Night Justice

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Night Justice Page 8

by Diane Capri


  Minaret was the name of the nineteenth-century home George had inherited from his great-aunt Minnie. He was her only nephew and her favorite person, so when she died, Minnie passed the place on to him. The name reflected the polished-steel onion dome on top of the mansion.

  The first floor housed the restaurant, called simply “George’s Place.” The second floor was our flat.

  At first, back when we’d been living in Detroit, getting the call from Minnie’s estate attorney had felt a little like winning the grand prize on some game show. But what they don’t tell you is that those prizes come with hefty costs attached to them. Costs like taxes and upkeep. Hell, the air-conditioning bills alone were enough to fund a third-world country for a couple of years.

  Not that George and I were about to hit the welfare line or anything, but all his long hours working at the restaurant, and mine sitting on the bench, weren’t spent just because we loved our jobs.

  I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut as George traveled closer to where the police vehicles were controlling access to our home. My head pounded, and my body ached, and all I wanted was a long, hot bath and a nice glass of gin on the veranda. I’d given up smoking again, but tonight called for a cigar to ease away the tensions of the day.

  I straightened in my seat and faced forward like an adult, still wearing my sunglasses. George gave my hand a reassuring press as we pulled up to the uniformed officers. Chief Hathaway strolled over from his unmarked sedan.

  George lowered his window, and hot air blasted in as Ben tipped his head to us while keeping an eye on the mob. “George. Willa. Glad you’re here. I’ll accompany you home, if you don’t mind. We’ve finally got an ID on the deceased.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Friday, November 11

  6:20 p.m.

  “So, who is he?” I asked as soon as we got inside.

  Instead of heading upstairs to our living quarters as we usually would have, George led the way into the Sunset Bar. The place was deserted, which was strange given we were getting into tourist season. November always began the snowbird migration of part-time residents returning south for the winter and the first batch of vacationers fleeing the cold.

  George waved to the bartender as we passed and then led us to an isolated booth in the corner. I slid into the seat. George sat beside me, and Ben took the bench across.

  “Who is he?” I asked again.

  Ben took off his hat and ran a hand through his flattened hair. “Charles Evan Hayden. Went by Evan. Worked for Foster & Barnes, a local financial services firm catering to sports celebrities, mainly. Small but successful, I guess.”

  “How did you ID him?” I straightened as the bartender brought us glasses of water. I’d have much preferred a Bombay Sapphire martini with a twist, but that would have to wait.

  Ben drained half his water and nodded. “Three of his coworkers contacted us after we ran his picture on the local news.”

  “Good. What’d they say?” I asked.

  Ben cringed slightly. “Seems Hayden wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular with his colleagues.”

  “Why not?” George asked, a troubled frown on his face.

  “He was a financial planner for star athletes. Mostly local, but he had clients throughout Florida. His specialty, according to his coworkers anyway, was tax avoidance.” Ben raised his eyebrows. “Which in his case was a euphemism for tax fraud, I gathered.”

  “Oh,” George said.

  Tax avoidance isn’t illegal. Tax fraud is. I’d seen my share of fraudsters as a lawyer, a judge, and sometimes in our social circles. Motivations for tax fraud varied. Usually, they simply didn’t want to pay taxes. Everybody understood the desire to avoid paying, but most people were law-abiding taxpayers anyway.

  And some weren’t.

  I said, “Sounds like his colleagues weren’t very fond of him.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” Ben shook his head and snorted. “No one we talked to could stand the guy. By all accounts, he was arrogant and rude and a general son of a bitch. His nickname around the office was Chuckles.”

  George frowned. “Chuckles?”

  Ben nodded. “Because he was so obnoxious, and he hated using his first name. Avoided it at all times, they said. Calling him Chuckles to his face was a sure way to get punched if you didn’t duck out of the way fast enough.”

  “Well, that’s just great. We’re being flayed alive over a guy who was about as worthy as Bernie Madoff,” George said snidely. I flashed him a glare, and he shrugged.

