Due Justice (20 page)

The body, following autopsy, contained abnormally high levels of alcohol. Although it appeared Dr. Morgan was a victim of foul play, it also appeared that he was intoxicated at the time of death. He had been plagued in recent years by debts. His estate was valued at less than $10,000. He left several ex-wives, and no children.

Grover was interviewed. He was quoted as saying that he'd had no contact with Dr. Morgan since settling a 1990 malpractice case against Morgan, and he assumed Morgan was living a quiet life.

Chief Ben Hathaway was quoted as saying that the investigation into Dr. Morgan's death was ongoing and his department was pursuing several suspects.

A similar article appeared in the
Times
. In the
Times
obituary, many of Dr. Morgan's past accomplishments were listed. He had graduated from medical school at the age of twenty-five and then served his internship, residency and specialty residency all at the Mayo Clinic. He opened his practice in Tampa in 1970. He had been the plastic surgeon to Tampa's stars for several years until he succumbed to drug abuse. A series of malpractice claims followed, culminating in the case which caused him to surrender his license. Dr. Morgan was brilliant. He wrote several major articles and two textbooks. One of the textbooks, on immunology, had made him a millionaire. It was rumored that his will left the continuing royalties from his books to local lawyer Carly Austin. Certain specific bequests and the remainder of his assets went to charity. Ms. Austin had not been available for comment.

I shook my head and blinked several times to clear my blurred vision. That couldn't be right. He left royalties from his books, potentially millions of dollars, to Carly? I read it through twice more. I couldn't believe Carly knew she'd inherited from Morgan, but I knew someone would quickly misconnect the dots and draw a jail cell around Carly's body. I was getting in deeper and deeper. Even a good swimmer can drown if she's too far out in the Gulf.

Morgan's funeral was to be held the next day. Since the autopsy was completed and no family to notify, there was no reason to wait. A closed casket, obviously. We got there just before the service started.

Even though it was such short notice, and held in the middle of the week, the church was full. Nothing like the funeral of a locally notorious man murdered in his own home to bring out the curious and the faithful. Then there were the real mourners. Those were the ones I was interested in and why I had convinced George we should go even though I was far from back to normal.

“Michael Morgan may have been a good man at some time in his life, but by the time somebody killed him, he deserved it.” Dr. Marilee Aymes said as she sat down in the pew beside me. George frowned his best at her, signifying his desire that she be quiet in church, but she was unfazed.

“He was a thief, and someone stole his life from him. Poetic justice,” she said.

The curious couple seated in front of us apparently didn't have George's sense of respect for the dead. They turned around to see just who was making such vivid pronouncements. When they did, I saw she had perfect breasts.

I looked around the church more carefully. Almost every woman in the room was over fifty-five, long past the age for low necklines or see though tight bodiced frocks. But there they were. Only Dr. Aymes and I and a few others didn't fit the profile, as it were.

“Look at all those perfect Morgans.” Her voice, still loud, startled me.

“What?”

“Just look around. Have you ever seen so many perfect tits in one room? ‘A pair of Morgans' we used to call them. We could always tell.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Tampa, Florida

Wednesday 3:15 p.m.

January 20, 1999

GEORGE GLARED HER INTO silence just as Dr. Carolyn Young walked by us. She was dressed head to toe in black and had a veil over her face. She walked up to the closed casket and knelt in front of it. From the back I could see her shoulders shaking. She stayed there so long one of the ushers went up to her and helped her to a seat in the front pew—the one usually reserved for family—which was empty.

It seemed all of Tampa society filled Sacred Heart Church for the occasion. Cilla and O'Connell Worthington were there, Fred Johnson, Christian Grover, Sheldon and Victoria Warwick, even Kate. Probably the first time that many Tampa WASPs had gathered in a Catholic Church since the mayor remarried ten years ago.

The priest who delivered the glowing eulogy was a young man who obviously hadn't known Dr. Morgan. If he knew anything about Morgan's less illustrious accomplishments, he refrained from mentioning them.

After the service, I watched a small group gathered outside around Carolyn Young at the bottom of the steps. “You'd think she was the only woman he ever screwed,” Dr. Aymes said with disgust, “instead of just the last one.”

“Carolyn Young and Michael Morgan were having an affair when he died?” I felt like the dim-witted straight man in a comedy team. Things everyone else took for granted kept coming as revelations to me. I took solace in the rumor that Tommy Smothers was the smart one.

“Willa, you've got to get out more. Carolyn Young was in love with him for years. Their affair was current, but her lust wasn't. In the old days, you had to stand in line to screw Michael Morgan. I'll bet he slept with every woman in that church.” Dr. Aymes turned to look first straight at Kate and then pointedly toward Cilla Worthington.

Cilla hadn't heard the comment, and Kate returned Dr. Aymes' stare, although she blushed deep crimson. Then Kate looked away while Aymes was still staring at her.

“You're just trying to make me jealous, Marilee,” George, ever the gentleman, said as he took first Kate's arm and then mine. He started down the steps, pulling us along. “But it's much too pretty a day to dwell on it.” We dropped Kate off at home and then went back to Minaret.

Later in the day, I was in the den when I heard voices. I recognized George and I thought I recognized Chief Hathaway with him. I folded up the newspapers and turned on the television.

George and Ben came into the room and Ben seemed less angry with me than the last time I'd seen him. After asking me how I was feeling, Ben sat down in the same chair he'd taken last time and George offered to get us both some fresh coffee, leaving the two of us alone in the living room. Now, wasn't that convenient?

“I'll come right to the point. Someone trashed both Dr. Morgan's and Carly Austin's apartment, in the same way, obviously looking for the same thing. I don't think they found it. Dr. Morgan is dead, but Carly Austin isn't, which is not to say she won't be if I don't find her before the killer does. If you have any idea where she is, you need to let me know that so that I can keep her from getting killed.” He spoke calmly, rationally, but not convincingly.

