Licensed to Thrill: Volume 3

by Diane Capri

“How is this related to George’s situation?” she finally asked me, deflated. “George isn’t gay, or a soldier. Why would it matter to George if Andrews killed Thomas because of any hypothetical homosexual experiences?”

  “It wouldn’t matter to George, because he didn’t kill Andrews. What we have to do is to find out who it did matter to,” I explained patiently.

  “Why would anyone kill Andrews over the situation with Thomas?”

  Besides you? I thought.

  “Or maybe Thomas being gay, if he was, had nothing to do with Andy having him killed,” Olivia said.

  “True. But then, why kill Thomas? We’re back to that,” I said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Tampa, Florida

  Sunday 3:50 p.m.

  January 30, 2000

  BACK AT MINARET, ENSCONCED in my den, Olivia and I discussed every angle of the Andrews murder and George’s case for a couple of hours. The list of suspects covered more than three pages of my journal.

  Exhausted and dismayed, I asked, “Are we helping George with all of this, Olivia?”

  “I think so. Drake stopped investigating once he arrested George. The number of possible killers Drake didn’t rule out should be more than enough to establish reasonable doubt at the trial,” she said.

  “But what we want is to get the charges dismissed without an indictment.” I deplored the whining tone of my voice.

  “Drake, even though he was an Andrews supporter and is a staunch Democrat, won’t want to take this to trial and lose,” Olivia reminded me.

  “But time is short. When are you going to try to convince Drake to look at other alternatives?”

  Olivia looked down at her hands. I saw the lines crease her tiny brow. I recognized the frown that preceded bad news.

  “Drake convened the grand jury today,” she said.

  Her words felt like a hard punch to my gut; they knocked the pluck right out of me.

  Intellectually, I’d been expecting this. Drake couldn’t be trusted. He had the advantage and he’d press it, hard.

  But I guess I wasn’t as prepared as I thought.

  Olivia said, “Drake will move quickly. Tomorrow or the next day, he’ll get his indictment.”

  I felt like a falling rocket, rushing down through the atmosphere too quickly, with no way to stop before I smashed into pieces that disintegrated before they hit the earth.

  She touched my arm. “Willa, there’s no middle ground. Either Drake drops the charges before that indictment is returned or George will be going to trial.”

  I knew George would never plead guilty. To anything.

  I wanted to be alone, to curl up like one of Deborah Andrews’s cats and sink into the oblivion of alcohol or sleep or both.

  My breathing was ragged and I could find no words to speak.

  Olivia touched me again. “Willa. You’ve got to pay attention. We’ve got work to do here and we’re running out of time. Once Drake gets his indictment, he’ll pick George up in a New York minute. There will be officers at your door in the next couple of days.”

  She opened her notepad and pretended to review her shorthand. Nothing at all passed between us for quite a while. Then, she began to tell me about her activities since we’d last met. I missed the first few items. They just didn’t seem important. All I could visualize was George behind bars.

  “Willa!” Olivia fairly shouted at me and finally, I heard her. “I said, I interviewed Peter about George’s gun.”

  My eyes blinked a few times and her words seemed to make it through the viscous soup of my brain.

  “Peter brought George’s gun to Minaret because he didn’t have a locker at the gun club and he had no key to George’s locker,” Olivia read from her notes. “In a rush when he got back here, Peter quickly stashed the unloaded gun in the top drawer of the old sideboard in the foyer, meaning to return it to George the same day. George didn’t come back to Minaret, for some reason, and Peter forgot about the gun. Then, with George being gone so much and Peter being busy when George was around, Peter just never thought about the gun when he had time to give it back.”

  The cold, icy edges of my heart thawed slightly. Peter was like one of the family. He’d told me himself that he was overwhelmed with remorse when George’s gun turned out to be a murder weapon.

  “Peter offered to quit right on the spot,” Olivia said, “but, of course, George told him just to wait and see.”

