Licensed to Thrill: Volume 3

by Diane Capri

  The police officer at the scene picked up the gun by sliding a pen through the trigger guard. This meant that no one obliterated valuable data by sticking something down the barrel.

  Ben’s earlier warning about the admissibility of evidence against George reverberated in my mind and the maggots in my stomach thrashed about. I forced my attention back to the file.

  The officer’s report claimed he had smelled the fresh odor of burned gunpowder when he smelled the gun barrel, suggesting that the gun was recently fired. Fingerprints on the barrel, the cylinder and several of the shells belong to George Carson, I read.

  At this point, the maggots caused my stomach to revolt. I yanked off the headset and stood up; paced quickly, taking deep breaths. Snagged a bottle of water from the fridge and swallowed about half of it to tamp down the bile.

  Glancing at my watch, I saw that Ben’s two-hour dinner was half over. No time to fool around. Reluctantly, I took my seat and replaced the headset.

  “Gunshot residue tests revealed no indication that Andy had recently fired a gun with either hand,” I dictated. “In a true suicide, a negative result might mean the victim had on rubber gloves, or held the gun in a plastic baggie, or maybe even that no residue escaped. But since Andrews appears to have died instantly, those possibilities are unlikely.”

  The only legitimate conclusion was that the gun was fired by someone else.

  One bullet had been removed from Andrews’s skull, a .38 caliber. Again, modern technology was working against George, because the ballistics tests confirmed the gun found at the scene was the murder weapon.

  Using an interesting technique I hadn’t seen before, the criminalists had used a length of string to trace the angle at which the bullet had entered Andrews’s skull. While it wasn’t exact, they did place the approximate spot the gun was held when it was fired: outside the boat, on the dock.

  The faint powder burns on Andrews’s head indicated that the shooter must have been about three feet away from him. Burns would have been stronger if he’d shot himself.

  As Ben had told me, no reasonable doubt existed: Andrews was murdered. And Drake had known it from the outset.

  “Liar,” I said under my breath, felt better.

  Drake lied about the suicide. Maybe he’d lied about other evidence, too.

  Now that I had everything dictated, I had less than half an hour left to go through the file a third time, more carefully, my figurative magnifying glass over each piece of paper.

  I started with the interview notes. The interview with George was either the shortest suspect interview in history or there was another set of notes somewhere. These notes contained only George’s assertion that he had no idea how his gun ended up at Andrews’s house and that he’d been at a breakfast meeting the morning of the murder.

  Thanks to me, everyone knew that George had not been home. But he’d refused to say where he was in response to police questioning, too.

  “What was George doing that was so important he’d keep the secret rather than exonerate him by providing an alibi?” I heard myself dictate into the section of the document I’d labeled Open questions.

  If I knew that one thing, I could end the whole mess. George couldn’t have been in two places at once. Damn George’s honor. Whoever he was with that night certainly didn’t feel honor bound to help George. It was like him to keep his word, even when others didn’t. But this was the time for self-preservation.

  As for George not knowing how his gun ended up in Andrews’s boat, I took that to be true. And I had made a note earlier in my journal to follow that issue up with him. Beginning where he’d last seen the gun might help me find out who used it to kill Andrews.

  The interview notes didn’t say anything about George’s answer to those questions, if they’d been asked. These notes were incomplete. Another issue for the Open questions list.

  The interview with General Andrews’s daughter, Robbie, was a little longer. Her alibi for the time of the murder was that she was working. Too bad, I thought, uncharitably. I didn’t like Robbie and she clearly despised both George and me. It would have been such a tidy package if Robbie had killed her father and framed George for the murder. Too tidy, unfortunately.

  Still, Robbie worked at home. Her alibi had been verified when Robbie had shown the investigator the online therapy column she’d been working on at the time. I made a note of that, and to follow up with a few questions of my own. That is, if Robbie Andrews would talk to me.