I looked at Hathaway closely. He's probably been a cop too long to betray his true intentions, and I wasn't at all sure whether I believed he was trying to help Carly or arrest her. I knew he was waiting for my analysis to conclude that even if he arrested her, she'd be better off than if her pursuer found her first. The wheels in my head were still turning, albeit slowly. Maybe I would live after all.

“She left a voice mail on my machine saying that she was going to Minnesota and she'd call me when she got back.” I could see that this news caused him some serious agitation, but he was trying to control his temper. I didn't tell him I thought the message was another of Carly's lies.

“Look,” I said, “Don't shoot the messenger. You asked me if I'd heard from her, I told you what I know. Don't you think I understand she's better off in jail than she is dead?”

I was really running out of patience with this guy. I didn't get to be a federal court judge at the age of thirty-six because I'm stupid. We might be out of each other's jurisdiction, but he certainly wasn't winning any points with me, either.

“All right,” he ran his hand over his head, through his thick, dark hair in obvious frustration. His hair looked like it was used to this treatment. It was wavy and constantly messed up. “What would she be going to Minnesota for? What's in Minnesota? Does she have family there, or did Dr. Morgan have family there? You know her. What's she doing?”

I thought I heard preaching in his voice. I hate it when people try to manipulate me. “Don't you think I've been asking myself that same question ever since I got the message? It might help if we knew what she and Dr. Morgan were talking to one another about. Have you been able to shed any light on that?”

Let's just put the burden back where it belongs, I thought. He didn't like it. He was having difficulty conducting a civil conversation. At that point, George walked back in and tried to diffuse the situation.

“Ben,” George said, “I think she might have gone to the Mayo Clinic. I read in Dr. Morgan's obituary that he trained there. Carly doesn't have any connection with the Mayo Clinic and she didn't go for business, did she?”

“I checked with her boss. He said she hadn't been in to work in three days and it was most unlike her. He didn't know where she was, or at least he said he didn't. Your Mayo Clinic theory makes as much sense as anything else, George. I'll check it out.”

Hathaway got up to leave. “Wait a minute,” I said. “What about my question? Have you found out what she and Morgan were working on or why they were communicating with each other?”

He studied me for a long time. “Okay,” he finally said. “The only thing that makes sense to me is that they were working on some aspect of this breast implant litigation. Her company, MedPro, derived about fifty percent of its revenue in the 1980s from the sale of breast implants. They've been selling them in Britain and France following the FDA moratorium here in this country. The lawsuits were threatening to put the company under. I think Dr. Morgan and Carly Austin were working on a strategy to defend the claims.”

I let out a long breath of air I didn't realize I'd been holding. “Let's just suppose that's true, why would that have gotten him killed?”

Hathaway looked at me as if the rumors of my intelligence had been greatly exaggerated. “The first rule of police work, Wilhelmina—follow the money,” he said as he walked out. I was beginning to hope that he found Carly soon because that would mean I could stop talking to him all together. Maybe forever. I made a mental note to take him off our guest list.

George apologized for getting angry earlier and I promised not to take any more chances with what he called facetiously, my “pretty little head.” I had to laugh at that, and the laughter made my head hurt. George is the farthest thing from a chauvinist I've ever met.

After we had the coffee, I turned in for the night. Since he'd already canceled my trial for tomorrow, I'd take advantage of the break.

I skipped my run the next morning. I was beginning to feel closer to normal, but not up to pounding of any kind. I dressed in a denim shirt, chinos and my black Cole Haan flats and, after breakfast, drove myself to the office. Some federal district court judges have law clerks who act as chauffeurs, but I really enjoy driving Greta. I've been told she's too flashy for me to drive now that I'm on the bench. If you're from Detroit, cars are the essence of life itself. How could I give up Greta just for a job?

As I went over the bridge off Plant Key away from Minaret, I turned right onto Bayshore heading toward downtown. I was impressed, as I always am, with the view. Hillsborough Bay, particularly along the Bayshore, is truly beautiful. Not many years ago, the Hillsborough River, the Bay and Tampa Bay were completely dead. After a massive clean-up campaign, fish, dolphins, rays and manatee are regularly spotted in all three waters. In fact, the Tampa Downtown Partnership sponsors an annual fishing tournament, giving prizes to the largest fish caught in the downtown area. Thankfully, there are fish to catch. You can eat them, too, if you're brave enough.

The drive down Bayshore, over the Platt Street Bridge, toward the Convention Center is one of my daily pleasures. I could feel my mood lightening and I actually felt better physically. Downtown Tampa, once a ghost town, is making a comeback. There is the one new office building at Jackson Street, Landmark Tower, where O'Connell Worthington has his offices. A series of storefronts and Sacred Heart Church makes up the four block stretch to the Federal Building housing the federal courthouse. But on the other side of Platt Street, the Lightning play hockey in their new arena. A convention hotel is planned, Garrison Sea Port houses cruise ships and the Tampa Aquarium's glass dome lights the sky.

The Federal Building itself is circa 1920. In 1920, the Middle District of Florida was a much smaller place than it is now that what we Floridians affectionately call “the Black Rat” has moved into Orlando. The building is old, decrepit and much too small for the district's current needs. A new Federal Building is under construction, but for a while yet, we have to make do with small courtrooms and crowded conditions.

As the most junior judge on the bench, in terms of seniority, age and the CJ's affection, I have the least desirable location. It's the RHIP rule; I have no rank and no privilege. My courtroom and chambers are on the third floor, in the back. Getting there from the parking garage helps me keep my schoolgirl figure.