Due Justice (4 page)

Friends tell me the best part of being single is doing whatever you want, whenever you want. No holidays with the in-laws, whiskers in the sink, toilet seats left up, or refusals to eat zucchini. Most definitely no interminable evenings spent with insufferable bores to raise money for the worthy-cause-of-the-moment.

Like the CJ, for instance. Chief Judge Ozgood Livingston Richardson, Senior—”Oz,” to his friends (which does not include me)—is 65 years old, going on 95. Actually, I think the CJ was born old. If he ever laughs, it's politely. He knows which fork to use at eight-fork table settings. He married a debutante back in the day when that was important. Each of his three children, two daughters with husbands, and “Junior,” (as Ozgood Livingston Richardson, II, is not-so-affectionately known) are firmly ensconced in society, and they're all just as interesting as processed white bread. If any of them had ever had so much as a ten-word conversation, the listener had to be hearing impaired.

The CJ's wife is regarded by one and all as a fixture in Tampa. She'll tell you, each and every time you're introduced, “I'm Marian Wright Richardson, and I'm a fifth generation Floridian.”

If you live in Florida, you recognize immediately how remarkable that is. You're lucky if you can find someone who was born here, let alone a fifth generation resident. This makes her children sixth generation, the equivalent of royalty.

The rest of us are expected to kiss the ring.

Repeatedly.

I dropped the list of party guests, puckered up, and went to do what had to be done.

CHAPTER FIVE

Tampa, Florida

Wednesday 7:45 p.m.

January 6, 1999

THE GUESTS WERE SET to arrive at 8:00, but I hoped to have a glass of wine first. I wanted to think about gathering information tonight on Dr. Morgan; from him directly or, if he didn't show up, his neighbors. Keep Carly out of trouble. Me, too.

Someone would know something.

George had closed the restaurant for the evening, dedicating both dining rooms to the fund-raiser. Extra valets for parking. News coverage because of the guest list. These affairs are set for week-nights by people who don't work: or maybe by those who do and need an excuse.

Sunset Bar for a peaceful quarter hour before the deluge. Maybe a good cabernet would improve my mood. What brightened my outlook immediately was the sole occupant of the room: Frank Bennett.

Ten years ago, Frank Bennett was the new kid in local television news. His gimmick was to introduce each newscast with a piece of Florida trivia. You know, like “We're here at Disney World where Richard Nixon once announced ‘I am not a crook.'” The idea was that the trivia would relate to the newscast in some way and, of course, distinguish him from all the other wannabes. And he put a “state pride” spin on everything when he could.

The bit was popular with viewers and helped land him in the NewsChannel 8 co-anchor chair.

Like all successful gimmicks, keeping it fresh was the problem. He started out writing the bits himself, from local history books and the newspaper archives. Now that he's a “star,” a research staff does the work. Every night, 350,000 viewers tune in; much of that audience is due to Frank's youthful ingenuity.

“Hey, Frank.” The traditional southern greeting, not to startle.

He smiled with obvious appreciation.

“I guess you don't share my husband's disdain for this rather simple dress,” I said.

“I guess your husband doesn't understand how fabulous you look in it. If you go to work dressed like that, I may request a transfer to cops and courts.” He actually winked at me.

“Frank, it's illegal to flirt with a judge,” I said, with mock sternness.

But I kissed him on the cheek.

Frank's always had something of a crush on me; I'd never exploited it before.

“Run out of cub reporters?” I sat down across the table with my wine; he raised his glass in silent toast. When seated, Frank can look me in the eyes. Otherwise, we look like Boris and Natasha having a chat.

“One sign of old age is believing you can do everything better yourself,” he said. Ran his palm over his mostly bald head.

“What's the latest?” I smiled, going for the perfect level of curiosity. At least he didn't appear to be attuned to my need to know. Or maybe he was just used to it. Journalists are fun at cocktail parties.

He frowned, gnawed the plastic stir from his drink. “I'm trying to figure out how a guy can get himself shot, bound to cement slabs, and stuck in the Gulf of Mexico. And leave no trace of his life. Doesn't seem possible, does it, Willa?”

Was he baiting me?

No. Thinking aloud.

I relaxed a little.

He didn't know.

But he would.

Frank Bennett would nail the Bay Body's story: Who was he? How'd he get there? Why?

Maybe Carly and I wouldn't be among the wreckage when Bennett figured it out.

And where was she, anyway? Still no response to my messages. Forced myself not to report her missing, too.

That thought, at the front of my mind since she bolted, kept popping up.

“I've never seen such a terrible body. Brutal. Bloated, half eaten. Beating against the Skyway for days. If he hadn't been shot before he went into the water. . . . How could no one know? Didn't he have any friends? Family? How does a man get that isolated?”

He stared, intently focused on my face, as if I could answer his questions.

I detached.

Remembered Frank had never married. No kids or family. Maybe this was a life crisis for him. I hoped not. If he made the story personal, he'd never relent.

“You've checked missing persons reports, I guess?” Soft suggestion. I sipped my wine to cover my duplicity. Dissembling is not my strong suit; I prefer the direct approach.

“Nothing's turned up in our search or the cops'. I've got resources they can't access. If he's a local guy, I'll know his name this time tomorrow if I have to question every citizen in the three counties.”

Mired deeper by each failure to speak, I hoped he'd find Morgan before questioning Carly or me. Could I maintain silence during his inquisition? Keeping client confidences is easy. Keeping my own guilty secrets was nerve wracking.

Confident that Frank would identify the body quickly and Tampa police would solve the murder soon, finding Carly became urgent.

Party noises raised the volume inside the Sunset Bar. I glanced toward the parking lot.

