Night Justice

by Diane Capri

  “I’m Melody Menton,” she said as she approached, extending her professionally manicured hand. “And you are?”

  “Willa Carson,” I said, giving her warm, dry hand a firm shake.

  She crossed her arms in front of her. “I understand you’re looking for Cindy Allen.”

  “That’s right. Do you know where I can find her?”

  “Cindy hasn’t worked here for about five years. But we do keep in touch. I called her just now, in fact. She’s in Florida,” Melody said.

  She seemed truthful enough. “She’s not planning to attend the funeral, then?”

  Menton shook her head. “Cindy and Evan Hayden broke up a while ago. She’s moved on. She said he had, too. And they met in Florida, not here. She didn’t really know his family or his local friends.”

  I watched her carefully. “Evan’s parents told me they’d video-chatted with Cindy and Evan. I had the impression they liked her.”

  “I’m sure they did. Cindy’s a very likable woman. But she’d never met them in person.” Menton finished with a little shake of her head.

  I could think of nothing more to say without causing offense. Questions like where did Cindy buy her toxic heroin? were too abrasive. Yet, that was precisely what I wanted to know.

  “I’d really like to speak to Cindy. It’s important. Would you ask her to call me?” I found a business card for Menton on the front desk and a pen to write with. I jotted my cell phone number on the back and handed it to her.

  She took the card, glanced at it, and slipped it into her pocket. “I’ll give her the message.”

  Although I didn’t feel confident about Menton’s promise, I thanked her and returned to my car. Now what?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Thursday, November 17

  7:30 p.m.

  I’d returned to Laurel Heights and found a secluded vantage point to observe the Butler Funeral Home parking lot. Visitation had begun half an hour earlier, and several cars were already parked near the side entrance. If Rinaldo Gaines had located the funeral home and camped out here, I didn’t see him. Yet.

  A zoom lens on my digital camera was sufficient to snap photos of license plates and faces of the mourners as they arrived and departed. It was past sunset, but the lot was reasonably well lit, which meant the photos would be okay. None of Evan Hayden’s Tampa friends and colleagues that I’d met had arrived. I recognized none of the people or the vehicles.

  Visitation ended at nine o’clock. Mr. and Mrs. Hayden departed shortly afterward. Theirs was the last vehicle to leave the parking lot.

  After they left, I moved my rental closer to the side entrance and parked. I hurried through the frigid wind and dashed inside. A middle-aged man was closing the door to one of the rooms, which was most likely where Evan Hayden’s body rested in his casket.

  “I’m sorry. Did I miss the visitation for Evan Hayden?” I asked.

  He nodded. “The family just left.”

  “I came as fast as I could after work. Would it be all right if I just went in to pay my respects for a moment?”

  He narrowed his eyes and sized me up.

  “I can’t make it to the funeral tomorrow. And I won’t stay long. Five minutes at the most.” I kept talking because I sensed he was weakening. “Please. This is the only chance I’ll have to say goodbye.”

  He sighed and cocked his head toward the door. “Sign the guest book just inside the door so the family will know you were here. I’ll finish locking up in the back.”

  I didn’t promise, but he didn’t seem to notice. He nodded and turned to the back hallway.

  “I’ll be quick,” I assured him.

  I went into the room where Evan Hayden was resting. The casket was one of the nicer ones. Mahogany outside and cream tufted interior. It was the first time I’d seen his face clearly.

  I wasn’t good with funerals. I skipped them whenever I could. George felt differently about them. To him, the funeral was a chance to say goodbye and to pay his respects to the deceased and the family. For me, funerals were a wrenching reminder of my mother’s death. Which I truly did not need or want.

