Night Justice

by Diane Capri

  Then, as we headed toward Gandy and made the turn, something changed. The tension inside me loosened as the wind whistled past. All those horrible, awful memories of the night I’d struck Evan Hayden melted in the bright, warm sunshine.

  They didn’t disappear completely. I doubted they ever would. But they faded enough so Greta and I could function as a team again. I eased the accelerator down and felt all Greta’s glorious German engineering leap to my command.

  It was healing. It was fortifying. It was exactly what I needed.

  By the time I pulled into the parking lot at the restaurant, I felt more like my old self than I had since the accident.

  “You look happy,” George said after I’d leaned over and kissed him. He was beaming ear to ear.

  “Never underestimate the power of a great car.” I smiled back, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “Come on. I’m starving.”

  After we were seated and served, George asked, “So, why are we dining with Ben Hathaway and Mitch Rogers tonight?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure. Ben said Cindy Allen called Rogers the night Hayden died. When I looked Rogers up online, I realized he was actually the guy with Cindy Allen in the ER that night. I didn’t recognize him then because I’d never seen nor heard of him before.”

  “Which confirms his story to Ben Hathaway, doesn’t it?” George’s eyebrows arched.

  “It might.” I nodded slowly as I chewed a dessert crepe filled with Nutella and topped with cinnamon. “But he was on his way to Texas later that night. I didn’t hear any alibi for the actual time of Hayden’s death. He could have been around when Hayden was being poisoned.”

  “If that’s what happened,” George said. “Keep in mind that Hayden could have overdosed himself. People say he wasn’t into drugs, but most people addicted to illegal substances don’t exactly go around shouting it to strangers on the street.”

  “Right. And Hayden worked in an industry that’s pretty heavily regulated. Lots of money at stake every day. A drug addict wouldn’t be the first guy I’d want handling my investments. How about you?” I cocked my head and nodded again.

  George said, “Another thing. Hayden wasn’t a small guy, and he was very near death before he fell in front of your car that night. Do you think a petite woman like Cindy Allen could have shoved him into traffic like that?”

  I shook my head again. “Not without some help. When I was doing my research, I also noticed that baseball players are a lot bigger and stronger than they used to be.”

  “Meaning what? You think Rogers did it? Come on, Willa. That’s absurd.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I murmured, not sure at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Monday, November 21

  7:00 p.m.

  I’d spent the afternoon brushing up on Mitch Rogers trivia before getting ready for the big dinner that night so I could at least speak intelligently with the man. George, who was inordinately thrilled at the prospect of breaking bread with Rogers, had gone down earlier to check on lunch service then had returned to the restaurant at around four thirty to help the staff prep for dinner. His dedication went well beyond loving his career. It bordered on obsession.

  Someone had once said to me at a party we were hosting that George had a “knack” for the culinary industry. After I’d squashed my inappropriate urge to smack her, I’d answered with as much cordiality as I could muster. Calling George’s ability to build, manage, and maintain the five-star eatery a “knack” was absurd. His chefs had won the Golden Spoon Award multiple times, and Florida Trend magazine had voted George’s Place the Best in Florida—twice.

  I snorted and shook my head. Knack, indeed.

  I had the doors to the veranda open, enjoying the sounds of seagulls cawing and the gentle swish of the waves against the shore. The weather was perfect, not too warm, not too cold. The setting sun cast the sky in shades of dusky pink and indigo.

  Rogers had a beautiful, exotic wife and two gorgeous children. Genevieve Rogers was a lanky brunette who looked like a runway model. The boy was about twelve, Mitch Jr. The daughter was maybe ten, Melody Anne.

  Ben had called to ask whether Genevieve Rogers might come to dinner with her husband tonight. Which meant I certainly wouldn’t be the most attractive woman at the table.

  I decided to pamper myself a bit and drew a hot bath in Aunt Minnie’s old claw-foot tub. While I luxuriated in the bubbles, I ran through the information I’d gleaned about Mitch Rogers during my research, ignoring the baseball lingo, which I’d never memorize in time for dinner, anyway.

