Florida Is Murder (Due Justice and Surface Tension Mystery Double Feature) (Florida Mystery Double Feature) (23 page)

No doubt blood spatter experts would determine the answer. But my experience said it could have gone either way.

The door jamb didn’t appear tampered or damaged. Nor did the door. Locks not forced either open or closed, I’d say. Black fingerprinting dust all over the knob now, but not before the murder. No obvious finger prints lifted. The killer wore gloves? Suggested premeditation. Or maybe wiped in cleanup if the murder had been more spontaneous?

The dining room stood north of the kitchen and contained formal furniture. Chair seats had been slashed, but the china cabinet seemed undamaged. Doors open, but dishes remained in place. Had the room and its contents been dusted for prints?  Had the evidence vacuum been run over the floors?  Nothing seemed particularly clean. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if the Tampa police had an evidence vacuum.

The living room visible through the dining room’s open archway. A total shambles. Seat cushions and seat backs were ripped to shreds. The chairs and the love seat turned over, and the bottoms slashed, too. Books strewn everywhere, bindings cracked and open.

Quickly walked through the rest of the house. Every room was similarly destroyed. Whatever the searcher sought, there was no reason to believe he’d found it. Otherwise, why destroy the remaining hiding places?

I’d been inside five full minutes. How much more time would I have?

I went outside and looked around the grounds. Impossible to tell if Dr. Morgan’s carport had always looked like a tornado victim cyclone or the mess resulted from a continuing search.

Since no one had shown up to arrest me yet, I returned to the house to work through the murder.

If Dr. Morgan was seated at the kitchen table with whoever killed him in the chair opposite, the body either remained in the chair after death or fell to the floor near the back wall.

Then, the body was moved out of the house through the side door.

The distance from the chair to the exit was about ten feet; from the exit to the car’s trunk maybe another fifteen feet.

Logistically, moving the body to the door shouldn’t have been too strenuous. He could have dragged Morgan along the floor. I squatted for a closer look between the Spanish tiles. Although the grout was already a dark brown, something had stained it in the right locations. Could have been blood. Maybe a cooking spill. The crime lab would apply sophisticated tests to find out.

The hard part would have been moving the body from the kitchen floor into the trunk of the car without being seen. Had to be done at night. The area was much too open for daylight skullduggery. This was an affluent neighborhood, though. Maybe the neighbors worked away from home during daylight hours.

In either case, it would have to be done quickly. Discovery became more probable with each passing moment.

That thought caused me to check my watch again. I’d been here eleven minutes now. Weren’t Tampa PD response times a lot shorter than that?

A car trunk is at least four feet off the ground. With the advent of weight lifting as a national pastime, most people could probably manage to lift 175 pounds three feet off the ground, even without the extra strength adrenaline flow you’d have to have to kill Morgan in the first place.

But it wouldn’t be easy and it had to be fast.

After he got the body into the trunk, the rest could have been done in the relative privacy of the killer’s garage, assuming he had one. If not a garage, then some private location. No other way he could have bound that body in absolute confidence he wouldn’t be interrupted.

So where did he get the concrete and the clothesline?

Sixteen minutes. Really? No one had reported me yet? Perhaps Morgan’s Tampa neighbors were less nosy than I’d assumed.

Another pass through the house. No clothesline. But through the bedroom window I saw a storage shed in the back yard and dashed out there for a quick look.

Nothing inside the shed. Behind it, though.

Eureka.

Broken grey concrete patio stones under the trash cans. Six missing. Small enough and light enough for easy handling and heavy enough to weigh down the body. And who would notice them missing after the homeowner died? This had to be the source of the concrete weights.

But finding patio stones of just the right size that wouldn’t be missed is a lot of luck to count on. The killer had to be someone who knew he’d find those materials easily available. Meaning someone very familiar with the house.

Nineteen minutes since I’d parked Greta in the carport. Still no sirens. Huh?

I felt sure I’d found everything knowable from Morgan’s physical surroundings. But I wouldn’t get another chance.

I dashed back inside for one more look around.

