Night Justice

by Diane Capri

  Still nothing from Ben on the other end of the line.

  “I don’t need your permission to approach them,” I reminded him. “You can save me some time, is all. We both know that I’ve got nothing but time these days. So it’s fine if you want me to do this without you.”

  An aggrieved sigh echoed across the miles, followed by Ben’s resigned voice. I could all but feel his scowl. “Fine. I’ll call them and ask if they’ll talk to you. I’ll let you know. That’s all I’m promising. But don’t lead that crazy pack of attention-seekers toward them, Willa. That’s the last thing these grieving parents need. And don’t tell them that their son was shoved into your car. We don’t know that. It’s a theory at this point. Nothing more.”

  “Thanks, Ben.” I paused a second. “When you call me back with a time, I’ll fill you in on what I’ve learned since we left Foster & Barnes.”

  “Such as?” he said.

  “Make the call. Then call me back with a time. I’ll keep working here until I hear from you.” I disconnected and returned to the recent official Bayshore Boulevard Pedestrian Crossing Study that Augustus had also included in his email. Among other things, it recommended reducing the speed limit on Bayshore Boulevard to thirty-five miles per hour to reduce crashes.

  The reduced speed limits were scheduled to be implemented before the Thanksgiving holiday weekend. Meaning next week.

  Because when a vehicle traveling at thirty-five miles per hour struck a pedestrian, fifty percent of pedestrians survived.

  “Too little, too late,” I murmured to the empty room.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sunday, November 13

  4:30 p.m.

  I left Le Méridien and headed toward the Sheraton Riverwalk Hotel located a few blocks from where I was staying. The weather was still nice, and I enjoyed the prickle of sunshine on my skin as I walked.

  Ben had called just after lunch with the details, and I had to admit I was a bit surprised Mr. and Mrs. Hayden were willing to talk to me. After my mother’s death, I’d wanted nothing more to do with anyone connected to her medical care during her last days. I was only sixteen. Coping with the overwhelming loss was a full-time project, and I could barely put one foot in front of the other.

  Then, when my stepdad left a few months later, I felt totally bereft. Perhaps I reminded him too much of her and everything he’d lost. Mom’s hair was golden blond, and mine was dark, but people always said we looked alike.

  I don’t know what I’d have done without Kate and her family. Sometimes I thought about that and tried to imagine how I would have survived. I’d have been sent to foster care, for sure. The rest of those scenarios simply didn’t bear thinking about. Kate had been my guardian angel ever since.

  While I waited at the corner for the light to change, I inhaled deeply and caught a hint of my mother’s favorite lilac scent. Of course, the lilacs weren’t really there. Whenever I thought of Mom, the fragrance was part of the sense memory, too.

  The light turned green, and I crossed North Florida Avenue at East Kennedy Boulevard, then headed west toward the Hillsborough River. The Sheraton sat like a sentinel on its banks, nestled amongst the offices, parks, and hotels that had cropped up along the area.

  Inside, the lobby was decorated in the usual tasteful shades of gray and taupe, with a distinct Florida vibe of potted palms and rattan furniture. I’d suggested we speak in the hotel’s restaurant, which offered spectacular views of the Riverwalk.

  Ben had explained their son’s death to them. He’d assured them that I wasn’t responsible. Toxic heroin had killed Charles Evan Hayden. It wasn’t my fault. But I didn’t know whether they’d accepted his explanation or not.

  I forced a smile I didn’t quite feel as I walked up to the hostess desk and requested a quiet table for three. She sat me near the floor-to-ceiling windows to wait.

  There were a few other patrons in the place, but overall it was still too early for the dinner crowd. I ordered white wine, thinking it would give them permission to order whatever they wanted. But I didn’t drink it.

  “Judge Carson?” a man’s voice said, drawing my attention to the couple as they approached. Middle-aged and wearing twin expressions of grief, the Haydens looked pretty much as I’d expected. I’d seen a few photos of their son, courtesy of Ben, and I could see immediately where he got his good looks.