  George had instructed Olivia not to share the information with the police and I agreed. For now. But we couldn’t wait long. Drake was like a Doberman, snapping at our heels. He was ready to kill George, first with the indictment and then with the death penalty.

  The thought began to fuel my anger. And anger was a good thing. Warmer, more welcome.

  I’d been too civilized. Too soft. No more. I would handle this with George and Peter once we had George out of trouble. Without Peter’s carelessness, none of this mess would be happening.

  And I was through playing Nancy Drew. It was time for some bold moves and I was ready to make them. I hated Michael Drake in that moment. And the hatred moved me onward.

  “Is there anything we can do about this grand jury?” I knew the basic answers already, but I needed a different perspective.

  She considered my question, then said, “George could testify. He could tell them where he was the night of the murder and how his gun came to be a murder weapon.”

  Right. Just as I’d thought. Nothing we could do.

  Olivia cleared her throat now, bringing my attention back to her. “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Drake convened the grand jury today because he got the final finger print report on Andrews’s study back from the lab.”

  The ice moved again inside my veins, freezing my heart and hardening my resolve. I waited.

  She said, “George’s fingerprints were in Andrews’s study. Drake thinks George left them there the night of the murder.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Tampa, Florida

  Sunday 6:30 p.m.

  January 30, 2000

  I HEARD THE HARD pounding on the front door of our flat from the den where I sat in my sweatpants and T-shirt, working on George’s case. I’d already scrubbed off my makeup and my hair stuck up in every direction. The dark circles under my eyes resembled the color of eggplant and my sallow complexion could have scared small children. Harry and Bess ran toward the door, barking all the way.

  A half-eaten apple was wedged in my mouth while I typed. Glancing at the small clock on the computer screen, I noticed that Olivia had been gone only about thirty minutes. She’d probably forgotten something.

  Removing the apple, I called out, “Just a second,” loud enough to be heard over their raucous noise as I maneuvered myself around the desk and toward the front door in my bare feet. A few more hard knocks followed, and more barking, so I guessed Olivia couldn’t hear me.

  “Keep your pants on.” I hurried the last few steps, stuck the apple back in my mouth, bent down to shush the dogs and grabbed their collars to keep them from running out, turned the lock, and quickly flung the door open.

  My gaze, tilted down to meet Olivia’s, instead fell upon the shiny silver monogrammed belt buckle lying flat on State Attorney Michael Drake’s trim waist.

  A sharp intake of my breath as I forced my gaze up to meet his eyes brought a cynical sneer to his thin lips.

  There were two uniformed police officers standing behind him, guns drawn, pointing at Harry and Bess, who were still barking as if they’d seen the devil himself.

  A perky female junior Assistant State Attorney stood at Drake’s side, holding something in her long fingers, which were tipped with bright red acrylic nails.

  “How did you get up here? This is private property,” I told him, around the apple, trying to restrain two ninety-pound Labradors determined to get away from me.

  “Good evening, Judge Carson,” Drake said, with relish.

  The o
fficers were set in their three-point stance, guns pointed at my children, who were barking as if they’d like to eat the entire quartet. I was tempted to let them.

  Bending over, I let go of their collars and put my leg across their chests, then my entire body in front of them.

  “Back up! Back!”

  I managed to get Harry and Bess to move enough to allow me to step through the threshold and close the door behind me, keeping the dogs inside and a solid oak barrier between them and the guns.

  When I straightened up to my full height, removed the apple from my mouth and wiped the drool off my chin, I stared Drake straight into his satisfied little eyes.

  “What do you want?” I asked him, not making any attempt at small talk.

  Drake nodded to the perky young female who handed me a folded piece of paper.

  “Feel free to read the warrant before you let us in, if you’d like,” he told me.

  With nowhere else to stash it, I had to put the apple back in my mouth again while I opened the warrant, feeling like a complete fool.

  While I read the document, Drake turned to the perky assistant and placed a too-familiar hand on her shoulder.

