by Diane Capri
Carolyn Young was an owner of MedPro. Marilee Aymes claimed Carolyn was willing to commit theft to obtain that ownership. She also sought to protect her very lucrative explant scam and expert witness fees. The end of the litigation would make a sizeable dent in her earning power. For Carolyn Young, killing Morgan would have been both personal and professional.
I wanted to believe it, but I didn’t quite.
Maybe if she hadn’t made such a public spectacle of herself at his funeral? That day, it seemed to me, she really did love him still.
Not crossing her off, but I kept going down my list.
Considering the strengths and weaknesses of each suspect in the same way, I covered Marilee Aymes (very angry, capable of lifting the body, a good shot?), Victoria Warwick (woman scorned?), Sheldon Warwick (reelection bid tainted by wife’s affair with Morgan?).
Paused. Sheldon Warwick is a proud man. He wouldn’t be pleased by Tory’s affair. But murder? Everybody knows Tory’s a flake. If it never affected him before, no evidence the knowledge pushed him to kill this time.
Christian Grover (a definite possibility), Fred Johnson (the same motive as every other plaintiffs’ lawyer on the planet), O’Connell Worthington (ditto on the defense side), even Cilla Worthington (you’ve got to be kidding), Kate (now you’re really getting silly).
I still had several names to cover, but the flight attendant tapped my shoulder and asked me to put my seatback in its full upright position for landing, and the captain slowly lowered the L1011 onto the runway at Detroit Wayne Airport. Passengers did not applaud, but we should have.
One major advantage to flying first class, besides interesting flying companions and comfortable seats, is that first class is always at the front of the plane. While my fellow passengers accumulated overstuffed bags and waddled up the aisle, I dashed out into the frigid jet way and immediately realized I’d forgotten my parka.
January above the Mason Dixon line. How absurd.
Instead of renting a car, I turned my pink tropical wool blazer’s lapels up, hustled to the taxi stand and stomped around to generate warmth in the sunless damp while I waited for the first available heated cab.
“The Renaissance Center, please,” I said between chattering teeth, naming the city within a city now synonymous with the best of Detroit.
He looked at me like I’d have to repeat myself in Arabic before he’d comprehend, but after a while the taxi headed east onto the rebuilt I-94 entrance ramp toward Detroit. The only trace of Flight 255 was the black marble memorial surrounded by blue spruce trees on Middlebelt Road.
About twenty-five minutes later, I winced at Joe Lewis’s oversized black fist positioned at the entrance to downtown Detroit. Joe Lewis was a great native son, but why the artist couldn’t have presented a more flattering and welcoming sculpture of the man was a mystery.
The temperature sign at Comerica Bank declared fifteen degrees without the wind-chill factor, which would bring the “feels like” temperature down another ten to twenty. Shit.
The taxi driver pulled into the driveway between the chiller berms, stopped in front of the RenCen’s main entrance, collected his forty-five-dollar-plus-tip ransom, and released me.
Briefly, I looked up. The Renaissance Center, brainchild of Henry Ford II, was built to revitalize Detroit’s economy. Designed by an Atlanta architect and opened in 1976, it resembled a collection of five giant silver cans separated from the rest of the city by a concrete bunker. The center cylinder, at seventy-three stories, housed the claimed tallest all-hotel skyscraper in the western hemisphere.
Lingering to admire was impossible. No matter. I knew every inch of the place.
Frigid cold chased me inside the icy architecture where the indoor temperatures were marginally higher. Chillers inside the berms used Detroit River water to heat and cool the building. Slight miscalculation. River water, like the atmosphere inside and out, was near frozen in winter.
By 1980, completed and occupied, the RenCen was memorable for three truths: Gleaming buildings reflected Detroit’s decline too brightly. The cylindrical labyrinth was impossible to navigate even with a blueprint and a guide. And the post-construction fight was the first lawsuit of my career. I defended the case for eight years before we moved to Tampa.