  Somehow, though, seeing Evan Hayden lying there peacefully, not mauled by my car, was strangely comforting. My eyes watered, and I blinked away the tears. From the safe distance between us while we were in Florida, I’d begun to console myself with the knowledge that I hadn’t killed Evan Hayden. But standing here as he lay in a coffin, his funeral set for tomorrow, the knowledge was cold comfort. Such a handsome man. His whole life ahead of him. Even if he and Cindy Allen had parted, there was another woman out there for Hayden. He might have married. He might have become a father.

  I blinked a few more times, but the tears were welling faster than I could keep them at bay. I reached for a tissue from the box near the coffin and dabbed at the corners of my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered quietly, as if he might hear me. If he did, he gave no outward sign.

  Several sprays of flowers were displayed near the casket. The guest book rested on a podium off to one side. I approached the book and found a pen to write my name, as the attendant had instructed. There were three pages of visitors already listed. None were Cindy Allen. The visitors had probably been local friends and family. I didn’t recognize any of them. But I pulled out my phone and photographed the three pages of names, just in case I might need them.

  I didn’t write in the guest book. But I closed it and put the pen down beside it. No one else would come tonight.

  When I returned to the central foyer, the attendant was not there. I let myself out. I heard the door snug shut behind me and pulled on the handle to be sure it was locked. Then I kept my head down against the biting wind as I hurried back to my rental.

  I’d let my guard down while I was inside. I didn’t see Rinaldo Gaines leaning against my car.

  “Good evening, Judge Carson,” he said, almost politely.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. My heart pounded so hard in my chest it might have been auditioning for the drummer’s stool in a rock band.

  “What the hell?” I said as sternly as I could muster, given how breathless I was all of a sudden.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Like hell you didn’t. What is wrong with you? Don’t you have anything better to do than slink around a man’s funeral?” My heart was still pounding, but a few deep breaths would soon have it under control.

  “I might ask you the same thing,” Gaines replied. “You went inside. I had the decency to stay in the parking lot.”

  “Yeah, well you’re a real prince,” I said snidely. “What you’re doing is criminal behavior. Stop harassing me, Mr. Gaines. Stop stalking me. And move away from my car.”

  He didn’t budge. “I want an interview with you. One on one. You owe me that.”

  “I owe you nothing. Act like a human being and call my office. And move away from my car, or I’ll call the police,” I said as sternly as I could muster, given that my body was still shaking.

  Truth was, I wished I wasn’t standing here alone in this parking lot. I didn’t own a gun, but I was sorry about that, too, right at the moment.

  “You won’t call the police. Know why? Because then you’d have to explain what the hell you’re doing here. Which I’m pretty sure you don’t want to do.” He smirked like a Texas hold ’em poker master moments before he ran a table full of high rollers.

  I frowned and stomped my feet, trying to stay warm. “Are you always so thoroughly disagreeable?”

  “Pretty much.” He shrugged. “What are you going to do about it? Kill me with your car?”

  I gasped. Did he actually just say that to me? I should have simply walked away, of course. But I didn’t. Where would I go? Back to the building? Bang on the locked door until they let me in? And then what?

  “Mr. Gaines—”

  “Call me Ronnie. Everyone does.” There was that smirk again.

  “Mr. Gaines, I didn’t kill Evan
Hayden. You have incorrect information. Journalism 101 is: get your facts straight. Now move away from my car.” I pressed the key fob to unlock the door. He didn’t move.

  “Why don’t you give me the straight facts, then?” he said, placating me.

  “Why don’t you do your job? I won’t tell you again. Move away from my car,” I opened the door, slid behind the wheel, closed and locked the door. I started the engine, fastened my seatbelt, and flipped on the headlights.

  He’d made no move to stop me, but he was standing directly in front of me so that I couldn’t drive away. His body actually touched the vehicle. He’d placed himself right about the same spot where Greta had hit Hayden.

  He held out both hands, palms up, and waved me forward.

  I stared at him. The man was insane. When he was sure he had my attention, he leaned forward, fisted his hands, and pounded the hood of the car with all his body weight.

  My visceral reaction was swift and frightening. Every nerve ending from toes to scalp was on fire. My muscles twitched.

