Night Justice

by Diane Capri

  Ben removed his hat, grumbling, “Sorry. Traffic.”

  “May I have the name of your guest?” the woman asked.

  “Wilhelmina Carson.” I left the judge part off. People were usually reticent to confess to murder in front of a judge. “Everyone calls me Willa.”

  “Right this way, Ms. Carson,” she said, ignoring my preferences and failing to offer her name in return. Her heels clicked on the granite tiles as she guided us into the back.

  I’m a judge. I make judgments. This woman was both haughty and rude.

  So I couldn’t resist asking, “I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”

  “Madeline Bishop,” she replied without a pause in her rapid steps, as if I was rude to ask and she was annoyed with my behavior. There was a lot of that going around lately.

  Ms. Bishop didn’t see me smile unless she had eyes in the back of her head. But she’d confirmed my guess. Charles Evan Hayden wasn’t the only socially inept jackass who worked here.

  The offices were clean and tidy, if a bit stark. We walked past at least eight generously sized individual offices, plus two suites for the top executives. All the offices were occupied, mostly by youngish men with fashionably unshaven faces dressed in expensively casual weekend-in-Palm Beach clothes talking on speakerphones. It was Saturday in Florida, after all.

  Through the windows, I spotted a lovely walled courtyard behind the building. Immaculate grounds. A marble fountain featuring two leaping dolphins. In the distance were spectacular views of Old Tampa Bay.

  From here, with the sparkling turquoise waters and the tranquil new-age jazz playing quietly in the background, we seemed a million miles away from the mundane world.

  The celebrity clientele that Foster & Barnes catered to must have enjoyed the expensive, exclusive tranquility. All that money they were making had to be displayed somewhere, right?

  Ms. Bishop led us into a brightly lit conference room with a long, glass-topped table and contemporary-style metal chairs. The same kind of black-and-silver slings found in airport waiting areas, but about a thousand times more expensive and two thousand times less comfortable.

  Yep, Foster & Barnes was pretty much as I’d expected. The effort to be both expensive and appealing to all tastes meant the interior design was so sterile that any trace of human personality had long ago vanished. I much preferred Aunt Minnie’s antiques and knickknacks.

  A vase of calla lilies rested on a shelf along the wall sporting black-and-white photos of smiling business people glad-handing clients—some I recognized, some I didn’t. I don’t read the gossip rags much, but a lot of these folks dined regularly at George’s Place or showed up at the charity functions we attended.

  “Ms. Webb and Mr. Bradford should be right with you,” Ms. Bishop said with a touch of disdain. She really didn’t like dealing with public servants, or servants of any kind, I guessed. “May we offer either of you something to drink?”

  “No thank you,” Ben and I replied in unison. If we’d said yes, her gaze made it clear she’d have poisoned the water or something.

  She nodded then clicked back out into the hallway, her footsteps echoing off into the distance. He chose one of the torture chairs, and I remained standing. We waited in silence. Which was fine by me. For the moment, I was content to soak in the sunshine from the plate-glass window that overlooked the pretty garden. It was a nice change after days of gloom.

  Ben pulled out his phone and began scrolling through his emails while I enjoyed a rare spate of silence. A clock ticked rhythmically from its perch in the corner. Air conditioning blew down from the ceiling. Dappled sunlight played across the sparkling tabletop, and the rays danced along the imported rug beneath.

  I wondered if this long wait in pleasant surroundings was the trick Hayden and his coworkers employed to relax their clients into releasing control of their assets. If so, it was highly effective.

  Maybe I should rethink having Augustus book that massage at the spa. I might be relaxed into all sorts of things. I smiled.

  A few lovely, empty minutes passed before a man and a woman entered the room.

  The woman was attractive enough. Late twenties, shoulder-length blond hair, nice skin, not much makeup. She wore a pale-gray dress and pumps. She was petite, maybe five-four, with an additional inch or so of lift from her heels.

  And she looked vaguely familiar. Maybe just because she was the type of young, successful millennial that roamed the best places in Tampa these days.

