain’t over ’til it’s over. Which will be when one of us is gone.” I smiled back at her because, really, the whole situation would have been humorous if it hadn’t felt so tragic at the moment.
“We both know Oz won’t win this impeachment fight. The odds are against him. They always have been.” Kate patted my arm. “Just take a little break and let things sugar out.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That’s exactly how Oz put it. When he asked me to resign or face the consequences.”
“Come on. You told me yourself that fewer than twenty federal judges in the entire history of the United States judicial system have ever been removed from the job. You can do just about anything and not get fired. It’s called an independent judiciary,” Kate said.
“That’s true. But Oz isn’t completely wrong, either.” I nodded. “I’m not worried about being arrested anymore. But public trust and confidence in the judicial system is as important as the rule of law. I can’t be effective on the bench if I’m not trusted to deliver justice appropriately.”
Kate had ordered a cannoli, and she took another bite of the crispy crust before she answered. “I know you’re worried. What does Ben Hathaway say about all of this?”
“He’s only just now identified the man. The parents are arriving tonight. I’ll meet them tomorrow.”
Kate’s perfectly arched eyebrows dipped into a frown above the bridge of her nose. “Do you think that’s wise? They’re not likely to be kind to the woman who caused their son’s death.”
I widened my eyes. “But I didn’t—”
“I know this wasn’t your fault, Willa. Doesn’t matter in this instance. The mother won’t want to blame her son. I’ve got two sons and two daughters. Trust me on this. I know what I’m talking about.” She patted my arm again when she said she had two daughters. One of the two was me. And I wasn’t technically her daughter at all. But her words made me feel warm and fuzzy anyway. Even if she was essentially saying Mrs. Hayden would think me a killer.
This accident was a whole lot more complicated than a simple walking-drunk death by motor vehicle. I’d taken an oath to uphold the law, and I intended to do just that—and hopefully save my professional skin in the process.
But if Kate didn’t support me, no one would.
Except George.
Which was a completely different thing.
I took another sip of my coffee then cleared my throat. Before I had a chance to reply, Kate abruptly changed the subject. “How is Augustus handling all this?”
The question startled me. “Augustus? He’s fine. Why do you ask?”
Given his ties to other power-brokers in Tampa, people who were also friends of Kate’s, I didn’t want to say too much. Not that I didn’t trust Augustus. It was his uncle, Prescott Roberts, and his crew of cronies, who were another thorn in my side.
But I still didn’t know the full extent of my assistant’s connection to Kate’s husband Leo Columbo, either. And I sensed this was a good opportunity to ask. On top of everything else, I didn’t want to lose Augustus right now.
Kate finished her cannoli and pushed the plate aside. She didn’t answer my question. Instead, she called for the check. When she did, another mutual friend noticed us and came over to chat. Just like that, I lost the chance to find out what I needed to know about Augustus.
Kate had to run out to another event. Something involving Leo’s daughters, she said.
So I made my way to Le Méridien, my new home away from home. After I’d checked in, I unpacked and familiarized myself with the luxurious suite. I wasn’t hungry enough for dinner, since I’d had a late lunch with Kate. A long, empty Saturday night stretched before me.
I ran through the channels on the television. Finding nothing of interest, I turned it off and plopped onto the bed. I opened my tablet and located a good book I’d wanted to read for a while. Shortly afterward, I fell asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sunday, November 13
6:30 a.m.
After some of the best sleep I’d had in days, I dressed for a leisurely run at Hixon Park and along the Riverwalk to Bayshore all the way to Gandy and back. The weather was beautiful, as usual for November in Tampa, and the exercise did me good. I craved the clarity that came with physical exertion. Running eight miles a day around the perimeter of Plant Key had long been one of my daily pleasures.
Today’s run gave me the chance to check out the entrance to Plant Key. At six o’clock in the morning, there were no vultures staked out there. Which meant none of them had actually camped overnight. I took that as a good sign.
On the way back to my hotel, I jogged to the accident site. I stood in the median where Hayden must have waited for the next approaching car. The ground had been trampled by responders that night and dozens of vultures since, but the basic landscaping remained intact.
