Night Justice

by Diane Capri

  Rogers’s eyes widened, and I wondered if I’d hit the mark.

  Hathaway coughed loudly, and George’s tanned face drained of color.

  Genevieve’s nostrils flared and her eyes flashed with anger in defense of her man. “That’s absurd.”

  “It’s a reasonable question. Cindy Allen is a beautiful woman. Those two were together that night when she needed comforting,” I nodded toward Mitch.

  She grabbed his hand. “Mitch’s family means absolutely everything to him. You know nothing about us. Why would you suggest such a thing?”

  Before I could follow up, the waiter arrived at our table again. Bad timing.

  “Talk about saved by the food,” Rogers said, his tone amicable. The hint of panic I’d glimpsed in his eyes had vanished, replaced by feigned interest as the waiter set out our appetizers.

  I cocked my head and regarded them both. They were certainly a handsome pair. From everything I’d heard and read, they were an idyllic couple. Maybe his interest in Cindy Allen was purely platonic. But it hadn’t seemed so that night in the ER.

  I’d ordered the Venison Carpaccio, and George and Rogers had both ordered the Hot and Cold Foie Gras. Hathaway was staring at his plate of assorted mushrooms, fava beans, and summer truffles with morel sauce and watercress coulis like a hungry wolf that hadn’t devoured any prey in weeks. Genevieve barely noticed the plate. Her willowy model’s body suggested she rarely ate much of anything. What a shame.

  As soon as he could politely do so, meaning right after the waiter had removed his hand from the plate to avoid being stabbed with a fork, Hathaway devoured his small portion in three bites. George and Rogers both attacked their foie gras with vigor. Genevieve moved the food around with a fork and then excused herself for a quick trip to the ladies’ room.

  I addressed my venison with deliberate restraint. I savored the green beans, celery root, pickled red onions, and Gaia apple topped with whole-grain mustard and rosemary-parmesan croutons served over the thinly sliced raw meat as if I had nothing better to do in the world.

  This dish was one of my favorites. The combination of flavors wasn’t anything I ever would have dreamed up myself, but they were exquisitely delicious.

  Our friends who lived in Northern Michigan viewed deer as a nuisance. Like giant rabbits, they destroyed gardens and ate all the flowers with the same power as a high-speed lawn mower.

  When no one spoke up, and while I had the chance, I repeated my question. “So, tell me about your relationship with Cindy Allen.”

  I continued to eat slowly, knowing the waiter would not return to remove the appetizer plates or serve our second courses until I’d finished and Genevieve had returned.

  “You never give up, do you?” Ben growled under his breath. “Mitch is a happily married man. He’s got kids. He and his wife work together in several Tampa-area charities.”

  “Yes, I read about all that. Quite impressive,” I replied.

  Rogers blushed. Actually blushed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a grown man turn pink like that. “We’ve been so blessed in our lives, we feel like it’s our duty to give back to those less fortunate.”

  “And we appreciate all the hard work you do,” George added, giving me a look that screamed hurry up and finish your damned venison.

  Savoring another bite, I set my fork on the side of my plate and took an appreciative sip of the 2012 Jean-Marc Brocard Chablis Grand Cru Bougros my husband had selected. The layered aromas of sun-ripened citrus, fruit, honey, brioche, and toasted hazelnut filled my nose, and the pure, fresh, crisp acidic structure tickled my taste buds. “And?”

  “And what?” George and Ben repeated in unison.

  “And what is it that you’re not telling us, Mitch Rogers?” Holding out on my last bite of delicious venison was easier since I’d had such a nice lunch.

  As it was, I could hold out all night, if necessary. Ben, on the other hand, must have skipped breakfast and lunch, expecting one of George’s sumptuous dining experiences.

  “How do you put up with her?” Ben asked my husband with mock exasperation.

  George snorted and shook his head. “Mostly, I just try to stay out of her way.”

  From the twinkle in his eyes, I knew he was enjoying this play of wills between the three of us, but George always bets on the winner. In this case, me.