  Walter Hayden stood about five-ten, with broad shoulders and black hair sprinkled with silver. Brenda Hayden was shorter—maybe five-seven—with the same brown hair and blue eyes I’d seen in their son’s photos. Both held the haunted look of parents who’d experienced recent heartbreak.

  We shook hands, and I gestured toward their seats. We stared across the table at each other, and I suddenly wished I’d ordered gin, straight up. From the hard glint in their eyes, I could tell these parents held strong anger toward me, regardless of what Ben had told them.

  Why had I thought this was a good idea? I swallowed around the lump of dread in my throat and met their gazes directly. “Let me start off by saying how sorry I am about your son.”

  Brenda Hayden’s face slowly crumped into tears, while Walter blinked at me. He put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and pulled her to his side. The waiter who’d been approaching gave me a startled glance, and I shook my head, indicating he should give us a moment.

  Walter Hayden frowned and stared out the window beside him, the lines around his eyes and mouth tightening. “Our son is dead, Judge Carson. He was hit by a car and mangled. And no matter how we process that information, you’re partially to blame.”

  His response hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. The air temporarily evaporated around me, leaving me speechless. Which was when I realized I’d expected them to have some sympathy for me. Yet, my situation was nothing compared to theirs. I was in trouble, but their son was dead. He was never coming back. How were they supposed to cope with that?

  I didn’t wallow in self-pity. And I never let anyone see me cry. Not George, not anyone. Suck it up, Willa. This isn’t about you. It’s about them.

  So, I shoved my personal feelings aside and kept going. “I understand how you must feel. And I’m so sorry for your loss. The coroner’s examination shows that your son wouldn’t have survived, even if he hadn’t lunged in front of my vehicle.”

  “Lunged?” Brenda Hayden’s eyes widened. “My son lunged into traffic?”

  “The police have not confirmed exactly what happened. But he didn’t simply collapse at the curb. He landed in the middle of the travel lane in front of my car, mere moments before I reached that exact spot.” I kept my voice even and calm.

  “Was he running? Misjudged the traffic and didn’t give himself enough time to get clear of traffic on his way across the street? That happens a lot in Pittsburgh,” Walter Hayden said, with so much hope in his voice that I couldn’t have shot down his theory even if I’d had more evidence against it. Which I didn’t. Yet.

  “That happens here, too. So it’s possible. That’s what we need to find out,” I said sympathetically. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your son, if you don’t mind. It might help us learn more about the circumstances surrounding his death.”

  Walter Hayden shook his head, still staring out at the riverfront. “The police chief spoke with us about Evan. We told him everything we know. Evan was a good kid. Never got into any trouble. Worked hard. Saved his money. I can’t imagine why he would want to…”

  “We don’t know that Evan did this to himself. He might have made a mistake,” I replied softly.

  These parents seemed like good people who had loved their son. They were bewildered by his sudden death. I didn’t have it in me to cause them more pain. Especially without concrete facts to back me up.

  Still, the Haydens were misinformed about their son. While it might be kind to leave them with their illusions, and ordinarily I probably would have, I needed to know the circumstances leading to my part in this tragedy. We couldn’t help their
son now, but so much of my future, and George’s future, depended on the outcome here.

  Parents never wanted to believe their children had done anything wrong, and parents of a deceased child doubly so. Which was understandable. In most cases, no harm was caused by believing the best of a deceased loved one.

  But Evan Hayden’s coworkers claimed he was a jerk of the worst kind, and probably guilty of tax fraud.

  Beyond that, he’d died from a toxic heroin overdose. Which meant he’d acquired the drugs from somewhere. He didn’t make them himself. As a matter of public safety, police needed to find the source of that toxic heroin and shut it down.

  And somehow, Haden had darted into the roadway in front of my moving vehicle, which had the potential to wreck my life, too.

  Not to be too harsh, but none of his behavior was the kind likely to win Hayden a “son of the year” award.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sunday, November 13

  5:00 p.m.

