Licensed to Thrill: Volume 1

by Diane Capri

  Her mere presence was a shock; she’d been ignoring me for more than a year.

  I’d covered well; offered smiles, hugs. Asked her to join me for drinks. She feigned reluctance, but allowed me to persuade.

  Twenty minutes later we sat outdoors on the Sunset Bar patio. I played with the pink flamingo swizzle stick in my iced Bombay Sapphire and tonic, moving the lemon twist around the cubes, afraid to sip because the alcohol would do what alcohol does. The swirling gin, yellow lemon and white ice mesmerized, passed the time.

  Perfect late January afternoon. Warm and clear. Setting sun and rising full moon cast simultaneous glow on Hillsborough Bay, giving a mystical quality to my experience.

  I knew it was the atmosphere that made me feel this way because I hadn’t swallowed any gin. Yet.

  Carly’s visit was urgent in some way; she never came to me bearing good news or even minor trouble.

  I felt my muscles tense with anticipation and anxiety.

  Sought understanding. Gaze lifted. Watched my almost-sibling. What was the problem? Sure I could handle it, if only she’d tell me what it was. Too much drama. With Carly, always. If only she’d come tomorrow, when everything in my world was scheduled to be less tense. She had to know that today wasn’t the best time to commandeer my attention.

  Something was very wrong.

  Again I noted the setting sun reflected glistening orange that flattered her copper coloring; but her clothes were wrinkled and dark circles under her eyes showed through her concealer. Lipstick smeared. Bright pink blush on pale cheeks made her look more like Bozo than Garbo. Even her curly red hair was dirty.

  So not-Carly.

  More gin. Definitely. But not yet.

  I felt the familiar ambivalent emotions Carly always inspired. She was fiercely independent, but perpetually getting into some mess that I had to get her out of. I loved her, of course; she was the only sister I’d ever have. But I could strangle her sometimes. Gleefully.

  Stubborn as an elephant, she couldn’t be pushed. Believe me. I’ve tried.

  While I waited for her to speak I flashed back to the first time we met. Gathered around the bassinet, watching. Instantly beloved. Tiny face, flashing blue eyes. Red ringlets framed porcelain skin. Mom cooed over Carly’s little feet and perfect hands. Her brothers murmured in hushed wonder as they examined miniscule fingernails, perfect eyelashes. One of the boys, not quite ten and very clever, wanted to call her Curly, but his mother insisted on Carly, and his brother punched him in the arm whenever he refused to get it right.

  No one noticed me, Wilhelmina, standing off to the side, already five foot six and still growing. Nothing about me was petite or cute, then or now. I was gawky and awkward. Even my earlobes were big.

  The only things Carly and I had in common were red hair and double X chromosomes.

  And her family.

  My relationship with Carly was born in that minute. Conflicting feelings of awe, jealousy, irritation—and protectiveness. I’d always taken care of Carly and she’d always resisted. She thought she could take care of herself. Experience proved otherwise.

  I like to think we’ve both matured in twenty-nine years, but maybe not.

  She was all grown up now, but still 110 pounds and 5’2”. Carly’s style was anything but cute. Sporting brightly polished artificial claws and perfect makeup, she was a proud glamour hound. “It’s better to look good than to be good” is her personal creed.

  Maybe she can’t be good, or maybe she just doesn’t try. Either way, the result is the same: whirling dervish in a small, perfect package.

  I sighed loudly. Stopped playing with my watery gin and pushed it aside. As much as drinking would have helped, I’d need to keep all my wits about me to deal with Carly, and I was now dangerously short of time.

  Too soon, my husband expected more than six hundred guests to attend an AIDS research benefit here in his restaurant. It’s no secret that I hate these shindigs. Not my thing. At all. George might actually have been holding me captive when he extracted my promise to act as hostess. A thousand dollars a plate. Movers and shakers and poseurs showing up to see and be seen at what they considered their finest. I was hot, sweaty, and still wearing my work clothes.

  “OK, the suspense is killing me. I don’t know what it is you have on your mind, but it can’t be that bad.” Realizing I was sticking my neck out, I asked, “What’s up?”