  I looked at Ben. “The coroner told me Hayden was so doped up on toxic heroin there was no way he could have walked out in front of my car, Ben. That means either he fell or someone pushed him into my path.”

  Ben nodded. “Seems that way.”

  The cold water glass between my fingers was slippery with condensation. After a couple of sips and a minute of contemplation, I asked, “Do you think his coworkers might have despised Hayden enough to kill him?”

  “Not sure,” Ben replied. “I’m going over to the offices to interview them again myself tomorrow. It’s Saturday, but I guess financial planners are like cops. They never take a day off.”

  “I’d like to come along.”

  He frowned, and George scowled.

  “I know it’s not normal procedure. But I’ve got the time,” I said. “And I’m good at it. We’ve worked together before. You know I won’t get in your way.”

  Ben narrowed his gaze. “When we asked his colleagues about drug use, they all gave a firm ‘no way.’ They say Hayden was a horse’s ass, but he was also squeaky clean about his body. A real health nut. The coworkers all said Hayden would never have used drugs. Called him a straight arrow in that department, at least.”

  “If Hayden didn’t take the drugs himself, how’d they get in his system?” George’s scowl deepened. “You think someone else shot him up? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Dunno.” Ben shrugged. “A couple of his colleagues are claiming foul play.”

  “Murder?” I said.

  “They didn’t go that far. They just said if Hayden had drugs in his system, he didn’t take them willingly,” he said. “And if someone else gave him the drugs, maybe they unintentionally overdosed him.”

  Perversely, the word “murder” made me feel slightly better. Not that murder was some kind of stimulant for me. But if someone had deliberately killed Hayden, the investigation would pivot in a whole new direction. Meaning, away from me and my car and my driving.

  “Is that what you think, Ben? This was an accidental overdose?” I asked.

  “It’s too early to rule anything out.” Ben finished the rest of his water, then stood, collecting his hat. “I need to get back out there. Be careful tossing that information around. If speculation gets out that Hayden was murdered, you’ll have even more people camped out at the entrance to your bridge. Looks like you might need to shut down your restaurant for a while, George. At least until all this blows over.”

  “What?” George sputtered. “I can’t do that. Crowd control is your job. Put some more officers out there and keep those vultures off my property.”

  “We’re doing what we can. We can stop them at the bridge, but we’re likely to snag some of your paying customers that way. Besides, the airspace is open, and there’s nothing we can do about drones flying overhead. Helicopters, either.” Ben gave a curt nod and prepared to leave.

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  Ben replied, “We’ve notified Hayden’s parents. They live in Pittsburgh. They’re flying in tomorrow.”

  “You told them about the toxic heroin?” George asked.

  Ben shook his head. “Not yet. Figured that’s the kind of news I should deliver in person. No parent wants to hear that their son died of any kind of drug overdose.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments before I asked, “What about my request to go with you to Foster & Barnes?”

  He looked at me a couple of long moments before he
replied, “I’ll call you in the morning, and let you know what time I’m heading over there. You’ve got good instincts and firsthand knowledge of the accident, which could be useful. That’ll free up another man to secure your bridge, too.”

  George harrumphed.

  Ben grinned and plopped his hat back into place. “Have a good evening.”

  I watched Ben’s back until he left the Sunset Bar. The brief flare of adrenaline-spiked euphoria I’d felt over the possibility of Hayden’s murder moving me out of the spotlight vanished. In its place came a heavy finality. I loved George, our marriage was good and strong and true, but we couldn’t afford to shut down his restaurant. Simple as that.

  “So,” I said as George slipped off the bench and moved across to where Ben had been sitting. “Things are really slow?”

  “Not just slow. Things are dead in here.” I winced, and George reached across the table to take my hand. “Sorry. Bad pun.”