Now Detroit was more decrepit than ever. Locating restrooms inside the cornerless RenCen buildings remained impossible and the construction lawsuit continues without me.
I rode the glass elevator facing the Detroit River and Canada up forty-five floors to The Renaissance Club at the top of Tower 400. Breathtaking view. Made me almost nostalgic for the city where I’d practiced law for eight years.
Almost, but not quite.
I shivered again in the cold elevator; wrapped my arms around myself. How had I ever survived here?
Robin Jakes waited in the club’s lobby, fashionably attired in a heavy wool pantsuit, closed shoes, and a turtleneck. She was a bit shorter and wider than I am, but when she greeted me with a warm hug, I bent and too enthusiastically embraced, clinging for body heat.
Seated at a window table, hot coffee poured, caught up on family matters, I held the cup in both palms like a warmer and prompted, “So tell me what your articles didn’t say about Michael Morgan.”
Robin’s crooked chagrin seemed genuine. “He was a curious guy. Brimming contradictions.”
Cold waves emitted from the glass walls raising gooseflesh over every inch of my skin. Was there no heat in this entire building? I jiggled my legs under the table.
I asked, “How so?”
“Brilliant, arrogant, but charmingly charismatic. A parade of lovers, but serially monogamous, he said.”
“All female? The lovers?”
She tilted her head, as if the question hadn’t occurred to her. “I never asked, but I’d guess he was two-thousand percent hetro.”
I nodded. “What did you talk about?”
“He used to ask me why women latch onto every screwy idea that comes along for improving their physical appearance.”
“Not what I’d have expected from him,” I said.
She folded ringless fingers with short buffed nails together on the table between us. “He raved for hours about how women spend billions of dollars on makeup and clothes to enhance their outer appeal, and billions more on drugs, creams, and injections.”
“What about surgery?”
“That, too. Then he’d move on to eating disorders and the American woman’s preoccupation with excessive thinness. Women die, he’d say, but others are not deterred.”
“Curious rant for such a womanizer, don’t you think?”
“I do. I did. But he seemed possessed, almost.” She mocked his tone and cadence while wagging a pointed finger at me. “Health is one thing. Exercise and proper nutrition for health reasons is sound thinking. Prolonging the joy of living is everyone’s right. But bulimia, anorexia, plastic surgery, removal of ribs, tattoos, body piercing. These are abominations, mostly preying on women, primarily frivolous and some seriously harmful. You are a beautiful woman. Don’t do things like that.”
The waiter warmed our coffee and delivered soup. I wondered if I could put my frozen feet in it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tampa, Florida
Sunday 1:35 p.m.
January 24, 1999
Robin adopted two voices now, hers for questions and Morgan’s for answers, like an audio book. “And the men, I asked him. What are they doing? He said, ‘They wear oxford cloth button down collar shirts from ages eight to eighty, from his mother’s selections until his undertaker chooses.’ Then he’d waive his hand to flip through the next bit. He said, ‘With brief respites in the teen years for obnoxious tee-shirts and middle age for red bikinis.’”
She chuckled at the image these last two apparently conjured up.
I was half listening and shivering, and otherwise thinking that Carly had delivered a variation of this same speech not too long ago. She must have heard the rant from
Morgan, too.
“Morgan made more than one fortune exploiting this supposed wealthy-woman’s neurosis,” I said.
Robin teased, “And slept with them all before, during and after. That’s what made him interesting to interview. Sex and attraction is an endlessly fascinating topic. Haven’t you read the best seller list lately?”
We ordered more coffee, and she salivated when our waiter presented the desert tray featuring six different bowls of ice cream. Even the smell made me colder.
I lit up a Partaga. I think better when I’m smoking and there’s a fire stick in my hand.
Robin ordered a double scoop hot fudge sundae. Maybe burning off those extra calories raised her body temperature or something.