Something else bothered me about the scene. Such a mess. But something not right about that mess. What? I couldn’t put my finger on the problem. It was there, though. I could feel it.

Twenty-two minutes. Good grief. What the hell was Tampa PD doing?

I hurried to Greta; snatched the disposable camera from her miniscule glove compartment. Snapped quick pictures. Kitchen, dining room, living room, master bedroom and den. The pictures would distort the scene, but better than trusting memory for the details.

Something wasn’t right here, and I resolved to let my unconscious work on what that something was.

Twenty-seven minutes. Pushed my luck as far as I was willing to go.

But when this was over, I planned a long chat with Ben Hathaway.

Dropped the film off for overnight developing on the way home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Tampa, Florida

Saturday 2:15

January 23, 1999

Running late. Stopped by to pick up the developed film and stuffed it in Greta’s glove box with all the other essential junk I had in there. No time to examine the photos now.

I’d invited Dr. Carolyn Young to Great Oaks. Easier to play my home course. Less thinking required, more time for my planned inquisition.

We’d agreed to meet at the clubhouse at 2:30 p.m. when the course would be nearly empty and she could, as she put it, help me improve my game. Dressed like a golf magazine advertisement in pink and green, she stood tapping her pricey spikes on the pavement out front when I dashed up.

“Sorry--”

“Never mind. We’ve loaded your clubs. Shoes, too. Let’s go,” she said. Strode toward the cart.

I didn’t dare take a minute to pee.

Carolyn Young might have been 55 years old, but she sure didn’t look it. If her smooth skin, firm breasts, and great legs were the result of modern medicine, I wanted some. I suspected her patients felt the same way. A perfect advertisement for her plastic surgery practice.

She commandeered the wheel; “I’m in charge” attitude apparent in every movement. Nothing about her was tentative. No idle chit-chat, either.

When we arrived at the first tee, she instructed, leaving no room for negotiation.

“Take the first shot. I’ll check your swing.”

After my respectable tee shot, she said, “Your swing isn’t bad. You’re too tense.”

Gee, ya think?

She pulled her driver from her bag and stood over the tee wagging her butt. “Loosen up. Let the club do the work. Watch me.”

In an easy, relaxed way, Carolyn knocked the snot out of that golf ball. Amazing hit. A good twenty yards farther than my lie. I’d thought maybe she played golf with Marilee Aymes every week to salve a guilty conscience. Not sot. Marilee was a good golfer, but not that good. Carolyn must have let Marilee win. Also amazing.

But why?

After the first three holes, Carolyn had given me enough suggestions for this lifetime. Some were helpful, but most were pure harassment. If she’d constantly harped like this with Morgan, no wonder he’d dumped her gorgeous ass.

On the fourth hole, I watched my ball sail ridiculously right, over the creek and onto the fairway on the other side.

Carolyn waited behind the wheel, hand tapping impatiently, one foot on the accelerator and the other on the brake. “Come on. Don’t dawdle.”

I strolled to my bag and placed my club deliberately. Took my sweet time.

“Enjoyed meeting Fred Johnson when I substituted for you last week,” I said before sidling up to my seat. “He’s overshadowed by Grover in their partnership, don’t you think?”

My butt barely touched the vinyl before she’d lifted her foot from the brake and the cart jumped forward. I grabbed the side rail and held tight.

She drove the cart at breakneck speed along the paved path, over a fat snake,
ka-plomp
,
ka-plomp
, and never slowed. I looked back; the snake slithered off, undead, as we sped across the bridge, over the creek, and beyond.

She replied, “Grover has a big personality. It’s too bad he’s not as good a lawyer as he fancies himself.”

“He gets some awfully big verdicts, and he always seems to have the most high profile cases in town,” I shouted over the wind whistling and the protesting whine of the cart’s gas powered engine.

“Maybe. But Fred is the successful one. He picks the winners. You only have to be around them together to figure that out.”

Was she calling me stupid now, too?

Carolyn drove right up to her ball, jumped out of the cart and grabbed her nine iron. She set up, took her shot, landed on the green and jumped back in the cart, all in less than two minutes. Mashed the accelerator and sped over to my ball, stomped the brake and threw me forward.

