Due Justice

Chapter 1

Tampa, Florida

Wednesday 4:15 p.m.

January 6, 1999

I grew up outside Detroit, where the weak were killed and eaten. Still are.

Every morning during my high school years, my clock radio blasted me awake with morning news: Five men killed last night in Cass Corridor. Two hundred homicides this year.

Like sports statistics, only bloodier.

Somehow it never occurred to me to change the station.

Even so, murder was far removed from my suburban life. Eventually I moved to Tampa for sunny charm, Southern hospitality, smiling grocery clerks, polite neighbors, small-town feel.

And no crime. Ok, less crime.

But lessons learned young stick with us. All those Detroit homicides proved one thing to me: You never see the bullet that gets you, even when it hits you right between the eyes.

Of course, I didn’t think about any of this until long after the time to duck.

Carly Austin ambushed me at home. I’d dashed home from work later than I’d planned. Preoccupied. Distracted. Too much to do, too little time to do it. And there she was. Waiting for me.

Her mere presence was a shock; she’d been ignoring me for more than a year.

I’d covered well; offered smiles, hugs. Asked her to join me for drinks.  She feigned reluctance, but allowed me to persuade.

Twenty minutes later we sat outdoors on the Sunset Bar patio.  I played with the pink flamingo swizzle stick in my iced Bombay Sapphire and tonic, moving the lemon twist around the cubes, afraid to sip because the alcohol would do what alcohol does. The swirling gin, yellow lemon and white ice mesmerized, passed the time.

Perfect late January afternoon. Warm and clear. Setting sun and rising full moon cast simultaneous glow on Hillsborough Bay, giving a mystical quality to my experience.

I knew it was the atmosphere that made me feel this way because I hadn’t swallowed any gin. Yet.

Carly’s visit was urgent in some way; she never came to me bearing good news or even minor trouble.

I felt my muscles tense with anticipation and anxiety.

Sought understanding. Gaze lifted. Watched my almost-sibling. What was the problem? Sure I could handle it, if only she’d tell me what it was. Too much drama. With Carly, always. If only she’d come tomorrow, when everything in my world was scheduled to be less tense. She had to know that today wasn’t the best time to commandeer my attention.

Something was very wrong.

Again I noted the setting sun reflected glistening orange that flattered her copper coloring; but her clothes were wrinkled and dark circles under her eyes showed through her concealer. Lipstick smeared. Bright pink blush on pale cheeks made her look more like Bozo than Garbo. Even her curly red hair was dirty.

So not-Carly.

More gin. Definitely. But not yet.

I felt the familiar ambivalent emotions Carly always inspired.  She was fiercely independent, but perpetually getting into some mess that I had to get her out of. I loved her, of course; she was the only sister I’d ever have. But I could strangle her sometimes. Gleefully.

Stubborn as an elephant, she couldn’t be pushed.  Believe me. I’ve tried.

While I waited for her to speak I flashed back to the first time we met. Gathered around the bassinet, watching.  Instantly beloved. Tiny face, flashing blue eyes. Red ringlets framed porcelain skin. Mom cooed over Carly’s little feet and perfect hands. Her brothers murmured in hushed wonder as they examined miniscule fingernails, perfect eyelashes. One of the boys, not quite ten and very clever, wanted to call her Curly, but his mother insisted on Carly, and his brother punched him in the arm whenever he refused to get it right.