  She had also told the police that George had been plotting with Senator Warwick and President Benson to defeat her father’s nomination. She said George would stop at nothing to keep Andrews off the bench.

  This was obviously where Drake got the idea that George would have a motive for murder, but it seemed pretty weak to me. That motive would fit every protester at the Capital last week, including the shooter who had tried to kill Andrews while I watched the episode on live television in my chambers.

  The other interviews had been even longer than Robbie’s. The police had interviewed John Williamson, Robbie’s husband, Deborah Andrews and both of the general’s sons. They’d also interviewed Senator Warwick and my brother, Jason.

  And that was all the interview notes in the file, although I was sure there would have been further interviews done.

  The only consistent thing about them was that they all provided confirmed alibis and George had not. The detectives had tried to meticulously rule out all of the other potential suspects with a personal motive located here in Tampa.

  In a high profile murder like this one, other law enforcement agencies were no doubt assisting with the investigation. The protestors would be located and ruled out, one at a time. Craig Hamilton’s shooter would be thoroughly questioned. Even if he’d acted alone, he might have like-minded colleagues.

  The investigation could be secretly continuing, even if Ben Hathaway didn’t know about it. At least, I hoped so.

  As I dictated into my headset, I noticed a few other things, but I was just trying to get it all down. There would be time for analysis later.

  I listed the coroner’s conclusion on manner of death: “homicide, inconsistent with suicide.” Next, I simply dictated his evidentiary support for this conclusion: The angle of entry of the bullet into the temple was inconsistent with a self-inflicted gunshot; no powder burns on the general’s temple, suggesting the gunshot was fired from some distance rather than with the gun placed on the side of his head as a suicide would do.

  Exactly two hours later, hoarse from dictating and emotionally exhausted, I finished. I put the file back into Ben’s briefcase and returned to the living room just as he knocked on the door again.

  “No wonder people don’t trust the government, Ben,” I told him as I handed the briefcase over to him. “They lie.”

  He stood immediately inside the door, away from the line of sight of any inquisitive diners down below. “Only when we need to. Remember, Drake isn’t out too far on a limb here.”

  Ben ticked off the evidence Drake had used to support George’s arrest. “George has no alibi; his gun complete with his fingerprints was the murder weapon; George made it plain to one and all that he would make sure Andrews never sat on the Supreme Court. Add to that his fight with Andrews downstairs the night of the murder. It’s a set of facts that will definitely support an indictment, Willa. George is in trouble. You’ll need a miracle to get him out of this. You might want to suggest he consider a plea.”

  The maggots thrashed viciously; I put a hand to my stomach.

  “Drake will need a lot more for a conviction,” I argued.

  Ben just looked at me as if I’d just landed from Mars. “Drake’s office is still investigating,” Ben said, as he left.

  I closed the door; my body slumped heavily against it as I realized anew just how much trouble we’d landed in and we’d need a miracle to get out.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Tampa, Florida

  Thursday 8:35 p.
m.

  January 27, 2000

  AFTER HATHAWAY LEFT, I prepared for a late dinner with George. There was much I needed to discuss with him. He had some explaining to do and I was determined to get him to do it.

  I’d ordered the chef’s specialty, Rack of Lamb Julius Caesar, cherry vinaigrette salads with Gorgonzola cheese, broiled tomatoes and a baguette. For dessert, we’d have George’s favorite: creme brulée, served warm in a cereal bowl, with raspberries and blueberries on the bottom. I’d scheduled the food to arrive at nine o’clock.

  My queasy stomach had begun to recover as I chose from the menu. When I looked at my watch, I saw that I had about thirty minutes before George arrived.

  I took a long, scented bath, opened a bottle of Cabernet and tried to relax, to stay in the present and not catastrophize. I was determined to discuss matters with George, but I wanted to keep our relationship on the same easy plane it had been this morning.

  This, too, would pass, I hoped. When it did, I wanted our lives to return to the way they had been—to the extent that was possible.