  I took a deep breath and changed my approach. “So, your family is from Pittsburgh?”

  Brenda Hayden sniffled, taking a Kleenex out of her purse to blow her nose before answering. “Yes. Laurel Heights area.”

  “And had you visited your son here in Tampa since he’d moved?”

  “We’d planned a couple of trips at Christmas time,” Mr. Hayden said, shaking his head. “But his schedule was always too busy.”

  “I see.” Well, that was consistent with the workaholic personality Hayden’s coworkers had painted. “And did you know any of his friends here in Tampa? Women he dated? Sports buddies? Anyone like that?”

  “Since grad school, work was his life,” Brenda Hayden said through her tears. “My son was dedicated to his job. He loved his work and gave up everything else for his career. He said he had years and years to date women and play golf, once his career was established.”

  She broke off as sobs overtook her again, and her husband pulled her into his arms.

  I sipped my water and did my best to ignore the ache in my chest. I missed George. He was my husband, best friend, sounding board, and trusted confidant all in one. Maybe we could meet for a secret lunch. Yes. That sounded perfect. Someplace off the beaten path where we weren’t as likely to be noticed.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hayden said after a few moments, pulling me back to the interview. “I just can’t seem to grasp that Evan’s gone. He had so much going for him in life. A full roster of successful clients. A new home he’d just bought. A girlfriend.”

  My attention snagged. “So he was seeing someone, then?”

  “Nice gal,” Mr. Hayden said, hailing the waiter and ordering iced tea for them. “We’d never met her in person, but we did a couple of video chats with her and Evan. Her name is Cindy Allen.”

  “Such a pretty girl.” Brenda Hayden sniffed into her tissue. “Her family is from the Pittsburgh area, too. But Evan didn’t meet her until they’d both moved here. A mutual friend introduced them.”

  “Do you have a photo of Cindy? Or do you know where she works or where she lives?” I asked.

  Brenda Hayden shook her head. “You could check Evan’s social media accounts. He might have some photos of the two of them.”

  Walter Hayden said, “I’m not sure what kind of work she did, even. I can’t recall that Evan told us.”

  No romantic attachments had been mentioned before. Given the way Evan Hayden’s colleagues felt about him, I wondered what kind of woman he’d be involved with.

  I filed the information on my mental list of follow-up items and moved on. “What about other friends, male or female? Who was the friend who introduced Evan to Cindy?”

  “He mainly spent time with his clients,” Mr. Hayden said, stirring lemon and sugar into his tea. “Mitch Rogers was the one who introduced him to Cindy. He was Evan’s client, but they were pretty close friends, too, I guess.”

  “The baseball player?” Even I’d heard of the Texas Sharks star pitcher, and I didn’t watch sports.

  George was an avid fan, though. From what little I’d heard, Mitch Rogers was an all-around nice guy—family man with a wife and kids in Dallas—and a golden arm that blew major-league records away like a Hayden Texas dust storm. Hell, even his nickname was squeaky clean. Sportscasters called him Mr. Family Friendly. The press constantly ran stories about him volunteering his time and money to children’s hospitals and veterans’ associations.

  Evan Hayden’s clients had included star athletes, but I guess I’d not expected him to appeal to such big superstars. Made a mental note of that, too.

  “So, Mitch and Evan were good friends, then?”

  “I’d say so.” Mr. Hayden took a drink of his tea. “I mean, they spent a lot of time together recently. Every time I called to talk to Evan for the last month or so, he put me off, saying he had things going on with Mitch and that he’d call me back later.”

  “He had other clients he treated like friends, too,” Mrs. Hayden said, still dabbing her eyes with her tissue every time her son’s name was mentioned. “There was that basketball player, the one Evan had problems with recently.”

  Walter nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  Brenda balled up the tissue in her hand and met my gaze. “Judge Carson, you don’t think one of his clients had something to do with this, do you? What was that basketball player’s name, honey? The one who accused Evan of some kind of financial problems?”

