Due Justice

by Diane Capri

  “Hypothetically speaking, who does the bystander believe the dead man is?” I barely recognized my own voice, and I wasn’t sure Carly heard me.

  I cleared my throat and said “Carly?” a little louder.

  Noticing the change, she turned her head and looked at me directly, unblinking.

  “Doctor Michael Morgan.” She thrust a small piece of newspaper toward me. “Here.”

  She’d been holding it crumpled up in her hand. The paper was wet, the ink smeared with her sweat. I flattened out the creases. The story was short, from the Tribune, dated about two weeks earlier. No pictures.

  DOCTOR MISSING

  Once prominent plastic surgeon Dr. Michael Morgan has been reported missing. Dr. Morgan lives alone and has become a recluse in recent years following his conviction on drug possession charges eight years ago.

  A few details followed, but nothing relevant.

  I realized I’d been holding my breath. I sat back in my chair and tried to breathe normally; Carly continued, looking straight through me.

  Dr. Morgan was a locally prominent plastic surgeon. Legendary. A boy wonder. Some said a genius. I’d never met him, but I’d seen his resume in my court files many times. Small town tax rolls listed entire populations in fewer pages.

  Morgan had been published more than once in every major American medical journal, authored two textbooks and done plastic surgery on three-fourths of Florida’s affluent citizens, males and females alike. He taught at the medical school; lectured on medical legal issues at the law school. In short, he was about as close to medical genius as they come.

  Cold sober now, I tried but couldn’t grasp the idea that Dr. Morgan had been so malevolently killed.

  Here in Tampa, murder sells for about five hundred dollars. At least, that’s the rate for carnies, drug pushers and street people. I don’t know about doctors. But Michael Morgan? What could anyone have had against him?

  I must have pondered too long. Carly rose, pushed her heavy rattan chair back from the table, and walked away. I figured she’d gone to powder her nose. We’d talk when she returned. Hash things out. Decide what to do.

  But she didn’t come back.

  After ten minutes, I went looking for her. The hostess said Carly left the building. I hurried outside to check the parking lot. No luck. No one around. Not even the valet.

  Hustled back into the house, through the restaurant and took the stairs two at a time up to our flat on the second floor. Ran through the den and to the window overlooking the driveway.

  Saw Carly’s gray sedan roll over the bridge from Plant Key to Bayshore Boulevard. Turned left, away from downtown, and lost sight of her between the palm trees and traffic.

  I stood there a while, staring toward her vanishing point in the swiftly darkening twilight.

  “Breathe in, breathe out; breathe in, breathe out,” I repeated to make my hands stop shaking as I slowly descended the stairs.

  How like Carly to get herself into disaster and dump it into my lap. I’d been rescuing her from herself most of her life, but this time she may have gotten into more than I could handle.

  For the first time, I noticed bustling activity in the dining room. Temporary staff my husband, George, hired to serve tonight’s fund-raiser worked purposefully.

  Carly was gone; I had no idea where. I called her cell, her home, and her office. Left messages. I could do nothing more tonight.

  Police Chief Ben Hathaway, along with everyone else who might be interested in Dr. Morgan’s disappearance, would be right here at George’s restaurant for the evening anyway.

  Besides, George was so nervous about this party that I had to do my part to make it a success. Rumors claimed Senator and Victoria Warwick, and Elizabeth Taylor, the actress and AIDS activist, might attend.

  Dr. Michael Morgan, and Carly’s involvement with him, whatever it was, would have to wait.

  If he was already dead, I couldn’t bring him back to life.

  Contrary to popular belief, judges know we are not gods.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tampa, Florida

  Wednesday 5:30 p.m.

  January 6, 1999

  I DRIFTED BACK TO the Sunset Bar, swallowed my gin and let the watery liquid relax me. The tension was chemically erased from my stomach and the rest of my muscles would feel it soon, too. Along with some heat. The January sun, near the horizon, no longer warmed. How much colder would the Gulf waters be this time of year? Well below comfortable body temperatures, that’s for sure. Hypothermia kills, too.