  “Kelly Webb,” she said with a friendly smile, extending her hand to me, then Ben. “Call me Kelly. Everyone does.”

  Kelly was pretty, but it wasn’t her beauty that struck me. She had an ethereal quality about her, as if she inhabited the ruthless, cutthroat world of financial wheelers and dealers, but wasn’t tainted by it. Whether she was truly ethereal or donned the façade to impress wealthy clients, I couldn’t say. Perhaps she’d used it to woo Charles Evan Hayden, though. I wondered if the two had been lovers.

  The man who followed her was Tom Bradford. He resembled Hayden in many ways. He looked about thirty, dark hair, pricey clothes. The cynical smirk on his boyish face might have been Hayden’s go-to expression, too, if the intel Hathaway already shared could be trusted.

  “Time is money, Chief,” Bradford said, sprawling into a chair at the other end of the table away from the rest of us. “And your visits here are costing me big time. Do you know who I’ve got waiting in my office?”

  “Nope.” Ben yawned, completely unimpressed by Bradford’s brash demeanor.

  Bradford snorted. “A guy who could buy and sell your department a dozen times over. So I need to get back. I can’t imagine what else we can possibly say that we haven’t already. Hayden was an asshole. Nobody liked him. He’s dead. End of story.”

  “Tom!” Kelly exclaimed, admonishing him like a younger sister would. “Be nice.”

  “You be nice. That’s what you do, isn’t it?” He leaned back in his chair, sneering. “I hear you’ve been real nice to Hayden’s clients. Trying to steal them all for yourself.”

  Ben interrupted, slapping a lid on Bradford’s adolescent antagonism. “Do either of you know of anyone in these offices who uses heroin?”

  “Heroin…?” Kelly said, eyes widening like shocked camera shutters.

  Bradford rolled his eyes.

  “Is that a no?” Ben wagged his head to look at the two.

  “How would I know?” Bradford shrugged. “We’re not exactly best pals with each other around here. This is a competitive business, if you haven’t already figured that out. We’re best pals with our clients. With coworkers, not so much.”

  “So, one or more of Hayden’s clients are heroin users,” I said.

  “They’re sports stars and celebrities with too much money. All of them have dozens of hangers-on. What do you think?” Bradford narrowed his gaze toward me. He hadn’t bothered to look at me before. “You’re that judge. The one who mowed Hayden down with your car.”

  An involuntary gasp escaped my lips. “I didn’t mow Mr. Hayden down with my car. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Hell, I’m not complaining. Just the opposite. You got the guy out of my way quite handily.” Bradford grinned at me and applauded. “Well done, Judge Carson.”

  “Please excuse my colleague. He isn’t trying to be such a jerk. It comes naturally.” Kelly shot him a withering stare before turning back to Chief Hathaway. “We’re licensed here. Our activities are restricted and monitored. We have rules. Drug use is not one of the perks of the job. We can get fired for it.”

  She batted her eyelashes and damn if the stoic Chief didn’t crack a smile. Yep. This girl definitely used her assets to distract and coerce. I made a mental note that she hadn’t really answered Hathaway’s question, either. Which meant drug use existed here, as it did in many offices. And she absolutely knew about it.

  These two were far from model citizens. For sure. And probably no better or worse than Hayden. Yet, neither see
med to realize that they could have been in his place already. Or that they might soon be as dead as he was if they were among the drug users.

  Which made me wonder just how far they’d go to keep their habits a secret. No time like the present to find out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Saturday, November 12

  11:00 a.m.

  Ben cleared his throat and frowned down at the notes he’d written on his phone prior to us coming here. He’d shown them to me in the car to give me a heads-up about his interview plans.

  “What about new people in Mr. Hayden’s life? Girlfriends? Buddies? Did you see anyone new or strange lurking around in the last few weeks?”

  “No. Sorry,” Kelly answered, staring at her hands on the table.