  “No. You’re right. And Ben was right, too.” I gestured around the empty bar. “Until something way more scandalous than me comes along to distract them, the tabloids, the curiosity seekers, and any paid protesters in the crowd will continue to block the bridge and keep diners away. Add to that group the citizen journalists. And then there’s the legitimate press who are bound to do follow-ups as the case develops. Starving diners won’t want to run that gauntlet, even for your menu. No matter how sublime it is. There are other restaurants in Tampa.”

  George looked miserable, but he didn’t argue. There was no reasonable argument to be made.

  I took a deep breath before I said, “So, until Hayden’s death is explained, and the case resolved, and these people find other poop to scoop, I should move to a hotel.”

  “What?” George winced and squeezed my hand. “No way. I won’t let these bastards split us up. That’s crazy. This thing can’t last forever. We’ll just make do the best we can.”

  “No. That’s not fair. And making do will not solve the problem.” I shook my head, pulled free from him, and missed his warmth immediately. “This is our home, and we can’t live like this. I’ll keep getting paid, even if I’m not working, until CJ manages to get me impeached, tried, and convicted. Which will take a while. You know we can’t give up the income from the restaurant for who knows how long. If you lose too much momentum, it’ll be hard and expensive to get everything back on track. That’s money we both know we don’t have.”

  He lowered his eyes and didn’t reply because there was nothing he could say. I was right, and we both knew it. Property taxes were coming due. He had staff to pay. The busy holiday season had already started. He needed to keep the restaurant open, and to do that, he needed paying customers.

  I said, “If I leave, they’ll stop hounding you, at least. Once they stop hanging around the bridge, your clientele will return.”

  His heart wasn’t in the protest, but he mumbled, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “It’s worth a shot. And it’s only for a short while. Just long enough for me to figure out who killed Hayden.”

  “You?” Alarmed, his eyes opened wide. “I don’t like that idea at all, Willa. Leave it to Ben. It’s his job.”

  “Can’t do that.” I shook my head. “Ben’s got too much on his plate. He’ll get the job done, but how long will it take? Months will pass before he gets this thing figured out. I don’t want to be separated from you for that long.”

  “If someone murdered Hayden, what’s to stop them from trying to kill you, too?” George objected, shaking his head vigorously. “I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t like it, either. None of this has actually been a trip to the beach for me, you know,” I snapped. Then I took a deep breath and blew out a long stream of frustration. “Look, CJ has made it clear that I can’t work until all this is resolved. What would you have me do? Take up knitting? Or maybe I could invite some of those vultures out there to play poker?”

  George looked away, his hazel eyes stormy. In all the years we’d been married, we’d never chosen to spend much time apart. He was my sounding board, my rock, my regular dinner companion. I served the same roles for him.

  But I’d run smack into this mess, and it was only fair that I be the one to get us out. At least, I had to try. I couldn’t simply twiddle my thumbs and wait for Ben Hathaway.

  “I hate this,” George said at last, still not looking at me. “I hate that you’re being blamed for something that wasn’t your fault. I hate that you’re being dragged through the mud before all the facts are even in. On top of everything else, that jackass of a chief justice is using this situation to have you removed from the bench. It’s horseshit, Willa. All of it. And it kills me inside to see you hurt by this load of crap.”

  “I know. I feel the same.” I took his hand again, holding it tight. “But we’ll make it through this. Just like we’ve made it through everything else. Besides, I have better access to information from my chambers than I do here. I’m sure Augustus can act as a go-between for us if we need it.”

  “Seriously?” George gave a mirthless laugh. “I can’t even talk to you?”

  “We can talk on the phone, but it’s risky. Electronic eavesdropping is pretty simple to do these days. Those vultures will be watching my every move. The more time you spend with me, the more you’ll stay in their crosshairs. We want you off their radar, at the very least. We want them to come after me and leave you alone.” I forced a smile I didn’t quite feel and gave his hand another squeeze. “Come on. It could be fun. Like our own spy movie.”