  At just thirty-four, Rogers had racked up quite an impressive résumé. Already the recipient of three Cy Young awards and runner-up once, the worst he’d ever finished in a professional season for the prestigious pitching award was third overall. The crafty lefthander commanded at least four different pitches that relied on deception and changes in velocity, and he was coming off a season where he’d struck out 301 batters. Only once in the last seven seasons had he failed to make at least thirty starts.

  Even for a person like me who knew nothing about major league baseball, his stats seemed amazing. Or maybe they’d just been presented that way by baseball types who were in awe of him. Either way, the guy was professionally impressive. Evan Hayden must have attracted some envy from his colleagues when he landed a client like Rogers.

  On the personal side, Rogers had been born in Dallas. The family had moved frequently due to his father’s job. He married Genevieve Walker, his college sweetheart. Her full-time job seemed to be charity work and raising their two children.

  Like many celebrities, there was some tabloid gossip. His wife was rumored to be a bitch on wheels. And his son, Mitch Jr., had been arrested a couple of times for undisclosed boyhood stuff. The records were sealed because he was a juvenile.

  The couple was applauded for humanitarian work in Africa, Cuba, and the Dominican Republic. His wife was the public face for that effort.

  Rogers used substantial chunks of his multimillion-dollar-a-year-salary to build orphanages to treat HIV-positive children. He’d partnered with organizations who provided surgeries and medical equipment to the underprivileged. He even put his muscle where his wallet was, building homes for Habitat for Humanity.

  He’d been dubbed “Mr. Family Friendly” by some awestruck fan. The moniker was oft-repeated and seemed well deserved.

  All of which didn’t pass the smell test. No one was that perfect, right?

  After my bath, the air still held a hint of steam and the traces of George’s Old Spice aftershave. I quickly styled my hair, then applied minimal makeup—a bit of mascara, powder, and my new favorite deep purple-red lipstick for drama.

  I chose a simple ivory silk dress. George picked it out during a trip to Palm Beach several years earlier, along with the sandals that complemented it. With Aunt Minnie’s platinum, diamond, and amber choker fastened around my neck and the matching earrings on my lobes, I felt her presence with me.

  At a time when women were housewives and mothers, Aunt Minnie must’ve been viewed as radical and flamboyant. She owned this property and these extravagant baubles and lived precisely as she saw fit.

  I loved her for it. When I had the time, I planned to delve deeper into her history. Where had her early independent ideas come from? What had made her into the woman she became? And who, exactly, had given her all these expensive jewels?

  If CJ’s impeachment plans succeeded, I’d have plenty of free time on my hands while I looked for a new job. Might as well make good use of it.

  I spritzed my wrists and neck with my signature scent, Cartier, then turned to view myself in the full-length mirror. Not bad for a woman my age. Despite all the stress I’d been through, I looked relaxed and happy. Like a woman who mixed and mingled and dined with celebrities on a regular basis. Which, thanks to George’s Place, I did.

  I walked downstairs, greeting several guests milling about in Aunt Minnie’s tastefully decorated nineteenth-centur
y foyer. Back when she had lived there, all the antique secretaries, breakfronts, and sideboards had been hers. Even the small butler’s table between the upholstered camelback sofas in the center.

  Mildred Carson had been called Minnie all her life. A kind soul with a more-than-colorful past, she’d left George her entire home and the island it sat on, completely furnished, in her will. He had been painstaking in its restoration. Tonight, it seemed as if even the soft-blue fleur-de-lis wallpaper gleamed with its former gilded excellence.

  I wondered if Aunt Minnie would be pleased to have her beautiful things returned to usefulness, or horrified at all these strangers traipsing through her home seven days a week. Based on what I knew about her, I figured it could go either way.

  I made my way across the lobby, past the Sunset Bar, and over toward the main dining room. I stopped to admire Aunt Minnie’s Herend Zoo while I waited for George. The painted porcelain figures had reportedly been a gift from a Hungarian suitor.