“The point is that what Morgan said got me to thinking about the issues, and that’s how I sold the piece to the Sunday Times. Whatever causes the behavior he described, breast implants might be the poster child for the condition.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, think about it,” she said between spoonfuls of the frozen sundae. “A more chauvinistic product has never been marketed. Yet millions were sold, and most implants were beloved--no, more like worshiped--by women. Even after the potential side effects were publicized and access restricted, women manipulate FDA rules to get implants.” She’d finished the sundae and pushed aside the dish. “Why is mammary fat worth all that pain? Maybe even death?”
“You’ll be nominated for a Pulitzer, Robin. The article is well done. Maybe we can talk more on the phone when I get home?”
“Oh, sure. You’ve got a three o’clock plane, right?”
I nodded. “What’s on the video tapes?”
“The Morgan video is running on “Dateline” Thursday night. I brought you a copy. You can take it with you.” She handed me a blue plastic box.
“What’s in the shopping bag?”
“I’ve got about twenty hours of raw footage. I talked to him on every conceivable subject over a period of weeks,” she placed the bag closer to my seat. It contained more than a dozen similar blue boxes. “I thought you might want to see all the tapes. Get Frank Bennett to play them for you.”
“Why?”
“Commercial tapes. They can’t be viewed on your home equipment.”
Robin paused as if to confirm something to herself before she pulled one last box out of her briefcase. She pulled a five dollar bill from her pocket.
“You’re still a lawyer, aren’t you, Willa?”
What was she getting at? I paused. Slowly, responded, “Yes.”
“You told me once that you’d be my lawyer if I ever needed one. Do you remember that?”
“Well, yes, but--”
“Take this five dollars.” She handed the bill to me and I took it without thinking. “You’re my lawyer now. Whatever I ask you to keep confidential, you can’t disclose without my consent.”
“Well, not exactly--”
She handed the red plastic box across the table. Held it a moment too long before she released it to me.
“The taped presentation Dr. Morgan wanted to make to the manufacturers. He gave it to me in confidence, but now that he’s dead . . .”
Her voice trailed off.
I put the five dollar bill in my pocket and opened the box. A black tape. No label. No identifying marks. Maybe fingerprints or DNA could be lifted from it or the box?
Snapped the box closed again.
Glanced up and met her steady gaze.
“Do you really want to give this to me? I might be required to turn it over to authorities. Are you okay with that?”
“I don’t know who else Morgan showed it to. I haven’t disclosed it and I’ll take your word that you won’t either. Not unless you ask me first.”
I worked through the likelihood that I’d be required to give up the tape. No matter. I absolutely wouldn’t give it back without seeing it.
A fact Robin had counted on.
“Red alert, huh?”
I slipped the red box into the bag with the others.
She laughed, “It’s a bombshell, all right. We’ve known each other a long time, Willa. You won’t disclose the tape without my permission. If I can’t trust a judge, who can I trust?”
Indeed. She didn’t know the CJ.
“You know as much about the evidence as anyone at this point, Robin. Do you agree with Morgan’s theory?”
She tapped her index finger against her empty ice cream bowl. After four beats, she said, “I’ve heard enough theories to fill the Library of Congress. Suffice it to say Morgan believed. I guess I don’t expect it to be what he liked to call it.”
“Which was?”
“‘The Silicone Solution.’ He believed his solution would end the lawsuits and give women their peace of mind again. He thought businesses could go back to making good products that women wanted to buy. But his is just a theory. Like the others. Could be true. Maybe not.” She shrugged.
“If you don’t believe it, then why do you care if I show the video?”
Robin said, “Watch everything first. Then, if you feel you want to share it with someone, ask me first. I’ll probably agree. I’ve kept copies; already sold copyrighted stories. You’ll have to let Frank watch with you anyway. I trust him, too.”
She and Frank have been working the Michigan/Florida connection for years.
We rode down together in the elevator, smoothly gliding through 400 feet of cold, gray January sky.
Robin placed one hand on my arm to draw my attention.
“One last thing, Willa, that might be important.”
“Yes?”
