Due Justice

Chapter 24

Tampa, Florida

Friday 5:30 p.m.

January 22, 1999

A fine snit is a terrible thing to waste.

I picked up the telephone and called Ben Hathaway.

He was as cool to me as I was to him. I asked him what news he had of Carly and he told me that an ongoing police investigation was none of my business.

“If you want me to keep out of it, you’ll tell me what you found, if you found anything,” I snapped back.

“You’ll keep out of it if I tell you to keep out of it, federal judge or not!” and he slammed down the phone.

I slammed down my receiver immediately afterwards. What a shame he couldn’t hear it.

Now what?

“Go home, Willa. You’re exhausted. You’re fighting with everyone. That’s not like you. Go home.”

My face frowned quickly of its own accord. Grandma never said whether it was insane to answer questions never asked aloud. Yet the truth was obvious not only to CJ. As much as it pained me to agree with him on anything, I was exhausted.

On the way home, I concluded Hathaway must have nothing to report. If he’d found Carly or knew where she was, he would have been only too happy to tell me.

In fact, she’d be in custody if he’d found her.

Small comfort. I’d grown weary of not knowing what the hell was going on.

I wasn’t conscious of it, but somehow, Greta decided it would be a good idea to drive by Michael Morgan’s house instead of going immediately home. I found myself driving west on Kennedy to Westshore, turning south and into the Beach Park subdivision, scouting the address imprinted on my memory.

The house itself was old and fairly small, a typical Florida ranch perched on an ordinary South Tampa lot. A Beach Park address, but not one of the more glamorous homes in the neighborhood. When it turned over, the house would likely be a tear-down.

Like me, Morgan’s killer must have been cursing his luck; like so many homes in Florida, Morgan’s had no attached garage. The west side of the house was exposed and visible.

Anyone could have seen a black car in the driveway, just as the witness told the police.

Greta pulled up the length of the driveway to the back of the carport. No matter. Exposed and visible.

Tried the side entry door; discovered it unlocked.

It took me about two seconds to decide.

Greta is distinctive, and someone would notice. But I was already here and Morgan was already dead and I was already obstructing justice as well as in trouble with the CJ.

What more could I risk?

So I went in through the side door.

Opened directly into the kitchen. I ducked under the crime lab’s yellow plastic tape to enter.

Morgan’s kitchen held an oak drop-leaf table set parallel to the door, maybe forty-two inches round when the leaves were up, and two matching oak chairs. Splattered blood and grey matter marred the wall behind the chair facing the door. The chair was snugged against the wall now and from the mess, seemed to have been in that position at the time of death.

The opposite chair, closest to the door, was tucked close to the table. Unoccupied at the time of the murder? Or replaced afterward?

Had the killer stood right inside this side door and pulled the trigger?