  Bradford shook his head, looking about as bored as a person could be and still remain conscious. In my courtroom, the ones that had the most to hide or to lose used the technique to mask themselves. Sometimes, it was effective to fool the jury.

  Quantum physics claims that the very act of observation alters reality. I’d come to believe the same was true of interview subjects. These two knew things they weren’t telling us. Lies of omission. Their answers teased the back of my brain.

  Or maybe my judgment was clouded because I wanted this situation settled. I wanted my life back. Settling the Hayden matter was the first step.

  Kelly looked up at me and blinked her pretty eyes, which didn’t faze me in the least. “Judge Carson, I think you know my parents. They own Humidora. It’s a cigar bar at Channelside.”

  Which was when the niggling sense that she was familiar clicked in my head. Of course.

  George and I had frequented the Humidora smoke shop quite often last year. Then our free time had dwindled, and we hadn’t been back lately. The owners, a lovely couple, were always friendly and helpful.

  “Yes, I do remember your parents.” I smiled and looked closer at Kelly Webb. Light-hazel eyes. Blond eyebrows. The resemblance to her parents was there. “You look very much like your mother.”

  She actually blushed and lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”

  I sat back and took in the room again. The office décor suited Kelly perfectly, too—pale linen, light hazel, and pastel peach. Maybe she’d been the decorator.

  “Are you a heroin user, Mr. Bradford?” Ben redirected the conversation. “Just to be social with your clients, perhaps?”

  The question jolted Bradford from his blasé attitude. Or maybe Ben’s boldness had finally punctured Bradford’s hard shell. He gave another shake of his head, not deigning to answer with words.

  “What about pot? Cocaine? A few lines with clients to loosen them up?” Ben asked, and Bradford shook his head after each question.

  “What exactly are you trying to get at?” Bradford glared. “I’m clean. We’re all clean here, okay? We get random drug tests every month. Come back with a warrant, and you can search our offices.”

  He left off the foul epithet I expected to hear at the end of that speech, but it hung in the air anyway.

  “Where were you Tuesday night between nine p.m. and eleven p.m., the night Evan Hayden died, Mr. Bradford?” Ben asked. If Bradford had an alibi, that would let him off the hook.

  “Here. Working late. Kelly can vouch for me.” Bradford glanced toward Webb.

  She looked at him, then Ben, then me with another round of doe-eyed surprise. “Financial planning isn’t all glitz and glamour. Usually it’s long hours and lots of stress managing our clients’ accounts.”

  She paused, and then, as if she’d just remembered something, she smiled. “There are security cameras in all the offices. You can check the videos if you like.”

  “With a warrant,” Bradford repeated belligerently.

  “I’ll be sure to get one.” Ben clicked off his phone and shoved it into his pocket, then pushed to his feet. “Luckily, I know a judge.”

  Webb frowned but didn’t say anything else.

  “Are we done here?” Bradford said, standing as well. “I need to get back to my work. And I’ve got lunch plans.”

  Ben gave a curt nod. “If I think of anything else I need, I’ll call you. Or come back.”

  “You do that.” Bradford jutted his chin forward and followed it out the door.

  After he left, Kelly Webb led us out of the conference room toward the lobby, chatting amiably all the way.

  “Before we leave, I’d like to see Hayden’s office,” I said.

  Webb’s eyes clouded. “I don’t think we can let you rummage through his things.”

  “I just want to look at the place where he worked. Nothing more,” I replied. This was private property. I had no right to be here at all. But if she didn’t consent, that would tell me something, too.

  Pleasantly, Hathaway said, “I can get a warrant for that, too. While I’m asking the judge.”

  Webb shrugged. “I guess a look around won’t hurt. Evan’s office was upstairs. Better views from the second floor. Follow me.”

  She led us to the elevator and down a corridor on the second floor that resembled the first-floor offices. These were also occupied, mostly by Young Turks dressed as casually as a GQ magazine fashion shoot.