“Do you think they make these things with seat belts?” I asked as I got out of the cart slowly, and tried to shake myself out so I could concentrate to beat her lie.

“Sorry,” she said.

In a pig’s eye.

You can learn a lot about a person by the way they act on the golf course. Polite?  Play by the rules?  Short temper?  Clubs in the lake?  Like a trial, it’s a microcosm of life. Carolyn Young was impatient, fast. And very good. In golf and in life.

Tested my theory.

Slowly, I studied the angle of the ball to the pin like a newbie. Laid my club on the ground and walked back to check the direction of the ball.

She fidgeted like a kid needing a pee.

Yep. Speed was her ally. Her tactic was to rush me, get me frazzled. She’d be on her best game and I’d be off mine. Fat chance.

After I hit, I strolled back to the cart, wiped the dirt off my club with my towel, and took my time. Then I moseyed to the passenger side, climbed in, and hung on.

Again, she mashed the accelerator before I settled into the seat, and drove about 20 miles an hour toward the green. Maybe this was a specially jazzed cart, customized for her need for speed?

She said, “I’ve known Grover for years. He’s always been an insufferable chauvinist.”

“Is he old enough for that?”  I asked her.

She laughed. Jerked the cart to a stop. Jumped out. Grabbed her putter.

“The biggest problem he has,” she continued talking during her putt while the ball rolled seven feet, curved left and fell into the cup, “is how many law firms he’s been booted from. He stays with each one as long as they can stand each other. A nasty divorce follows. Your turn.”

She collected her specialized kryptonite ball from the cup and stood to one side, positioned to gloat.

I stooped down, laid my club from the ball toward the hole, took a couple of practice swings. I could see her tapping her foot and fidgeting, getting more annoyed by the second. Some people just have no patience.

She continued to talk while I belabored the putt. “Generally, he gets asked to leave. Too many junior lawyers complain about the way he treats them; too many lawsuits against the firm for discrimination or harassment or whatever.”

She wanted to demand hurry, but she kept quiet.

Finally, after delaying a good five minutes, I hit the putt.

My ball rolled ever so slowly right toward the hole and stopped about six inches short.

“That’s a gimme,” she said, hopefully.

“No, no. I insist. I’ll putt it in,” I replied and plodded through the whole procedure again. Wondered how long she could hold her temper; and what she’d do when she lost it.

“But he has the magic touch with juries and whenever he loses one position, he gets another. For some reason, as offensive as he can be to his friends and neighbors, juries love him,” I told her.

My second putt tapped solid, the ball rolled the final six inches smoothly, and dropped in.

Carolyn didn’t see my little victory dance because she’d turned to retake the cart.

“Maybe,” she said, speeding to the next tee. “If a cynic might say jurors are stupid. Truth is, Grover’s highly manipulative; he can talk a banana out of its peel. A few million dollars from unsophisticated polite southerners is easier for him to get than a winter cold.”

We lurched to a stop. Again, she jumped out, set up, and hit her tee shot a country mile on a par five, 509-yard hole.

She watched her ball land safely in the fairway before she resumed the constant chatter. This, too, was a tactical distraction. Gamesmanship, not sportsmanship. All the more curious because she could beat me easily playing appropriately.

She asked, “Have you ever heard the story about how he got his first million?”

Continued my setup. Pretended to ignore her. Whacked the ball well enough. We moved to the fairway.

She said, “Grover was three years out of law school. He defied his bosses. Accepted a plaintiff’s case, after his request was refused. Handled the case at night, on weekends. When he couldn’t get a quick and hefty settlement, he took the case to trial. The jury gave him what the defense attorney wouldn’t. Awarded five million dollars to the family. Grover got fired the moment the verdict came back. And made the headlines as the youngest member of the million-dollar club. All in the same instant.”

“You admire him for that?” I asked.

“Hell, no.”  She’d hit her second shot another 200 yards with her three wood and stood aside.

When I duffed my next shot, she snorted under her breath before she rushed away.

I wondered if Carolyn Young knew the rest of Grover’s story.