  George emerged from the kitchen, tossing words over his shoulder that I couldn’t hear. He wore his usual uniform: khaki slacks, golf shirt, and kilted cordovan loafers, sans socks. Today, the shirt was bright yellow. It set off his deep tan and dark hair like neon. Despite all the kicking and screaming about leaving Michigan, he’d become a perpetually comfortable Floridian about twenty seconds after we moved here. It’s culturally closer from Grosse Pointe to South Tampa than geography suggests.

  He spied me, came over and bestowed a kiss, which I returned more desperately, wanting to feel something solid having nothing to do with cold water, dead doctors, and missing sisters in trouble.

  Once released, he said, “Good, you’re home early. Take a quick walk through the dining room to make sure everything’s done?”

  “Just sit with me for a minute. I’m sure Peter has everything under control.”

  Peter, George’s Maitre‘d, could run the place with his eyes closed. A charity fund-raiser for six hundred people was no great challenge. He’d done it all before.

  “I’ve had a crush on Elizabeth Taylor since I first saw National Velvet. I want to knock her off her feet.” He wiggled eyebrows like Groucho Marx to force my smile. He’s not clairvoyant, but seventeen years of marriage have given him a sixth sense of my moods. He knows which buttons to push.

  “You act like all this is wildly important to you when you don’t really care whether they have a wonderful time or not,” I teased.

  “Every event we have here is important to me.” Then, he relented a little, “Just because I didn’t vote for our democratic senator doesn’t mean I want the Tribune’s food critic or the Times’ society pages trashing my party.”

  The Tribune or the Times find anything less than perfect? Unlikely as snowfall during a Tampa summer. George’s chefs have won the Golden Spoon Award five times and Florida Trend magazine removed his restaurant from the annual Best of Florida issue because nothing could compete.

  “Bring your drink. I’ll keep your mind off Elizabeth Taylor.” I leered, mocking him, and this time, he was the one who laughed.

  We moved to my favorite outside table. Wicker rockers invited us to kick back and enjoy the view. Sitting outside, watching either sunrise or sunset over the water, is one of the best things about living on Plant Key. I don’t care enough about the sunrise to get up for it. Now, if sunrise is the end of a perfect evening, well that’s something else.

  We sat quietly, words between us unnecessary. Maybe the best part of marriage is comfortable companionship every day. George has been the best friend I could ever have, although when we met I imagined lifetime romance and lust.

  Got that, too.

  Like most evenings, he chattered on about today’s events at the restaurant and asked what had happened in my courtroom. Both of us too keyed up to relax, albeit for different reasons.

  The sun disappeared at 5:49 p.m., one minute later than yesterday, one minute earlier than tomorrow. Normal Tampa sunset. No low clouds to create the spectacular effects we enjoyed in Michigan. No frigid January wind, either.

  George jumped up to complete his preparations. Guess after seventeen years, I can’t expect to compete with Elizabeth Taylor.

  As promised, I moved through the archway into the main dining room for a final inspection. The former ballroom comfortably held about thirty round tables. Tonight, decorated in fuchsia and white, with red and green bromeliads, bird of paradise and other
tropical plants that grew in carefully cultured gardens here on Plant Key. White tablecloths; fuchsia napkins.

  Not the usual restaurant china, but Minaret’s best Herrend, Waterford and sterling flatware. All came with the house when we inherited it from George’s Aunt Minnie; now set flawlessly in ten place settings per table.

  Something truly spectacular was the ice sculpture on the head table. An eagle, its wings spread, and spanning more than four feet, majestically demonstrated the strength most AIDS patients lacked. Too bad the eagle would melt before morning; it’s never cold enough to keep ice frozen in Tampa overnight. Something else to be grateful for.

  I walked the length of both dining rooms; examined the flowers and the table settings. If there were flaws in the presentation, I couldn’t find them. Nor had I expected to.

  I flashed an “OK” sign across the way; George surveyed everything personally and barely noticed my appreciation.

  Everything about our home is astonishing to me still. Often, I marvel that we actually live here. George claims we can’t be evicted, but is that true?