  When he saw my horrified expression, he laughed.

  I had my foot on the brake, so I slammed the car into reverse and then punched the accelerator. The car bounced over the curb and onto the empty parking space behind me. I kept my foot down, and the front wheels followed the rear ones.

  Now the vehicle was in the open parking lane. I kept going in reverse. I watched the rearview mirror to be sure I didn’t hit anything and glanced at him through the windshield.

  He hadn’t expected my move. When he realized my intention to get away, he chased me, waving his arms, yelling, “Stop! Stop!”

  Instead, I drove backward through the parking lot, away from Gaines. When I’d put enough distance between us, I yanked the wheel around to the right. The front wheels followed the back ones, and the car twisted itself to a forward-facing position. Gaines was still running toward me, waving his arms, yelling, “Stop!”

  I slowed, slammed the transmission into drive, and stomped on the accelerator. The tires screamed as they fought for traction. When they finally grabbed the pavement, the car jumped forward and kept going.

  When I looked back, Gaines was standing in the middle of the parking lot, shaking his fists in my direction.

  My chest continued to heave with ragged breaths for another couple of miles. Gaines made no attempt to follow me. Which probably meant he’d found the hotel where I’d planned to stay tonight. Not that I’d be heading there alone now. Not a chance.

  When I could breathe evenly again, I found my phone and called the Pittsburgh police.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Saturday, November 18

  1:30 p.m.

  The past couple of days had passed quickly enough, and the only thing I’d accomplished was getting Rinaldo Gaines out of my life for a while. He’d been waiting in the lobby of my hotel when I arrived Thursday night, as I’d suspected he would be.

  But I didn’t arrive alone. A local police officer was with me. He talked briefly to Gaines, who didn’t deny following me here from Tampa as well as waiting for me outside the funeral home and in my hotel. Gaines didn’t consider any of his behavior harassment or stalking, but I did. And the police officer agreed.

  Gaines was arrested. Which solved the immediate problem and allowed me to spend a quiet night in my hotel on Thursday.

  I did not go back to the funeral home or disrupt Evan Hayden’s funeral. That would simply have been too cruel to Hayden’s family, which I truly didn’t want.

  So I spent Friday talking to the local coroner and following up on the toxic-heroin leads. I learned more about toxic heroin than I’d ever wanted to know, but none of it led me anywhere at all in the Hayden case.

  A couple of lawyer friends invited me to dinner. Afterward, I returned to my hotel. Gaines was in jail, where the police officer assured me he would remain until Monday, at least. After that, I’d be out of the jurisdiction, and Gaines would probably make bail.

  “We’ll require him to return for trial, Mrs. Carson,” the officer said. “But he seems like the kind of guy who isn’t going to give up. He also seems a little unhinged. You should hire a bodyguard for a while after you return to Tampa.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t promise. At the very least, Gaines was out of the way for now, and I could go home.

  By Saturday morning, I was more than ready to leave. I’d accomplished nothing in Pittsburgh.

  Or so I believed as I waited for my flight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Sunday, November 20

  8:30 p.m.

  Sunday night, I sat exactly where I wanted to be. A warm breeze drifted in from the Gulf, carrying with it the scent of salt, sea, and sand. My Partagas smoked lazily from the ashtray at my side, and a glass of Bombay Sapphire glimmered in the moonlight.

  Open on my lap was my journal. I had finished writing down my notes about the Evan Hayden case a few minutes ago. It felt good to release them from my head and allow them to spill onto the pages. Something like a catharsis, I supposed.

  Mainly, I was just happy to be home.

  In this day and age of feminism and equal rights and diversity, some people still considered it strange for a woman to smoke cigars. I loved them. They were a delight to all my senses. Not to mention a fond memory of my past.