  Finally, Ben had had enough and turned to me with a scowl. “This conversation is getting us exactly nowhere. Now, if you eat that last bite of venison, as soon as Mrs. Rogers returns, we can all get on with our meal. Mitch might be a bit more inclined to help us if he doesn’t feel like you’re about to break out the rubber hose.”

  Okay, then. We were all on the same page. No more bullshit. I ate the last of my food.

  Moments later, the waiter appeared and removed our plates. I sipped more of my wine and waited.

  “Look,” Rogers said at last, as if he might say something helpful. He glanced quickly toward the back to be sure Genevieve wasn’t on her way. “Evan wasn’t the most popular guy. He rubbed people the wrong way. We had our share of arguments about it. But he didn’t deserve to die. The drugs that killed him…the last thing I want is for that stuff to end up on the streets of Tampa. We need to get rid of it. I’ve got kids I love like crazy. And my kids have friends. I’ve got a responsibility to make sure they’re safe. Right now, they’re not. None of us are. What happened to Evan could happen to anybody.”

  “You think one of Hayden’s clients is responsible?” I continued to watch him closely. Unable to put my finger on it. What was wrong with his little speech? “You really think you can get Hayden’s clients, your teammates, people who are covered by layers and layers of protection, to talk to the police? Because my experience on the bench says otherwise. What I see, every day, is the more money people have, the less inclined they are to accept law enforcement poking into their lives.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide.” Rogers flashed me another one of those cover-worthy smiles.

  Genevieve came back to the table, settling in next to her husband with a quick kiss on his cheek and a return to her previous calm. “I took a minute to check on the children. They made me promise to kiss you for them.”

  He smiled and squeezed her hand again as she placed her napkin onto her lap. She ignored me from that moment onward. Which might have been devastating to someone who wanted to be her friend, I supposed.

  The waiter appeared again, this time with our salad course. Rogers and I had ordered the Asparagus and Vidalia Onion Salad while George and Ben and Genevieve had opted for the other choice, something the chef called a “Composed Salad.” Honestly, to me it just looked like an ordinary tossed salad you could get at any fast-food place, but I supposed at these prices they had to make up a fancier name.

  “You should probably talk to the people Evan worked with, too,” Mitch said around a bite of asparagus. “If you haven’t done so already. There was no love lost there when Evan died. Real cutthroat bunch in that industry.”

  Ben swallowed a bite of his salad then wiped his mouth with his linen napkin. “Already on it. Got a team over there again.”

  With that, Ben deftly turned the topic of conversation to Rogers’s winning season and the chances of the Sharks making it to the World Series as we ate our salads and a basket of fresh-baked bread and rolls.

  Finally, the waiter returned to clear our table then set out our principal dishes. We’d all ordered the same main course—roasted Colorado lamb loin served with spring peas, chanterelles, and pearl onions with Dijon sauce. George’s food was too good and deserved our full attention. All talking ceased while we appreciated the fine cuisine and shared a bottle of exquisite Brunello.

  After dinner, Genevieve acquired a sudden headache and Rogers drove her home. I left George and Ben to discuss sports and returned upstairs for espresso and a cigar, wearing my sweats. I had plenty of new impressions about Rogers to record in my journal.

  For starters, why wasn�
�t he more upset about the death of two people he counted among his friends?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, November 22

  9:00 a.m.

  Bright and early Monday morning, I was back in my chambers, ready to make an appointment at Foster & Barnes. There was something off about Mitch Rogers, but I wouldn’t find out what it was by ruminating about him. I needed input from others who knew him.

  At least until I could pinpoint exactly what was wrong with the story Rogers told.

  I reached for the phone only to yank my hand back, startled when the intercom went off.

  “Ben Hathaway on line two for you, Judge,” Augustus said, chipper as ever.

  I grabbed the receiver, then sat back in my office chair behind my desk. “This is Judge Carson.”

  “The autopsy reports came back on Cindy Allen,” Ben said without greeting. “The python didn’t kill her. She had an overdose of the same toxic heroin in her system that killed Evan Hayden.”

