Tampa, Florida
Thursday 5:00 p.m.
January 28, 1999
Three days later, George and I shared an outside table at the Sunset Bar. He studied next week’s menu; I stared at the calm waters of Hillsborough Bay, marking time, now and then rubbing the sore spot on my head and wondering who bopped me with that bowling ball.
“Head’s up,” George murmured. Unfortunate choice of words. “Hathaway’s at the bar.”
“Ummm,” I said, lowering my lids to avoid eye contact. What I thought was, “Finally.” Maybe if I ignored Ben, he’d go away. Maybe the whole mess would go away. I’d read Morgan’s research several times, but his theories were short on details for erasing screw-ups through mind control.
No luck. Felt the opposite chair groan when Ben plopped his heft onto the seat; heard him slurp a long pull of Ybor Gold out of the frosted mug.
George said, “Good afternoon, Ben.”
“In what universe?” was his sour reply.
“Couldn’t agree more,” I confirmed a little too enthusiastically.
Crunched my eyelids tighter, still focused on eliminating Ben as the personification of my errors. Not working.
I said, “I can’t tell you how sad I am that O’Connell Worthington’s in jail.”
He should have been out by now. Learning my heroes have clay feet might not be the most disappointment I can experience in life, but its right up there with discovering my own stupidity in other respects.
Truth to tell, I was more disappointed that Christian Grover wasn’t in custody instead of O’Connell. Not only because I liked Grover less (a lot less), but because Carly liked Grover too much. Grover would cause indigestion around the Thanksgiving Dinner table for years to come.
Definitely not a peaceful thought.
Tried again to focus.
Ben said, “Stay tuned.”
George responded. “What?”
Hathaway slurped and swallowed and slammed his empty mug on the table. “We can’t prove Worthington actually killed the guy. His lone confession won’t cut it with a jury of his peers. I expect him to walk, if the State Attorney bothers to indict him.”
“What do you mean?” I hoped I’d managed the perfect note of curiosity.
Ben Hathaway’s creative crime solving skills were weak; he’d taken way too long to realize he’d arrested the wrong man for murder.
But it was my fault. I’d misjudged O’Connell Worthington. When I set him up, I’d expected him to save himself by naming Morgan’s killer.
So far, I’d been dead wrong.
“Well, we can’t find any trace of a murder weapon, although we’ve checked the house and his office. He drives a white Cadillac, but his wife drives a black one. Neither vehicle contains any trace of physical evidence in the trunk or anywhere else. And we just can’t figure out how he’d have physically been able to move the guy, tie him up, and dump him in the gulf. Dead bodies weigh a lot more than you think.”
No kidding. It took three days to figure that out?
Ben ordered a second beer, gulped again. “There’s no physical evidence of any kind linking Worthington with the body. The problems with the case go on and on. Sloppy crime, but the cover-up is as close to perfect as anything I’ve ever seen.”
He drained the second mug, set it down softly. Delivered what he’d come here to say. “The big problem is now that Worthington’s dead, we’ll never know who killed Morgan.”
What did he say?
I popped my eyes open and stared.
“Dead?” George and I said simultaneously.
“Suicide. In his cell a couple of hours ago. I thought you’d want to know.”
I was speechless. And responsible. My head dropped into open palms, fingers splayed through my hair, rubbing the sore spot harder, pressing the pain.
After a few moments, George asked, “How did it happen?”
Ben stood, crossed arms over ample belly, leaned against the deck rail, ignoring the old wood’s groan. “Investigated too many cases over the years himself, I guess. He knew what to do. He tied his socks together and climbed onto the sink. He tied one end of the socks to the bars on the windows and the other end around his neck. Stepped off. That was it. If he’d been a bigger man, he would have pulled the bars off the window. But he was so slight, they held.”
Tears pooled in my eyes. How could O’Connell be dead? How would I ever live with myself?
George took my hand, squeezed tight.
“He was a proud man, Willa. The shame. Tampa’s a small town that way. He’d have felt an outcast in a home he once owned.” He squeezed my hand tighter. “Really, what else would he do?”
George meant to comfort us all but his words failed.
My stupid idea put O’Connell in jail. He wouldn’t have been there otherwise. He’d still be alive.
Now two men were dead and the killer, I believed, still free.
Although I wasn’t so sure it mattered anymore. At some point, enough has got to be enough.
O’Connell paid for Morgan’s murder. A life for a life. Carly was out of the woods, I had dodged the impeachment bullet.
I needed to let it go. But could I?