  At the end of the corridor, Kelly led us through an open doorway into an office much more spacious than any of the others we’d seen. The view of the garden and Tampa Bay beyond was spectacular. The same cold, unwelcoming modern furniture we’d seen everywhere else was artfully arranged to take full advantage of the view.

  “This was Evan’s office,” she said.

  “Who’ll be moving in here now?” I asked. In law firms and courthouses, the moment an office as great as this one became vacant for any reason, eligible tenants practically leapt over one another to take up residence. I imagined the high rollers at Foster & Barnes would be the same.

  Webb had the grace to blush again, at least. “I’m not sure. It hasn’t been officially announced. But it won’t be me or Tom, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “Why not?” Hathaway asked.

  “Because we don’t qualify. Evan was one of the firm’s top performers. He had a long list of star clients. Put simply, we don’t.” She didn’t add a “yet” to that statement, but it hung in the air anyway.

  “Aren’t you wooing Hayden’s clients?” I asked. “Or was Tom wrong about that?”

  “Of course, I’m wooing Evan’s clients. Tom is, too. We all are. They’ve all been reassigned to some of us already, but we have to make them want to stay,” Webb replied matter-of-factly. “Like Tom said, this is a very competitive business. Not only within Foster & Barnes, but also from all the other firms out there who would like nothing better than to replace us.”

  “Right.” I understood her point. Law firms were the same. Accounting firms and medical practices, too. Clients weren’t chained to the firm. Personal relationships kept them in the fold, or out the door. It worked both ways.

  Hathaway said, “Where are the files? I don’t see anything at all in this office.”

  She nodded. “Computer servers. We work off laptops connected to secure servers. We keep them with us at all times.”

  “Where is Hayden’s laptop?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I imagine you’d find it in his car or his apartment. He wouldn’t have left it here on Tuesday, for sure.”

  “What about Hayden’s assistant?” I couldn’t run my office without Augustus. These high rollers had to have some kind of office spouse, too.

  Webb frowned and cocked her head, as if she found the question puzzling. “You met her already. Madeline Bishop.”

  “Sorry,” Ben said to me. “We interviewed Ms. Bishop. I’ll fill you in later.”

  I nodded. Not because the offer was acceptable. I figured I’d get nothing out of Madeline Bishop if I tried to press her for answers here. An interview in her home was more likely to yield results.

  We spent a few more minutes in the sterile room. There were no photos on the walls. No computer o
n the desk. No phone, even. The office was simply the most minimalist room I’d ever seen. Absolutely nothing was out of place. A wall of cabinetry lined one wall, and I suspected that was where Charles Evan Hayden’s office paraphernalia had been stuffed.

  If we opened the door, would everything come tumbling out onto our heads?

  Kelly Webb glanced at her high-tech watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a luncheon appointment, too.”

  “Okay,” Hathaway said, following her back the way we’d come in.

  We’d learned nothing. Something was definitely off about Madeline Bishop. Kelly Webb and Tom Bradford, too, for that matter. Given the way their client-assignment system worked, every analyst at Foster & Barnes probably had a motive for murdering Hayden. Every single one of them would have wanted his client portfolio.

  But did they want it badly enough to kill him for it?

  I glanced at Ben to see if he felt the same. His expression was unreadable.

  At the front door, Webb stopped and smiled at me again. “Please visit Humidora again soon, Judge Carson. I’m sure my parents would love to see you.”

  “Give them my best,” I said before I followed Ben back out into the afternoon sunshine, feeling a little less confused about Hayden’s death. Not only was he a jerk with a lot of enemies, but he was also a wealthy jerk with a lot of clients just about any financial planner in the country would want to poach.

  People had been killed for a lot less.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Saturday, November 12

  1:00 p.m.

  We walked across the hot parking lot and climbed into Chief Hathaway’s even hotter sedan. He started the ignition and cranked up the air conditioning. Within minutes, we were headed back to the cop shop.

  “Did you have any luck finding video of the accident Tuesday night?” I asked, snugging my seatbelt a little tighter as he accelerated around a tight curve. I loved to drive, but I was a nervous passenger.