She took a deep breath and for the first time, seemed reluctant. The elevator continued to slide. Robin stalled. “Now that Morgan’s dead, I’ve been feeling guilty about not reporting this sooner but he didn’t want me to, so I respected his wishes. I’m not even sure it’s true or that he would want me to tell anyone.”
She sounded unsure, tentative. Very un-Robin like.
The elevator stopped at ground level. My flight was due to depart in ninety minutes. I’d need to hustle.
“Robin, I’ve got to go. Right now. I’ll treat this like everything else we’ve discussed. I promise. What is it?”
She hesitated briefly. I pulled my arm away. “Robin--”
She sighed, said, “You’ll see on the tapes that Morgan and I got quite friendly after a while. He was coming on to me, I think more out of habit, you know? It’s how he related to women.”
“Yes,” I drew it out to encourage her to hurry it up.
“But he started to tell me things. About his life. Stuff I don’t think he would have told me otherwise. You know, how many affairs he’d had, how he wished he’d had children, things like that.”
“Okay.”
“Everything is on the tape. I never talked to him off the record.”
“Robin, look. I’m sorry. I cannot miss my plane. Walk with me.”
She trekked by my side a few steps before she stopped again, took another deep breath. “Okay. Well, one of the things he said. He was being blackmailed. For more than ten years.”
Not such a secret. He’d told Carly the same thing.
“Did he say why?”
“It started when he agreed to settle his first wrongful death case. There was a confidentiality agreement. He denied liability.” She hesitated.
“But?”
“He knew he’d killed that patient.”
Wow. Way to bury the lede. I stopped pulling away. Gave Robin my full attention.
Asked, “I take it someone else knew, too?”
She nodded. “Morgan paid for silence.”
“How much?”
“Three million dollars. Or more. He was a little vague on the total.”
I whistled, low and slow. Three million reasons to kill.
Made sense if Morgan had been the perpetrator of blackmail, not the victim.
Why would the blackmailer kill the golden goose?
Unless Morgan was threatening to stop paying. Then, maybe it made sense.
“Did he tell you who the blackmailer was?” I asked her.
“You’ll find the conversation. I don’t know which tape. May be a couple hours in, though.”
“Robin, I’ve really got to go now. I’ll call you from home.” I pulled my arm away.
“Just be careful, OK? Blackmailers kill, too.”
I returned her quick hug and promised to keep in touch.
Jogged to the taxi stand lugging her shopping bag filled with videotapes and hoped I’d have time to buy a duffle at the airport.
Waited to catch a cab, totally unaware of the biting cold.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tampa, Florida
Sunday 3:50 p.m.
January 24, 1999
On the return flight, I got my list of suspects out again and I had more to think about. If Morgan was being blackmailed, and he’d paid over a million dollars over the years in what the novelists call “hush money,” where did he get it? He was a successful doctor, I’m sure he made a good living for his time, and he had written more than one successful textbook. But he’d had more than a little trouble with lawsuits, drugs, and high living. He made some money from his ownership interest in MedPro. Still, even one million after tax dollars would be hard to come by.
I pulled out the photographs I took of Morgan’s house. I looked at the kitchen, the blood on the wall, the position of the table and the door. I looked at the living room again, examining the strewn furniture and books. I remembered that something about the house bothered me when I was there and I tried to look at it again in my memory, with the pictures to help. I visualized the scene, then looked at the picture of that part of the house. I kept looking at the pictures and visualizing the rooms. Suddenly it came to me. I had it. It wasn’t what I’d seen, but what I hadn’t seen that had bothered me.
I thought about every private home I’ve ever been in, including ours. Had I ever seen one so obviously lived in as Michael Morgan’s with absolutely no personal photographs at all? I couldn’t think of one.
So where did Morgan’s personal photographs go? And why? Did they include the killer? Or the reason for the murder? Too many questions, and too little information. But it was an angle I hadn’t considered before, and I knew Hathaway hadn’t either. I wrote the word “Pictures” in capital letters on the top page of my yellow pad.