  George’s Aunt Minnie married into the grand old building and bequeathed it to her favorite nephew when she died. Minaret, as it’s called, was built in the 1890’s to house Henry Plant’s family. Plant was constructing the Tampa Bay Hotel, now the University of Tampa, which he hoped would be a vacation Mecca for the rich and famous. He wanted to surpass his rival Henry Flagler’s magnificent Palm Beach construction.

  Henry placed Minaret to be admired like a sparkling solitaire presented on her private island.

  Originally too shallow for navigation and devoid of landmass, Hillsborough Bay was dredged to allow passage of freighters into the Port of Tampa. Henry Plant persuaded the Army Corps of Engineers to build the landmass for Plant Key at the same time they created Harbour Island and Davis Islands.

  Plant Key is marquis cut, about a mile wide by two miles long. Narrow ends face north toward Tampa and south toward the Gulf of Mexico. Key Bridge connects us to Bayshore Boulevard just north of Gandy.

  The locals, and New York society, dubbed the enterprise “Henry’s Ego,” but like everything else Plant did, his island and his home surpassed all expectations.

  Hard to fathom sometimes how much ostentatious wealth was accumulated and displayed in the days before income tax by those who were willing to live maybe just a bit outside the law.

  How lucky can one woman get? I have George, Minaret, a job I love, and I never have to wear parkas. Life is good. Damn good.

  Or it was.

  An hour ago.

  Before Carly’s bombshell.

  No time to dwell on that now. By concentrating carefully, I hoped to avoid thoughts of Dr. Michael Morgan, dead or alive, for the next eight hours. A foolish plan.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tampa, Florida

  Wednesday 7:00 p.m.

  January 6, 1999

  WATER SPLASHED HARD AND fast into the enormous claw-footed tub in my bathroom like Yosemite’s Illilouette falls. Gotta love modern plumbing. I poured avocado oil bath gel in the water and while it bubbled into snowy white mounds, located piano nocturnes on the player and lit two gardenia-scented candles.

  Lowered gingerly into steamy water, head rested against bath pillow, stretched out my full five feet eleven and a half inches and wiggled ten toes. Eyes closed. Tried to stay in the present, blissful moment.

  No luck.

  Kept coming back to Carly, catastrophizing her situation. Mine, too.

  Inactivity is hard for me. My karmic purpose must be to learn patience. Regardless of how I redirected my attention, Carly and Dr. Morgan occupied my mind. The more I tried to push the problem into tomorrow like an earlier Southern mistress, the more the situation menaced.

  Both Carly and I could end up not only unemployed, but disbarred. Or worse.

  Scarlett O’Hara was an idiot; the Bay Body, as Bennett called him, would still be dead tomorrow, too.

  The water had grown as cold as the Gulf.

  I gave up the effort to avoid bad news, pulled the plug, wrapped myself in a robe, and turned on the television.

  Again, the lead story was ongoing non-identification.

  Frank Bennett recapped the few facts he’d previously reported, then said, “Dental records have been requested and may take several days to locate.”

  His next words gave me hope.

  “One source close to the investigation told us the victim could be a tourist who disappeared last year after what survivors claimed was a boating accident. Our source also said authorities are evaluating evidence of a copycat killing.”

  Bennett aired old film clips next. I realized why the Bay Body seemed so familiar to me. An eerily similar killing had occupied the news media for months four years ago and repeated endlessly when the killer was convicted last fall.

  Two possibilities, both chilling: a serial killer, or maybe the wrong man was convicted. I shuddered.

  Bennett ran old interviews following the two prior deaths.

  I noticed the lateness of the hour, pressed the mute button, and began drying my hair.

  Bent over from the waist, head upside down, I glanced at the screen.

  Senator Sheldon Warwick and his wife, Victoria, disembarking from a plane at Tampa International Airport. I restored the sound and heard that the senator and his wife were in town for tonight’s benefit. Kind enough to plug the fund-raiser and George’s restaurant, which was nice. I didn’t see Elizabeth Taylor. Was she there?

  When they began the sports report, I pressed the off button and finished up my hair.