  Momentarily stunned, I blinked at the wall across from me. “I thought you said she wasn’t using anymore.”

  “She wasn’t.” Ben’s flat tone told me everything.

  I sat forward and rubbed my forehead. “So, both she and Hayden were murdered?”

  “I’ve got two murders to solve instead of one.” Exhaustion leaked through Ben’s tone. “You’ve got nothing more to do here.”

  I wondered how long the three men had stayed up last night. George’s Place closed at midnight, but when I’d finally gone to bed after one in the morning, George hadn’t come upstairs yet. He’d been beside me sawing logs this morning, though.

  “Like hell I don’t!” Indignation swelled inside me until I forced it to calm down. “I’ve got more at stake here than you do, Ben. You’re doing your job. But I’m being prevented from doing mine. Ozgood Richardson and his special judicial review committee won’t be satisfied until you’ve solved this case. I’ve got to prove I had nothing to do with Evan Hayden’s death. The only way to do that to everyone’s satisfaction is to prove who killed him. And it’s highly likely the same person killed Cindy Allen, using the same murder weapon.”

  I paused, and a long silence filled the space between us. After a while, I said, “Now, what about the snake?”

  Ben gave a long-suffering sigh, but he knew I was right. He might not love having me on the bench, but he didn’t like seeing me railroaded, either.

  “Same story. The python did cause asphyxiation, but Cindy Allen would have been dead within minutes anyway, given the amount of toxic heroin in her system,” Ben said. “It’s like the killer didn’t learn anything the first time he tried to distract us when he killed Evan Hayden. He did it again with Cindy Allen.”

  “Your operating theory is that the same person is behind both crimes, then?”

  “Most likely, since that particular mix of fentanyl and heroin has only been found once before in our jurisdiction. Namely, when it was used to kill Hayden.”

  “What about Rogers—” I started to ask, but Ben cut me off.

  “Stop right there. It wasn’t Rogers. Couldn’t have been. I already confirmed his alibi. His wife swears he was at home with her both nights before the murders occurred. Which means he wasn’t spending that time planning a couple of murders.”

  This got my attention. “Wait. You’re still investigating Mitch Rogers? He’s still a suspect? I thought you said he was working with you.”

  “I said he agreed to help get us connected to people we want to interview. I never said I trusted him.” Another sigh traveled across the line before he gave in and stated the obvious. “Look, Willa, we’re cut from the same cloth here, you and me. We’ve been around this game long enough to suspect everything people say and do. Mitch Rogers seems like a good guy on the surface, and maybe he is. I really don’t care. All I care about is finding out who really killed Hayden.”

  I nodded as if he could see me. “And Cindy Allen.”

  “And Cindy Allen,” Ben admitted. “If Mr. Family Friendly can help me do that? Great. Plus, working with him keeps him close so I can keep an eye on him.”

  I chuckled. “Aren’t you just all practical all of a sudden.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Ben’s weary tone belied the humor I felt coming through. “There’s something else, too. They brought in one of Hayden’s coworkers last night. Guy name John Cramer. While my officers were at Foster & Barnes, they took a look around and found a stash of heroin in the guy’s desk.”

  “What? Tell me they had a warrant.” I was on my feet now, too pumped with adrenaline to sit still any longer.

  “Of course they had a warrant. His lawyer’s here. He’s cooperating, and we’re still interviewing him, but I doubt he’s the guy who poisoned Hayden and Allen.”

  “Why? He seems a likely candidate, doesn’t he?”

  “At first, he did. But he’s a back-office guy. He’s never traveled to any of the states where this toxic heroin was found. And the preliminary toxicology reports show his stash wasn’t the same.”

  “So you’re saying he’s an addict, but nothing ties him to the murders,” I said.

  “We’ll keep talking to him, but it doesn’t look promising.” Ben covered the receiver and said something to someone else. “I gotta go. I’ll call you if anything useful turns up.”