Limos and private cars pulled up at the valet stand. Doors opened and bedecked philanthropists emerged, well-heeled, well-dressed. Flooded George's restaurant exhibiting genteel chatter.

Dozens of guests were strangers to me, but many I recognized. Lawyers, judges, business professionals, physicians I mingled with regularly and those I knew by reputation only. Carly Austin might be the only Tampa woman I knew who was not present.

Where was Carly?

I said, “Frank, I've got to do the hostess thing. But now you've got me curious. Keep me informed, okay?”

Understatement is one of my cultivated southern virtues. I smoothed my dress. Straightened my hair.

Frank rose, waved for a refill, and squeezed my arm gently. “I'll call you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks,” I said, not the least bit grateful, as I scurried away.

By the time I ran the gauntlet of arriving guests wondering how I could navigate the evening, the main dining room was two thirds full. I couldn't see Kate, but I circulated through the tuxedoed men and designer-dressed women. Passing waiters in white tie served canapés and champagne, and the room buzzed, clanked, tinged, whooshed, and guffawed with steadily increasing noise. In another hour, we'd need to shout our whispers.

I made my way to the Maitre d' station where Peter examined engraved invitations and checked names of arriving guests. Dr. Michael Morgan had not checked in yet. But Police Chief Hathaway was here somewhere.

Pricilla and O'Connell Worthington crossed the threshold. Their appearance, a Tampa standard, was nevertheless startling. Both were well past 70. Formal. Regal. Inseparable. Beloved.

But there the similarity ended.

O'Connell's full head of wavy white hair and courtly manners suited his position as the chairman and only surviving named partner of one of the oldest law firms in town. Yet he is small and slight of stature, fit and strong for his age.

His wife, Cilla, had to be 5'10”, at least. The flowing gowns she favors thwart accurate estimates, but her bathroom scale hadn't read less than 200 pounds for several decades. Freckles and pale skin suggested blonde hair might have been natural once. A sweeter woman never lived, but she was no beauty.

It wasn't the first time I've wondered what had originally attracted them to each other. Given the times, theirs could have been an arranged marriage. But I thought not. It had always seemed a love match to me. Their relationship inspired nostalgia for eras when value mattered more than beauty, if any had ever existed.

Cilla, gracious as always, took both my hands in hers. “Minaret is beautiful, Willa. George has done an amazing job here. This benefit is the most successful event we've ever held. He is such a dear to do all of this. And you, too, for putting up with us.” Cilla was chair of the fund-raising committee; she took her job seriously.

Engrossed, I opened my mouth to answer her, but we were rudely interrupted.

Christian Grover, Tampa's Clarence Darrow, and his current sweet young thing startled us all. Manners like a cockroach. Too much success; too many rewards for behaving badly.

“O'Connell!” He shouted from ten feet away, over the din, filling a freakish momentary lull. All heads turned to watch the show. Applause addiction is a hard habit to break; he'd never tried. The man is insufferable.

Grover's tuxedo fit him the way my birthday suit fits me, but with a lot fewer wrinkles. Arm-candy probably worked nights at Jason's Doll House after her afternoon high school classes. I smelled Clearasil.

His voice boomed louder than a Shakespearean actor, even as he closed the gap between us.

“You're not having ex parte communications with the judge, are you?” Not a joke. Not meant to be. Grover accused. Like British humor, if you knew the context, it was a not-so-subtle insult.

I am a United States district court judge, appointed for life. I take my responsibilities seriously, whether my “boss” the CJ thinks so or not. Both Grover and O'Connell regularly appear in my courtroom and ex parte communications are unethical.

O'Connell, ever the gentleman, replied smoothly. “Why, Christian, please introduce us to your companion. I'm sure she, like Cilla, abhors discussion of business at social events.”

I cast him a grateful smile. Some wag once said about O'Connell Worthington that you'd think a man with such a large name would be a bigger guy. Maybe. But if O'Connell lacked physical stature, he more than made up for it in what George's Aunt Minnie would have called breeding. He'd rescued me many a time.

“Actually, we were just discussing how many breast implant customers are in this room tonight. Why, I've never seen so much cleavage—it gives the term ‘silicon valley' a whole new meaning.” Grover's voice was smooth, snide, sure. And it carried to the rafters. Everyone around us was listening and pretending they weren't.

“I'm sure that's something upon which you have a great deal more experience, Christian,” Cilla said calmly, deliberately not looking at the young woman clinging to him like cat hair. She turned to me and O'Connell, took our arms and said, “Oh, look, Senator Warwick is arriving. Let's go and say hello.”

With that, she walked the three of us off leaving Grover and his date standing in our wake.

“Cilla, you are precious. And O'Connell, you're one lucky man. It's no wonder you've been married over 50 years.” I patted her hand, kissed his cheek and told them I would see them later.

I couldn't deal with the Warwicks just yet. First I needed a break, a drink, and Kate. In that order. The only thing I could manage was the break. I escaped. Or so I thought.

CHAPTER SIX

Tampa, Florida

Wednesday 8:20 p.m.

January 6, 1999

THE WOMEN'S ROOM WAS tastefully decorated for those ladies experiencing a tendency to swoon, or whatever.

Plopped onto the floral chintz loveseat, gratefully slipped off my high-heels. Why hadn't I worn my Nikes?

Closed my eyes for a moment to discourage socializing by new arrivals.

Shut out the visual noise. Hearing now acute. Two quick flushes.

One set of awkward shoe-falls exited each stall. Standing at the sinks. Quick tap-water flow. Talking to their reflections while no doubt adjusting appearances. It's what we women do.

“How long have you had yours?” Giggle. Youngish. “They look great.”

“About ten years.” Weary. Mature.