  “Carson. George Carson,” he mimicked countless actors playing the role of James Bond, trying to be funny. Neither of us laughed. “Are you sure you can’t stay at Kate’s? She’s got the room, even with Leo’s daughters there.”

  I took a deep breath and shook my head. I could offer a few good reasons, but I didn’t want to explain. Bringing my circus down on Kate wasn’t going to happen. She had enough to deal with as it was.

  He was quiet for a while, but George finally accepted that he couldn’t change my mind. “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. I’m already here now. Might as well enjoy our evening, since you won’t be busy.” I smiled at my weak joke, but he winced, which was when I knew for sure I was doing the right thing.

  We’d have one last night together. It would have to be enough.

  I pushed back into the bench seat. All business now. “I’ll call Augustus tonight and let him know what’s going on. Have him leak some story about me needing space or some nonsense. I’ll let him make that part up. He’s good at protecting me and keeping secrets.”

  George didn’t reply. Nor did his frown ease at all.

  I laced my fingers with his, and we sat silently across the table that might as well have been as wide as the Gulf of Mexico. “It will all work out in the end, you’ll see.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mighty Mouse.” George exhaled forcefully. “I really hope you are.”

  I smiled and put as much bravado in my tone as I could muster, despite my misgivings. “Of course I’m right. I’m the judge. Haven’t you heard? Judges are always right.”

  George nodded and sarcastically replied, “Uh-huh.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Saturday, November 12

  9:00 a.m.

  I had a rental SUV delivered to Minaret, stowed a suitcase in the back, and made a show of leaving Plant Key the next morning. I slowed down and waved as I left because I wanted everyone camped out at the entrance to our bridge to see me go.

  No doubt about my departure. Absolutely none.

  If I could have figured out a logistical way to do it, I’d have announced that I wasn’t coming back anytime soon, either.

  Most of these people were paid protesters and the citizen journalists who paid them. The perpetrators were thinly staffed and thinly funded. I was betting that a company of one using credit cards and operating from his parents’ basement hoping to strike it big in the wor
ld of internet gossipmongering wouldn’t hang out here in the hot sun all day for too many days.

  In short, I wanted them to give up and bug out. I hoped they wouldn’t wait too long to do so. Saturday lunch was usually a busy crowd at George’s Place. With luck, these vultures would be gone before noon.

  I arrived at Ben’s office right on time. Being Ben, he wanted to drive. I left the rental in his parking lot and let him win this small victory.

  Foster & Barnes was located in Tampa’s Rocky Point business district. Because of the Saturday traffic and the roadwork and his cautious driving, we reached the firm’s offices twenty-five minutes late. I wasn’t worried. These guys would be here a while, setting up to make more money. It was a game with them. And a dangerously cutthroat, addictive one.

  The building was very posh and English-upper-crust-feeling. Pretentious stone pillars and fierce yew topiary were out of place amid the tropical stucco of its neighbors.

  Exactly the kind of place I’d expect an arrogant jackass—as Charles Evan Hayden had been described by his coworkers—to work. I figured Hayden’s colleagues were the same. Takes one to know one, after all.

  We got out of the unmarked sedan, and Ben slammed his door. He didn’t lock the car, but then, given the neighborhood we were in, no one was likely to bother it. There was a security keypad at the door, and Ben pressed the button on the intercom.

  “Police Chief Ben Hathaway here to interview Kelly Webb and Tom Bradford,” he said, giving me a flat look as he did so.

  A woman answered, her voice clipped. “One moment please.”

  Seconds later, the door buzzed open, and she held it for us as we walked inside. Her face had that permanent wind-tunnel look, like she’d had too much plastic surgery. She didn’t seem pleased that Ben was plus one. Good.

  “This way, Chief Hathaway.” She watched me warily from unnaturally widened eyes as she gestured toward a hallway across the airy, beige-and-white lobby from where we were standing. “We were expecting you earlier.”

 

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