  The smell of the rich and spicy tobacco. The feel of a pliable, well-rolled cigar in my fingers. All of it conjured sense memories. Me sitting on my grandfather’s knee while he puffed away. The happy times of my childhood. Before my mother’s illness. Before my stepdad left. Years when I was young and happy and safe and secure.

  Speaking of secure, in the background—over the gentle lap of waves against the shore in the distance—I could hear the murmur of conversations from the guests at George’s Place wafting through the windows.

  Rinaldo Gaines was sitting in a Pittsburgh jail, where he’d stay for a while. With any luck, he’d never come back to Tampa. It turned out that he didn’t even live here. He actually lived in Colorado.

  As for the other vultures, Augustus had been right. Once Hayden’s body left the state for burial, they had moved on to other more profitable stories. The legitimate press had not been a bother, of course.

  Business had steadily increased over the past three days for George’s restaurant, and the numbers were nearly back to where they had been prior to my accident. At least one of us seemed to have a firm business footing ahead.

  What was most precious to me, though, was that I had some of my life back again.

  Well before six a.m. this morning, my eyes had popped open. George had still been fast asleep at my side, snoring softly. Harry and Bess were curled up at the foot of the bed.

  I slid out carefully, pulled on my running clothes, and headed downstairs with the dogs in tow. They’d all but inhaled their food and then bounded down the steps to dash out toward the bay. I walked slowly, enjoying my first full day back by soaking in the rising sun. When the dogs circled back to join me, we took off into our morning run.

  Pounding the sand, one foot in front of the other and breathing heavily, the stress that had plagued me for days cleared. CJ and his machinations to have me fired. The special committee and their constant hounding for interviews. Rinaldo Gaines and the rumors he’d been spreading for weeks. All of it slipped away, and I actually felt lighter.

  One foot in front of the other, landing on the hard-packed sand, I’d focused on the Hayden case and the loose ends left to be tied up.

  The truth was always in the details. Facts solved crimes. Emotions didn’t. And in the Evan Hayden case, most of the important details were still missing.

  There was a possible tie between the drugs found in Evan’s system and his Pittsburgh hometown. But neither Hathaway nor I had located the actual seller of that toxic heroin, and we probably never would. Pittsburgh law-enforcement records didn’t identify the seller, either.

  Tampa PD did not have the time, resources, or authority to investigate out-o
f-state leads, even if they might have been fruitful. Big “if.” Chief Hathaway had properly reported the case to FDLE, the FBI, and the DEA. There was nothing more he could do to locate the out-of-state seller.

  The task was simply beyond his resources. Not to mention that Tampa PD had plenty of law-enforcement duties right here in Tampa.

  We might never nail down the source of the drugs. But that wasn’t the only problem.

  Another big hole in the case was the timeline. Thirty minutes max, Dr. Eberhard had said, from ingestion of the drug to time of death.

  Which meant Hayden’s location prior to death could have been anywhere within thirty minutes of the accident scene on Bayshore Boulevard at the time he’d been dosed. That was a pretty wide circle of possibilities, even if we only looked at commercial establishments.

  Hathaway had followed up a lead about Hayden being involved in a fight with another man at a local bar that night. There were at least a dozen bars along Howard Avenue where the hipsters hung out after work these days. They wandered from bar to bar, stumbling into the streets with their open containers in their hands. Bar fights were common in that area, too.

  But the spot where Hayden had hit my car was nowhere close to those bars. I’d clocked the distance between the last bar on the strip and the accident site at more than a mile.

  If he had ingested the toxic heroin over on Howard Avenue, would he have gone for a stumbling, bumbling stroll alone in the dark and rainy night for half an hour before he keeled over and died?

  Not likely.

  My thoughts swerved to Johnny Rae as I took in the twinkling lights from the fancy mansions across the water in the distance. My gut still said it wasn’t him. With his new family and his new start in life, I couldn’t imagine him risking all that just to take out Hayden, no matter how heinous their quarrel. Especially after Hayden’s firm settled the debts by paying Rae millions.