  I dressed carefully. I put on my black lace bra and matching black bikini panties. A cream silk shirt George liked topped a knee length dark green silk skirt that I left unbuttoned up the front to well above my knee. You could see the bra through the shirt, which was the effect I wanted.

  I’d had a pedicure before all this madness started, so I put on open sandals. I slipped on my diamond stud earrings and the diamond pendant George gave me for my last birthday along with my slim platinum wedding band.

  Light makeup, just enough to accentuate my eyes and a little bronzer on the cheek bones. A rosy copper lipstick completed the look. I was sure George would approve.

  I went out to the curio on the wall in the living room that contains my Herend zoo. The animals had been Aunt Minnie’s. I think she’d had a Hungarian admirer at one time. He’d given her a beautiful set of Queen Victoria china and the whimsical porcelain figurines painted in the technically difficult fishnet pattern.

  Based on the number of animals Aunt Minnie had in her collection, the relationship must have lasted for a while. Aunt Minnie named each animal and recorded those names in the inventory we received when George inherited the house.

  Aunt Minnie’s zoo was now mine and George added to the collection. Whenever a particularly special opportunity arose, he ordered an unusual piece from Lucy Zahran in Los Angeles to give me. All of Aunt Minnie’s pieces, and mine, are one of a kind.

  I picked up Otto, the magical raspberry unicorn. I closed my eyes and made a wish, rubbing his pointed gold horn with my finger. Aunt Minnie told me once that Otto had the power to make wishes come true. Would mine?

  I iced a bucket of Champagne and set out the special champagne glasses we’d bought when we spent a month in Paris for our tenth anniversary. We’d had such fabulous sex there. My cheeks warmed at the memory. George would get the hint.

  As I finished my preparations, I heard him knock on the door promptly on time. So old fashioned, George acted like the invited guest he was.

  George smiled slowly and with appreciation when I responded to his knock. “Please come in, Sweetheart. You do live here, after all.”

  “Indeed, I do. Any chance I can get a warm greeting from the hostess?” He put his arms around me and gave me one of those kisses that took my breath away. How could I be so passionate about a man I’d loved for more than twenty years? It wasn’t something I could analyze, it just was. That passion was doubly precious to me tonight, when I realized how close I was to losing George, the love of my life.

  When I couldn’t stand up any longer, we went directly to the bedroom, leaving dead generals and criminal lawyers and ballistics reports where they belonged in another world.

  Quite a while later, I was lounging in our bed wearing the cream silk shirt and nothing else. George poured the last of our Champagne. I vaguely remembered hearing the waiter bring our food about an hour earlier, and I was, all of a sudden, famished.

  “George, darling,” I said, snuggling a little closer to his chest and running my hands over the curly black hairs that grew there, “Aren’t you hungry? I ordered a fabulous meal. I think it’s in a heated cart out on the landing.”

  “I’m starving, actually. Why don’t we go see what you’ve got,” he said, kissing me one last time, causing me to forget the food for a good long while.

  Eventually, we put on our robes and he brought the still-warm meal into the dining room where I had set the table with Aunt Minnie’s linens, china, silver and crystal. I’d had flowers sent up earlier in the day.

  During dinner we talked about the things we always talk about: our friends, our neighbors, what happened with him today, what I did. Of course, my report of my day was a significantly abridged version. Time enough for that later.

  When we reached the point for coffee, we moved out into the cool night, still wearing our robes, and enjoyed the stars. The full moon shone on the sparkling dark water like a shiny mirror reflecting the sky. Under other circumstances, this would have been one of the most romantic nights we’d spent in a long time.

  As it was, I was acutely aware of the rest of my agenda. Finally, seeing no way to gracefully bridge the gap, I just asked him what was on my mind.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Tampa, Florida

  Thursday 11:35 p.m.

  January 27, 2000

  “GEORGE, I TALKED TO Ben Hathaway today,” I started tentatively.