  “Johnny Rae?” Mr. Hayden shook his head. “Nah. A misunderstanding, Evan said. They settled out of court. Rae never proved anything. Evan said the guy liked to gamble and drink. He probably didn’t remember losing all that money in Vegas.”

  “Who is Johnny Rae?” I asked.

  Walter looked at me like I had two heads. “Johnny Rae. Played four seasons for your local NBA team, the Tampa Brahmans.”

  The Brahmans were named after Florida’s big cattle industry. Which was the sum total of my knowledge about the team, since George paid zero attention to basketball and I wasn’t any kind of sports fan. So I nodded like I knew who the guy was, but I was thinking that maybe Evan was defrauding his clients as well as Uncle Sam. If Evan was skimming money from client accounts, that could be a solid reason to harm him. Maybe even a motive for murder.

  The sun was starting to set, and the University of Tampa’s skyline glittered through the restaurant windows. Walter Hayden fidgeted in his seat and glanced at his watch behind his wife’s shoulder.

  Time to wrap this up while they were still willing. I had another sensitive issue I wanted to discuss. “Did Chief Hathaway happen to mention the specific drugs found in Evan’s system at the time of his death?”

  “My son was not a heroin addict.” Walter Hayden pounded a closed fist on the table that bounced the cutlery. A few diners turned to stare. His eyes glinted with anger.

  Brenda Hayden took his hand to calm him. She said, “I’m telling you, Judge Carson, he was a health nut. Regular runner. A vegan, even. He would never have put that stuff into his body. No way.”

  Walter’s gruff belligerence continued at a lower volume. “Someone had to have slipped it to him. In his food or a drink maybe. People do that. In bars and stuff. They think it’s funny to see the clean guy falling all over the floor.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments. Walter was right. People did slip drugs into open containers in crowded bars. Usually roofies, so they could commit sexual assault or robbery and the like, without the victim fighting back.

  “Please, Judge Carson, can’t you help us?” Brenda Hayden said, imploring. “Someone killed my son. Please find out who did this. Please find out who poisoned him with that stuff. We really want to know.”

  There was no way I could promise any such thing.

  I thanked the Haydens for talking to me, promised to keep in touch, said my condolences again, and then fled that restaurant like my butt was on fire. Outside, I released my pent-up breath and shook off the eerie feeling that Evan was standing close by, urging me to find hi
s killer.

  Mrs. Hayden’s pleas chased me all the way back to Le Méridien. Along the way, I ran possible scenarios through my head.

  Even the coworkers who seemed to despise him said Evan wasn’t a drug user. If he hadn’t injected the toxic heroin, then how was it administered?

  Like Walter Hayden had said, someone could have slipped it into his food or laced his drink. My internet research said the drug was effective within thirty minutes if swallowed instead of injected. Plenty of time for a killer to get Hayden out to that dark and dreary stretch of sidewalk where no one would see them and then shove him in front of a passing vehicle.

  My vehicle.

  Inside my hotel room, I recorded the details of the interview while my conversation with the Haydens was still fresh in my mind.

  When I’d finished, I ordered room service. Then I made a call to my judicial assistant’s personal voicemail, asking Augustus to set up a lunch date for me with George and Ben Hathaway the next day. We had a lot to discuss.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Monday, November 14

  2:00 p.m.

  Augustus set up my secret rendezvous lunch with George and Ben at a brewpub over in the Centro Ybor shopping and entertainment complex over on Fifteenth Street. I’d been there before and remembered the place had been quiet, dark, and—best of all—discreet. Plus, they’d had some of the best burgers in Tampa. The only problem was it was too far to walk.

  I parked in the parking garage, collected my bag, and headed over to the brewpub. The short walk north on Fifteenth Street, across Seventh Avenue, then the quick sprint up the stairs felt familiar.

  A large neon-and-wood sign proclaiming “Barley Hopper’s” greeted me. I’d asked Augustus to book us a table later in the day, hoping to avoid the lunch rush and the crowds of matinee moviegoers from the theatres attached to the complex. The strategy worked. The place was all but deserted.