Half a dozen crepe myrtle bushes were clumped in a pedestrian refuge near the point of impact. It would have been a simple matter to use them for cover until Hayden’s lunge or shove into the roadway, whichever one had happened.
Looking eastward, toward downtown, any observer would have had an unobstructed view of my approaching car, even in the gloomy nighttime. With Greta’s headlights on and relative darkness surrounding the entire area. It would have been a matter of timing to wait until the very last minute.
This morning, there were a few lone runners on the sidewalk along the balustrade. On the opposite side, residents were indoors. It was too early for much activity. The forty-mile-an-hour speed limit paced traffic steadily during the work week, but I counted only five vehicles traveling past the impact point in ten minutes this morning.
After I’d seen all there was to see, I picked up my step and ran the rest of my route back to the hotel.
I showered, dressed, and ordered three Sunday newspapers, two large pots of coffee, an egg-white omelet, and toast. While I waited for room service, I dug out my laptop and the encrypted hotspot device I traveled with and found the articles Augustus sent me about toxic heroin.
Nasty stuff. As if regular heroin wasn’t awful and addictive enough, now we had this new strain taking lives across the streets of America. As Dr. Eberhard had said, the “toxic heroin” was laced with fentanyl to create a powerful, often deadly, combo.
Fentanyl had been discovered in 1959 and was used as a morphine alternative to treat severe pain. It was also incredibly addictive. When fentanyl and heroin were mixed together, the potency of both drugs was increased. Once injected, smoked, or snorted, the new “toxic” heroin created a frighteningly powerful high.
Shortly thereafter, the depressant effects of both drugs kicked in and caused exaggerated drowsiness, nausea, confusion, sedation and, in extreme instances, unconsciousness, respiratory depression, and death.
According to what I read, most victims didn’t know their heroin was laced with fentanyl at the time they ingested it. When they figured out what had happened, as Eberhard had said, they rushed to an emergency room. If they arrived fast enough, naloxone, an antidote, was immediately administered. Sometimes, it saved lives. Other times, it didn’t.
In addition to the general information on toxic heroin, Augustus had included local news reports. At an electronic dance music festival this summer, hundreds of drug overdoses had occurred. Four deaths were attributed to toxic heroin. Other deaths were caused by Ecstasy.
One of the deaths was a young woman who left the venue alone. The news report said she was “drugged walking,” which is really walking while high on drugs. She crossed in the middle of a busy street outside the concert venue and was hit by a car traveling fifty-five miles an hour.
“Pedestrian deaths have increased 27% while other traffic deaths have dropped. Drunken and drugged pedestrians are a significant number of these fatalities,” Dr. Martin Eberhard was
quoted in an interview in the Tampa Times. “Pedestrians hit by a vehicle traveling forty miles per hour are 90% likely to be killed. Impaired pedestrians are at least 50% more likely to wander into traffic and die.”
By the time I finished reading the story, my entire body was vibrating. So was my phone.
I glanced at the screen and picked up the call. “Good morning, Chief Hathaway. What do you have for me?”
“Evan Hayden’s parents arrived last night,” he said, his tone quiet. “We had them in the lab this morning to give samples. But they’ve identified Hayden’s body in the morgue. We’re waiting for a quick DNA match, which might be conclusive. Then they’ll take his body home. Maybe as soon as tomorrow afternoon. There’s some red tape about transporting bodies on planes, but we’re helping them expedite the paperwork.”
“Surely the DNA match isn’t necessary, is it? No one really doubts his identity anymore,” I said.
Ben cleared his throat. “Because he died the way he did, no ID, no fingerprints, we need to be certain. None of us wants egg on our faces over this. They’re being very understanding about it.”
“Did they explain the no fingerprints thing?” I nodded, although he couldn’t see me.
“Said he was born that way. Like we thought.”
“How did they come across to you otherwise?”
“About what you’d expect.” Ben sighed into the phone. “She’s emotional. He’s stoic. They’re both devastated. He was their only child.”
“Where are they staying?”
Ben didn’t respond.
“You know I could make a few phone calls and find out where they are. I don’t intend to harass them.” I paused to let him reply, but when he didn’t, I added, “I’d like to offer my condolences and learn more about their son. I’m good with people, Ben, and let’s face it: you’re not. They might tell me things they wouldn’t tell you.”