  “Thanks, Ben.” I ended the call then sank back into my chair.

  Idly, I switched on my computer and typed Mitch Rogers’s name into a search engine. Last night’s dinner conversation ran through my mind. Nothing I recalled was particularly helpful.

  Hathaway said Rogers had been home with his wife at the time of both Evan and Cindy’s murders.

  He might have planned an alibi and hired another person to poison his victims. But Rogers, with so much riding on his public image, wasn’t likely to risk his own security like that. Two people couldn’t really keep such a secret. More likely, Hathaway would find the accomplice and squeeze him until he confessed.

  The bigger thing was what possible motive Rogers could have for murdering Hayden and Allen.

  He and Hayden were best buds. Got along great, Rogers claimed. No one said otherwise.

  Hayden was also his financial planner. Which meant Rogers could stand to lose a lot of money if anything happened to Hayden. Men like Rogers held on to their money even tighter than to their wives and their jobs.

  And Rogers was the one who originally introduced Cindy Allen to Hayden after she’d moved to Tampa. That ruled out jealousy as a motive, didn’t it?

  The Texas Sharks website posted last season’s schedule. The season ended with a loss in the playoffs in mid-October. Which meant Rogers could have been in Tampa both nights, even though he declared that he had been in Texas the night of Evan Hayden’s murder.

  I scrolled a little further back in the season. Rogers had pitched three games in Pittsburgh earlier in the year when the Sharks played the Pirates. He might have acquired the toxic heroin while he was there.

  In fact, Rogers had pitched games in several locations where this specific toxic heroin had been identified.

  I reached for the phone to call Ben, then reconsidered. Hathaway had probably discovered Rogers’s connections to those locations. And if he hadn’t, I’d bring it up after I confirmed that Rogers had access to the toxic heroin. Hathaway had plenty to do without chasing down my theories, too.

  Augustus knocked on my door, then stuck his head into my office. I looked up, eyebrows arched.

  “The Stingy Dudes case just settled. Thought you’d want to know. Plea deals all around and full restitution of embezzled funds returned to the victims by the banks.” He shook his head at me. “Smile, Judge. Things are looking up. CJ hasn’t called once today.”

  I nodded. Silence from CJ seemed more ominous than his constant phone calls. I wished I could share his optimism, but at the moment, with no end to the Hayden case in sight, I didn’t have an ounce of optimism left in me.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” I
said, keeping my attention on the monitor as I worked.

  He ducked his head out and closed the door.

  I eyed the teetering stack of pink phone messages in my inbox. I’d put off both CJ and the special investigative committee for days now. They’d be coming for me in person soon. I had the feeling that my time was running out, and we were no closer to solving Hayden’s murder than we’d ever been.

  I needed to prepare myself to face the music and to prepare George for what might lie ahead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, November 22

  5:30 p.m.

  That night when I got home, I fed the dogs and let them out. I changed into comfy sweats and sat out on the veranda, enjoying a drink and a cigar while reading the newspaper until George finished up downstairs.

  “Good evening, Mighty Mouse,” he said, dropping a kiss on the top of my head before taking a seat in the chaise lounge beside mine. He set his drink on the table between us, and soon we both had dogs at our feet and contented smiles on our faces.

  I wanted to hold on to this moment as long as I could, knowing our idyllic existence could all end without warning. After several moments of companionable silence, George looked over at me, his expression quizzical. “What’s wrong? You look so serious.”

  “Sorry.” I stared out at the now-dark water while George sipped his Glenfiddich. “Lot on my mind.”

  He laced his fingers with mine. “Hopefully all this will be over soon and things can get back to normal. Though I won’t lie. It’s been nice having you around more. When you’re working, we see each other so seldom.”

  “True. If there’s been one good thing to come out of this, it’s been having more free time.” I sighed. “But that could all change soon. A lot of things could change.”

  “The impeachment, you mean?” He stroked his thumb over my skin. “Oz is pretty pissed I’d imagine. You’ve been avoiding his phone calls, too, haven’t you?”