  “Did you now?”

  He didn’t seem too upset so far, so I plunged on. “Yes. He said his department has stopped investigating Andrews’s murder. Seems Drake feels they’re better off with the provable case they have now than an un-provable one if they start fooling around with it.” I’d prepared for an explosion, but, thankfully, it didn’t come.

  With the moon, we didn’t need lights, so I’d flipped off the switch before we came outside. I sipped my coffee and glanced over at George, who was thoughtfully quiet for a while before he responded to me. “I know you’re worried about me, Willa. Truly, I’m worried, too. I recognize that political expediency is occasionally served at the expense of justice. But I believe in Ben and that the truth will be told, either at the trial or sometime before they actually execute me.” He smiled wanly at his weak joke.

  I was grateful for the night that hid the tears that sprang to my eyes. I couldn’t accept that my sweet, thoughtful, loving husband would ever be subjected to such a fate. I just couldn’t accept it. Ever. “Look,” I took a deep breath and put a hand on his arm. “I hired you a lawyer today. Olivia Holmes.”

  Softly, but I could hear the edge in it, George said, “What makes you think you have the right to hire a lawyer for me?”

  George is the one who takes care of us. He doesn’t like anyone to forget that. Sometimes he takes this knight in shining armor thing a little too far, whether he recognized it or not. “Obviously, it’s subject to your approval. But, you have to have someone. With your assets, the court isn’t going to appoint you a lawyer, you can’t represent yourself and I sure can’t do it,” I told him. “Besides, I thought you’d like her. She has the reputation for being the best there is.”

  George respects my legal talent, so he asked, “Why do you think she’s the right choice?”

  “Because she has a reputation for representing only innocent defendants, for one thing. I didn’t think you’d want a lawyer who’s known for getting the bad guys off.”

  “True,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice now. “I prefer to look like what we are. It’s a good message for the media, too, I suppose.”

  I was encouraged by his tone and his words. He’d started to think strategically, which was a big step from his philosophical rage of innocence. George is good on strategy. I often discussed strategy and tactics with him when I practiced law. He was really good at the conservative, majority, middle-America approach.

  “Yes, it is. No one except Olivia seems to be picking up on th
e fact that you are not a killer. Maybe our friends will even start to get the idea,” I said, bitterness creeping uninvited into my tone.

  George sat his cup down, reached over and took my hand. “You mustn’t judge them too harshly, Willa. Before the hearings uncovered his ideology, Andrews was well-loved around here. People are outraged at his death. I haven’t offered any excuses for myself. And you saw how incriminating the evidence is.” He stopped a second. “What are they supposed to think?”

  “You’re being a lot more forgiving than I’m willing to be with them all.” Normally, I try not to give a fig for what people think about me. Judges usually aren’t too popular, since we’re supposed to make the hard decisions. I’d accepted that as part of the job. But, I do want people to think the best of George. He deserves it.

  Besides that, Michael Drake lived and died by public opinion. He was an elected official and he wanted to move up the ladder, where even more people would need to vote for him. If public opinion was on George’s side, it would be that much harder for Drake to stay the course against us.

  George squeezed my hand and then let it go. The cool night air surrounded my palm once his warmth retreated. “Let’s wait and see how it turns out. I have gotten quite a few supportive calls, actually.”

  I felt a little better, encouraged. “Really? From whom?”

  “All of your family. Your Dad. Kate, Jason, Mark and even a wire from Carly in France, for starters.” He listed Kate and all of her children. “Everyone in the restaurant. Senator Warwick. President Benson, although that has to be kept quiet,” he shot me a warning glance. “The President can’t be supporting Andrews’s accused murderer. How would it look?”

  That got my back up again. “Since when have you cared how President Benson looks? He’s not exactly a personal friend. Or your favorite politician.” I wasn’t to be appeased. As far as I was concerned, this lack of faith in George from the rest of our friends was inexcusable.