  In an exaggeratedly friendly tone, he said, “See, I told you, Barbara. Judges are the same as everyone else. They relax at home in their sweatpants, just like you do.”

  He addressed me next. “Ms. Shading here has this idea that because you’re a federal judge, you’re somehow more special than mere mortals. She thinks you and your husband would never, ever do anything illegal.” His tone took a harder edge. “But I assured her that you’re not any different from the rest of us. Thank you for helping me prove it.”

  The young woman, Barbara Shading, looked down at her professional pumps. I recognized her now as a recent presenter at our local bar association lunch.

  Drake’s reputation for sleeping with his assistants suggested he was trying to make points with this one. But based on her presentation, she’d seemed wiser than other women Drake had impressed over the years.

  Besides, I’d heard she had a high-powered boyfriend already.

  If Drake sought to seduce Barbara Shading by demonstrating his power over me, I took some pleasure in knowing that he’d underestimated her.

  Ignoring Drake as best I could, I read the warrant. They were here to collect George’s gun logs. The ones I’d removed from the gun club. So much for Curly’s discretion.

  I groaned when I saw that the warrant was signed by one of the Hillsborough County judges who disliked me because he’d been denied my seat on the federal bench.

  The warrant gave Drake the right to enter the premises to search and seize the gun logs. But there was no way I was going to let that happen.

  Once they came inside, they could seize anything else they found “in plain sight” during the course of the search. Because this was legal harassment, pure and simple, I knew they would stretch the plain sight concept as far as they could go. The flat would be a mess when they left and who knew what they’d take.

  My thoughts flew to my journal and the Thomas Holmes file that Jason had given me. Both were lying in plain sight on my desk. Not to mention the pictures I’d taken at the Andrews house.

  No way would I would Drake a chance to seize any of it.

  Besides that, Michael Drake had never been in my home and he wasn’t coming in now, not if I could help it.

  After stalling as long as possible by reviewing the warrant thoroughly, I sighed.

  “Drake, your warrant seems valid. You’re entitled to the logs. I’ll give them to you,” I told him, not friendly.

  He sneered at me again. “We can come in and get them ourselves.”

  Drake knew as well as I did that this turf war was one I wouldn’t want to lose. Nor did he want to lose face in front of Ms. Shading. We engaged in a silent battle of wills.

  Harry and Bess continued barking on the other side of the door. Although the police officers had put their guns down, they remained willing to shoot, if need be. Harry and Bess just wanted to play; they wouldn’t hurt Michael Drake, no matter how much I’d love them to chew him up and spit him into Hillsborough Bay.

  But no one else knew that.

  I let the barking speak for me for a few moments.

  “I don’t think my dogs would actually bite you or your colleagues,” I left that thought hanging for a few seconds. “But I can’t promise you that. And then what? One of you could get hurt. And these officers seem willing to shoot. You don’t want me to sue you for harming my dogs, do you?”

  Drake seemed temporarily nonplussed. Thwarted for the moment, he considered what to do next.

  Ms. Shading interjected, “We don’t really need to go inside if she gives us the logs, do we?”

  Apparently still hoping to get her into bed, Drake wavered. It was the brief opening I needed.

  “I’ll bring the logs to you,” I told him, as I turned the doorknob, quickly slipped back inside, and flipped the lock.

  A few seconds later, Harry and Bess continued to bark their heads off playing this fabulous new game, and Drake began pounding on the door again.

  “Judge Carson, open this door! Judge Carson, we have a warrant! Judge Carson!”

  I hurried into the den, snagged the gun logs off the wing chair where I’d tossed them earlier, dropped the apple into the wastebasket and hot-footed it out to the door again. Between Drake’s knuckles rapping forcefully enough to make the hardware rattle, I opened the door and slipped back out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me.

  “Here,” I said, breathing hard as I thrust the logs into Barbara Shading’s hand. “This is what you came for.”