  As if she’d been waiting for me to ask, Carly said, “It’s worse than anything you can imagine.”

  She said it quietly, with none of her usual bravado.

  Impatience deflated like a bayoneted blimp.

  “Hey, come on. I have quite an imagination,” I joked. “Just because you haven’t talked to me in a while doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

  The truth was that I cared too much. Always had. Never figured out how to toughen up my heart where Carly was concerned.

  She smiled a little, sheepishly; seemed to take the edge off.

  Carly slumped back in her chair and looked at the water. There were a couple of late afternoon sunfish sailors out, racing back and forth from Davis Islands to a spot 100 yards off the edge of our island, Plant Key.

  About a year or two later, or at least it seemed that long as I imagined myself forced to greet senators and celebrities wearing nothing but my underwear, Carly finally started to talk. I resisted the urge to cheer.

  “Did you see NewsChannel eight this morning?”

  “Why?”

  More silence.

  She picked up her white wine, took a sip, put it down, picked up the blue paper cocktail napkin, concentrated hard while she folded it into a fan. She never looked directly at me.

  I wondered if my deodorant would hold on another eight hours. Maybe I could skip my bath?

  “Did you see the news story on the drowning victim?” She finally asked, in a small voice.

  Drowning victim? Are you kidding me?

  Maybe he drowned, but I hoped he was dead before he went into the water.

  Frank Bennett had the report. He’d said pieces of a body were pulled out of Tampa Bay before dawn. The largest portion, the part the sharks hadn’t eaten, was found banging against the pilings of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge in Pinellas County. Hands and feet were bound together by clothesline and tied to heavy cement slabs. Face unrecognizable.

  By now, she had shredded the cocktail napkin into tiny blue pieces and dropped them all over the deck. I remember thinking foolishly that she’d need collagen on those frown lines next week if she didn’t relax.

  I nodded encouragement to keep the words flowing because I couldn’t fathom Carly involved in murder. The possibility didn’t surface.

  “Let me ask you a hypothetical question,” Carly said.

  That very second, I knew. She wasn’t looking for sisterly advice. Not the usual boyfriend trouble or help with credit card bills. Carly was involved in something much, much worse. My body shivered with visceral certainty even before my brain acknowledged.

  I should have stopped her right there. Should have cloaked us both with appropriate protections. I knew what to do. I knew how to do it.

  But did I even try to dodge the bullet I saw coming straight at me? No. So how much smarter had all those Detroit homicides made me?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tampa, Florida

  Wednesday 5:05 p.m.

  January 6, 1999

  IT WAS LIKE WATCHING my own train wreck.

  Gooseflesh raised on my skin.

  Carly had set me up. I felt foolish for letting her get away with it. And I was scared for her. She’d manipulated me, which meant she knew she was in serious trouble. Why didn’t she take her guilty conscience to Tampa’s best criminal defense attorney? At least he would have been required to keep her secrets.

  Masterfully played, though. Showed up here without warning; protested my invitation to talk just strongly enough to establish reluctance. Didn’t volunteer information, but waited until I insisted sh
e tell me. Forced me to press her until she relented.

  I might not keep her secrets, but nothing she told me could be used against her now. Under the law, she’d been interrogated in violation of her constitutional rights. It didn’t matter that she knew she had rights; it only mattered that I hadn’t warned her before she spilled her story.

  She must have used the technique hundreds of times before. Like a dumb street criminal, I had walked right into her game before I realized we were on the playing field. Call me crazy, but I wasn’t expecting to discuss murder in the moon glow.

  No matter. I am the law; a role that suits like second skin, as Carly well knows.

  Keeping score? Carly Austin, member in good standing of the Florida Bar, one; Wilhelmina Carson, United States District Court Judge for the Middle District of Florida, zero.

  Maybe she saw my dawning understanding and figured I might actually strangle her, for she perched on the chair’s edge, ready to run should the need arise. I’ll admit, shaking her silly appealed. I grabbed my biceps instead.

  Carly’s words rushed faster.

  “Hypothetically speaking,” she said—my teeth clamped painfully onto my cheek—“What if someone might know the identity of that body? Would they be required to go to the police? Tell who they think it is? Even if they’re not sure?”