  Judging by the number of animals she had in the collection, the relationship must have continued for some time. All the creatures had been named by Aunt Minnie and had been part of the itemized inventory we’d received along with the house. George had since added to their numbers, in honor of his aunt, whenever a special occasion arose.

  There was only one shop in the country that sold the figurines to George, a place in Beverly Hills owned by a remarkable woman who probably would’ve been great friends with Aunt Minnie had they known each other.

  On the center shelf rested a pair of blue bunnies, joined at the hip, their heads leaning into each other as they shared a quiet moment together. Aunt Minnie’s inventory list named these two “Willa” and “George” with a note that said, “Forever bonded, quietly a pair.”

  George greeted me a few moments later, looking extremely handsome in his tailored charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt, deep-burgundy tie, and Gucci dress shoes. He leaned over and kissed me, then stepped back to admire my outfit. “You look lovely tonight. Exquisite. I’m so glad you’re home.”

  “Me, too,” I replied.

  He led the way to our favorite table and placed an order for two glasses of white wine. We enjoyed the cool, crisp taste of good chardonnay as we waited for our guests. Waterford crystal chandeliers sparkled from the ceiling, and Irish lace linens and vases of fresh flowers decorated the room. The whole picture was lovely and romantic.

  “So, what were you up to while I was working this afternoon?” he asked me. I told him about my Mitch Rogers research.

  George grinned, his expression skeptical. “You’re an expert in sports now, eh?”

  “Hardly.” I chuckled. “I just wanted to know enough to avoid making a fool of myself during dinner.”

  “Hmm.” George sipped his wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. “Please tell me you’re not going to go Judge Judy on the man. He’s offered to help the police. He was Hayden’s friend.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s done nothing wrong. I don’t trust people who seem to be that pure.”

  “You don’t trust most people at all.”

  “Touché.” I had to smile at that, without apology. Skepticism was an admirable trait for a lawyer and for a judge.

  A low murmur rippled through the restaurant, and I saw George’s gaze widen slightly as he looked past me. I turned in my seat to glimpse Mitch Rogers enter the lobby with Ben Hathaway by his side—one tall and chiseled, one short and bulky. Genevieve Rogers was between them.

  Every head in the place turned to stare as they walked toward us.

  Rogers was lithe and handsome and clean shaven, unlike the bearded images I’d seen of him earlier that day online or that night in the ER. The articles I’d read suggested that the beard was one of his pre-game superstitions. Apparently, some players didn’t shave for the duration of the off-season, thinking it brought them extra luck or something.

  Ben had cleaned up pretty well, too, in a navy suit and red tie, brown hair neatly combed. I rarely saw him dressed so well, so it was a somewhat surreal experience.

  But Genevieve Rogers was the stunner in that threesome. Almost as tall as her husband, her sleeveless gown revealed biceps to die for, and she had legs for miles. Her skin was more bronzed than a suntan commercial against the slinky white fabric. Long brown hair flowed down her back and swayed as she walked. She’d been a model once, so she might actually have posed for a statue of Athena, the Greek Goddess.

  George walked over to escort them to the table. His admiration for the all-star pitcher was nearly palpable, and I had to bite back another smile. George traveled in some high-powered circles. Watching him starstruck was another surreal experience.

  I began to think this evening might actually be fun, even though I’d had a different agenda in mind when I’d suggested Rogers come to dinner.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Monday, November 21

  9:05 p.m.

  “We’re honored to have you dine with us tonight, Mr. and Mrs. Rogers,” George said as they approached the table. I stood for the introductions. “And let me introduce my wife, Wilhelmina Carson.”

  “Genevieve,” she said as any goddess would, extending her hand. “Such a pleasure to meet you.”

  Rogers flashed me his camera-ready megawatter and gave my hand a firm shake. “Judge Carson, pleasure to meet you. Though I wish it were under different circumstances.”

  “Agreed.” I took my seat again, and the others followed. “And please, call me Willa.”