  Drake glared at me and I glared back.

  I said, “Now get out.”

  He hadn’t served the warrant before he’d entered onto our private island and walked, bold as brass, into Minaret. When he’d continued up the spiral staircase and made it all the way to my front door, there was no chance he’d thought he was standing on public property. He’d be in trouble over this whole incident, if I chose to make a big deal out of it.

  I watched him consider his very limited options before Ms. Shading turned to him and suggested that they get back to work.

  I’d embarrassed Michael Drake in front of two police officers and a woman subordinate. We both knew he wouldn’t let me get away with that.

  He glared at me with barely controlled hostility and said, “Until we meet again.”

  Until they’d exited the restaurant, I blocked our front door. The action made me feel brave, but really my legs were too rubbery to move.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Tampa, Florida

  Sunday 7:00 p.m.

  January 30, 2000

  MY RELATIONSHIP WITH SHELDON Warwick was purely superficial. He was one of Florida’s two senators long before George and I moved here. He’d had to support my nomination as a U.S. District Court Judge and to steer me through the confirmation process, which he had done smoothly and expeditiously.

  We traveled in the same social circles and had a number of common friends. His wife, Tory, is a casual friend of Kate’s. And, of course, they ate at George’s from time to time when they were in town.

  Otherwise, I seldom had any dealings with either of the Warwicks. I didn’t even know they had a son until David Andrews told me.

  So I didn’t know them well enough to arrive at their Bayshore mansion unannounced. They probably wouldn’t have invited me in, had I attempted to do such a thing. But my visit from Drake, following so closely after Olivia’s news that he’d convened the grand jury, made me realize I was running out of time. For expediency, and for no other reason, I called first.

  I’d reached Tory, the Senator’s wife. After she apologized about two dozen times for beaning me with the crystal when last we’d met, she said sure, I could come by for a drink before they went out to the symphony this evening.

  When I arrived, the maid escorted me into the drawing room where Se
nator Warwick stood, holding a two-onion martini, dressed in his tuxedo, waiting for his wife to come downstairs. He offered me a drink and I declined. He didn’t invite me to sit down, so we stood by the bar and talked like two guests at a cocktail party.

  “Senator,” I began, controlling myself by sheer force of will. “Call me Sheldon.”

  “Sheldon,” I started over, “I want to talk to you about General Andrews.”

  “That’s not a subject I’m prepared to discuss with you, Willa. Not now or ever. Choose something else,” he said. Firmly, but without belligerence. The voice of a man in control. One who gets his way. Always.

  “Unfortunately, Sheldon,” I emphasized his name, too, “short of throwing me out, and since your wife knows I’m here you’ll have to explain that to her, you’ll need to answer me.” I was not going to be bullied by Sheldon Warwick. Not anymore. “Drake just left my house and he is presenting evidence to the grand jury. We don’t have time to fool around.”

  To my way of thinking, Warwick had more to do with George’s arrest than anyone else. He’d gotten George involved in some secret plan to thwart a sitting U.S. President. In some countries, that alone would have been treason.

  “And if you throw me out, I’ll find another, more public way to talk to you. Maybe you’d like to do this in front of my good friend, Frank Bennett?”

  I was quite sure Sheldon Warwick would never want to respond to my questions about General Andrews on local television. But it wasn’t an empty threat. I would involve the media now, if I had to. I had little to lose.

  Warwick’s eyes narrowed into small slits as he judged my sincerity.

  “So, it’d be easier for both of us if we just did this now,” I told him.

  Warwick drained his martini glass and poured himself another, without changing the onions. I forged ahead. “I want to know why President Benson appointed General Andrews to the Supreme Court.”

  “Maybe he thought Andy was the best man for the job.”

  “We both know that’s not true. It had something to do with Thomas Holmes.” I waited a couple of beats, “And his murder.” I watched Warwick closely. He’d played political poker for a long time. His facial expressions gave nothing away.