  I was standing in my closet when George came upstairs, patted my bare ass, and said, “Cute as that is—”

  I pulled the creamy cashmere shift out of its garment bag, and held it shoulder level while examining my reflection in the full length mirror. No shape, no style, no color. “It seems like a perfect opportunity for this.”

  “How about one of your cocktail dresses?” He suggested, continuing through to his bathroom and shower. The secret to a long marriage, I’d learned eons ago, was separate bathrooms and separate closets, but never separate beds.

  I focused on makeup. By the third try, my eyeliner looked less like rick-rack on my eyelids, so I left it alone. After a few drinks, no one would notice. Or maybe I’d start a new style.

  Raised my voice to be heard over the pelting water. “This one would get Victoria’s attention. You know how status-conscious she is.”

  Senator Warwick’s wife was infamous for drinking too much and engaging in rowdy behavior that embarrassed everyone. She threw heavy objects and connected more frequently than the Ray’s best slugger. No police department in Florida had ever been politically stupid enough to charge her. But George despised negative publicity and he wanted Victoria to behave. I’d been charged with that task during the planning stages.

  “But if you’d rather I wore something else,” I called out, “I’d be happy to.”

  George said nothing, but I knew I’d snagged his attention.

  So I put on the dress and admired. Fabric draped perfectly from neckline to hem. Covered but did not conceal. Soft as a bunny’s tummy. I loved the dress; every woman present would, too. When it came to fashion, pleasing women was more important. Besides, the dress cost so much I’d be wearing it the rest of my life. Might as well start now.

  George came around the corner wearing a shaving creamed face and nothing else.

  “You know, that’s always been one of my favorite dresses. You look great in it,” he said with such mock sincerity, we both laughed. Tried to kiss me, but I ducked. “You smell great, too,” he said.

  George’s fun-loving side has faded somewhat over the years, but a couple of martinis can still bring out the best in him. I ducked away.

  “Who’s attending this thing?” I shouted, returning to finish my makeup. Minimalism takes more time than you think.

  He said, “All the usual suspects.”

  “Meaning Marian
and the CJ?” I asked, referring to the guy who thinks he’s my boss and his wife, who are not my favorite couple.

  Although CJ is the Chief Judge of the U.S. District Court for the Middle District of Florida, Tampa Division, the title means he’s a paper pusher, not that he gets to boss me around. One of these days, he was going to figure that out. Maybe I could hold my temper until that happened.

  “Among others.” George said.

  I put down my hairbrush, entered the steamy bathroom and confronted him directly.

  “What others?”

  “All of the offspring, too. $1,000 a plate.” He said as he ducked under the shower to avoid my outrage.

  “Eight Richardsons?” I shouted to be heard over the running water.

  “I couldn’t invite Pricilla Worthington and not invite her brother.” Attempting to placate me by naming a guest who actually was one of my favorite people. No chance.

  Steam heated me up and wilted my hair. The dress felt scratchy against damp skin. I escaped into my dressing room to finish my ultra short hair. It doesn’t take much; whatever shape it’s going to have flows from cut, not effort.

  When George shut down his shower, I asked, “Who is Pricilla’s brother?”

  “We’ve lived here ten years, Willa,” he said, truly exasperated. “The CJ is Pricilla’s brother. How could you not know that?”

  Indeed.

  How could I not know that?

  Denial. Pure and simple.

  “The interrelationships of Tampa society don’t interest me.” Indignation is often the best defense. “Who else is coming to this thing?”

  With exaggerated patience, as if explaining to a simple-minded child, he said, “It’s a Junior League function. Anyone and everyone willing to pay will be an honored guest.” He had finished making a perfect bow of his black tie, patted my cashmere-covered butt, and left the room saying, “If you’re really curious, there’s a copy of the guest list on the desk.”

  Still thinking about Carly, I skimmed over the names, which only reinforced how boring this evening would be. Every person on the list could afford to pay a thousand dollars a plate, all right. But this wasn’t Silicone Valley. People who had that kind of money around here had made it the old fashioned way—inheritance.