  She stressed the word required to emphasize her legal question. One that posed serious risks to us both.

  And raised my temperature a good ten degrees. Hers, too, judging by her deeply crimsoned face. I appreciated the warmth.

  Just like she’d done all her life, Carly put me in a hell of a spot, even if she was telling me the whole story, which I was very sure she wasn’t.

  Carly’s usual style was to reveal only what she thought you needed to know. As a kid, she’d say, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you,” but that wouldn’t have been a funny line at the moment.

  Swiftly, my mind stepped through the logic.

  Knowing the dead man’s identity alone wasn’t enough to scare her so badly. She’d have handled that small issue on her own. One phone call to the police chief or even an anonymous 911 tip. Simple problem with a quick resolution.

  No, complications motivated her behavior.

  Whether she was required to disclose information about the identity of this body depended on how she obtained the knowledge—and who was asking. Consequences chased her here. But why? She didn’t kill the guy. Right? I was afraid to ask; she might tell me.

  Reporting Carly to the local police for withholding evidence or being an accessory to obstruction of justice and facing impeachment myself. Just great.

  Eyed the watery gin, tempted to drink it anyway and let it take the edge off, if it could.

  I said, “Let’s recap. A drowning accident. Hypothetical bystander may know the victim’s identity. Your question is: Does an ordinary citizen have a legal obligation to report unsubstantiated suspicion?”

  “I don’t know,” Carly said quietly. “I mean, let’s assume you don’t know for sure who it is, but you have enough facts to suggest a realistic possibility.”

  “The easy thing to do is make the call, isn’t it? Any decent citizen would volunteer whatever information he might have about the identity of a murder victim,” I told her. “Think of the man’s family, if nothing else.”

  She didn’t notice that I’d slipped into personalizing her facts. As always, Carly was totally focused on Carly. She was crazy not to call this in. She could lose her license to practice law if she handled things the wrong way. She could end up in jail.

  And I might be the one who had to report her. Neither one of us wanted that to happen. I ran my fingers through my hair and blew out a stream of frustration.

  Old annoyance elbowed concern aside. Carly was in trouble; she should tell me about it and stop acting like a cross between flaky child and super spy. How could I fix her problem if I didn’t know what it was? I love Carly, if love is a way to describe my feelings. And I’d do anything for her mother. But Carly doesn’t make it easy. Dammit!

  I watched as she calculated how much to reveal: keep me tethered, but not overplay her hand. Gamesmanship. Maybe she’d been AWOL from my life a while, but her methods sure hadn’t changed.

  “Carly?”

  “Well, hypothetically speaking, suppose you had been spending a lot of time with a guy and he missed an important meeting with you and for a month after that you were never able to get in touch with him,” she said, parceling out the information as if she was serving up expensive Kobe beef to a homeless woman.

  My patience snapped. “I know a number of people I haven’t seen in a month, but I don’t believe any of them have been submerged in Tampa Bay all that time.”

  What the hell. I reached for the gin and drank about half of it. Even with mostly melted ice water filling the glass, I felt it hit my stomach with a jolt. I should have had lunch.

  “Yes, but then stories started appearing in the paper about his disappearance.” Carly looked at the water for several moments. Voice so quiet I had to lean closer to hear, she said, “And the last time I saw him, he told me someone was going to kill him.”

  The effects of the gin evaporated as quickly as they’d settled over me. Years of listening to clients’ stories, sitting stone-faced in court while your theory of the case gets flattened by opposing counsel, then on the bench listening to all manner of ridiculous tales, I’d learned to appear cool and calm no matter what happened.

  But appearing cool and being calm are two different things. My pounding heart and racing pulse gave me the real story.

  I could feel my hands starting to shake, so I sat on them. I didn’t need what her mother calls my “inner wisdom” to tell me Carly believed, absolutely.

  She knew who he was; that he’d been murdered.

  Maybe she even knew who killed him.

  Oh, God, I prayed. But for what? To be wrong? To turn back the clock and let me erase this entire conversation?

  Merely knowing the dead man put Carly closer to murder than I wanted either of us to be, closer than I’d felt when I lived in Detroit and anonymous people were murdered every day.

  “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.