  “Thank you,” he said, oozing charm. “Please call me Mitch.”

  George sat to one side of me at our table for five, Ben on the other. Rogers was across from me. Genevieve sat between Rogers and Ben.

  I leaned over and gave Hathaway a little tease, to show him there were no hard feelings. “Nice to see you out of uniform tonight, Ben. I’d begun to wonder if you owned any clothing that wasn’t tan.”

  “Same here, Willa.” He flicked his napkin open across his lap. “Thought maybe you lived in those black judges’ robes.”

  We gave each other uneasy smiles, and it seemed we were back to our usual places.

  We all placed our orders with the waiter, then settled into polite small talk. Mostly we talked nicely about events. No politics, religion, sex, or anything at all that your grandmother would call impolite.

  Once the topics of weather, the couple’s charitable activities, and Rogers’s illustrious last season had been discussed—during which I was able to hold my own, even citing stats from his games and scoring some additional points with George—we lapsed into an awkward silence. Rogers seemed uneasy, but I put it down to Hayden’s death. I’d struck his friend with my car. His wariness around me was understandable.

  “I’m so very sorry, Mitch, for what happened. I’m sorry for your loss.” I watched his reaction to my words carefully, searching for any kind of odd vibe.

  He gave a brief nod, gaze lowered, expression sad. “It wasn’t your fault. The drugs in Evan’s system made him do crazy things. I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

  I narrowed my gaze, feigning ignorance. “He was a regular drug user, then?”

  “Evan?” Genevieve’s surprise raised all the way to her perfectly arched eyebrows.

  “No, not that I know of.” Mitch shook his head and frowned. “That’s why I’m volunteering to help the police interview some of his other clients. Someone had to have slipped that drug to Evan or convinced him to take it. That person is responsible for his death. Not you. I’ll see justice done for my friend if it’s the last thing I do.”

  While I appreciated his impassioned speech, there was something about Rogers that didn’t ring true to me. Maybe it was because I’d spent so many years listening to guilty defendants spin lies and deceit in my courtroom. But this guy was off. I felt it.

  Or maybe I just felt overshadowed by his amazingly beautiful wife. Who wouldn’t be? The woman not only looked amazing, but we’d probably find her photo in the dictionary
if we looked up “philanthropic.” She was that active with her charity work, according to my research.

  I glanced over at Hathaway, but he seemed to have no problem with Rogers’s story. George, too, remained captivated by the baseball star in our midst. I sighed and tried a different approach.

  Two of this guy’s friends had died in the past two weeks, and he didn’t seem very upset about that at all. Which was damned odd, if you ask me.

  “I remember seeing you there in the ER the night of the accident. With Cindy Allen,” I said, ignoring my husband’s be quiet stare. “How well did you know her?”

  “Oh, Cindy and I have been friends since I bought my home here in Tampa. She worked as an assistant at the real estate firm who sold me my property. She and Genevieve used to go to the same yoga class, too, I think, right?” He cleared his throat and glanced toward his wife.

  “Yes. Cindy is a nice girl. Very good at yoga,” Genevieve nodded.

  “Right.” Rogers placed his hand over hers and continued. “Ben said he mentioned to you that Cindy and Evan had a date scheduled that night. She was understandably upset. We both were. I offered to drive her to the ER. I was glad I was there to comfort her. We comforted each other.”

  Uh-huh. Smart of him to start acting like a bereaved friend. Finally.

  The night I saw them in the ER, I’d thought they were a couple. They gave off that vibe at the time.

  So were they? And if they were, had Hayden found out about it?

  Jealousy was a strong motive for murder. I wondered if we’d been approaching this case all wrong. Had Rogers and Cindy Allen been having an affair behind Hayden’s back? If so, then a reconciliation between the two would’ve been the last thing Rogers would’ve wanted.

  Would he have killed Hayden to get him out of the way, though? Somehow, he didn’t strike me as the kind of man who had trouble getting dates.

  I cocked my head. “Perhaps you were offering Cindy more than comfort.”