Due Justice

Chapter 5

Tampa, Florida

Wednesday 7:45 p.m.

January 6, 1999

The guests were set to arrive at 8:00, but I hoped to have a glass of wine first. I wanted to think about gathering information tonight on Dr. Morgan; from him directly or, if he didn’t show up, his neighbors. Keep Carly out of trouble. Me, too.

Someone would know something.

George had closed the restaurant for the evening, dedicating both dining rooms to the fund-raiser. Extra valets for parking.  News coverage because of the guest list. These affairs are set for week-nights by people who don’t work: or maybe by those who do and need an excuse.

Sunset Bar for a peaceful quarter hour before the deluge. Maybe a good cabernet would improve my mood.  What brightened my outlook immediately was the sole occupant of the room: Frank Bennett.

Ten years ago, Frank Bennett was the new kid in local television news. His gimmick was to introduce each newscast with a piece of Florida trivia. You know, like “We’re here at Disney World where Richard Nixon once announced ‘I am not a crook.’”  The idea was that the trivia would relate to the newscast in some way and, of course, distinguish him from all the other wannabes. And he put a “state pride” spin on everything when he could.

The bit was popular with viewers and helped land him in the NewsChannel 8 co-anchor chair.

Like all successful gimmicks, keeping it fresh was the problem. He started out writing the bits himself, from local history books and the newspaper archives. Now that he’s a “star,” a research staff does the work. Every night, 350,000 viewers tune in; much of that audience is due to Frank’s youthful ingenuity.

“Hey, Frank.” The traditional southern greeting, not to startle.

He smiled with obvious appreciation.

“I guess you don’t share my husband’s disdain for this rather simple dress,” I said.

“I guess your husband doesn’t understand how fabulous you look in it. If you go to work dressed like that, I may request a transfer to cops and courts.”  He actually winked at me.

“Frank, it’s illegal to flirt with a judge,” I said, with mock sternness.

But I kissed him on the cheek.

Frank’s always had something of a crush on me; I’d never exploited it before.

“Run out of cub reporters?”  I sat down across the table with my wine; he raised his glass in silent toast. When seated, Frank can look me in the eyes. Otherwise, we look like Boris and Natasha having a chat.

“One sign of old age is believing you can do everything better yourself,” he said. Ran his palm over his mostly bald head.

“What’s the latest?” I smiled, going for the perfect level of curiosity. At least he didn’t appear to be attuned to my need to know. Or maybe he was just used to it. Journalists are fun at cocktail parties.

He frowned, gnawed the plastic stir from his drink. “I’m trying to figure out how a guy can get himself shot, bound to cement slabs, and stuck in the Gulf of Mexico. And leave no trace of his life. Doesn’t seem possible, does it, Willa?”

Was he baiting me?

No. Thinking aloud.

I relaxed a little.

He didn’t know.

But he would.

Frank Bennett would nail the Bay Body’s story: Who was he? How’d he get there? Why?