Best Defense

Copyright Information

Best Defense: Beth Bowman, P.I.
© 2013 by Randy Rawls.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2013

E-book ISBN: 9780738737959

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Cover illustration by Stephen Bailey

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Best Defense is dedicated to My Honey,

Ronnie Bender, who tolerates me well,

and to my wonderful children,

Theresa (Tracy) Rawls Eilers and David Rawls.

Acknowledgments

Every author, especially this one, needs others to lean on; to get through a difficult scene, to insure the words say exactly what you mean them to say, and, of course, to help with all those pesky typos and grammar issues. I am fortunate to have some wonderful friends, each of them accomplished authors, to review my material and keep me straight. So, a hearty thanks to Sylvia Dickey Smith, Earl Staggs, Gregg Brickman, Vicki Landis, Stephanie Levine, Rich Hodes, and Ann Meier. Each of you have significant fingerprints on Best Defense, and I am fortunate you were there.

one

My client, Sabrina Hammonds
,
lived in one of Broward County's many upscale neighborhoods. Large, single-family homes on lots big enough to stage a rodeo. From the street, I could see the fenced area in the back that surrounded their Olympic-sized pool.

The front yard sprouted the obligatory palm trees and blooming flora. Landscaping blocks divided everything into neat sections. Either Mr. Hammonds was a nature freak, or he used a lawn care service. From what I'd seen of him, probably the latter. His tastes ran more to skanky women.

The wide driveway leading to the three-car garage was empty. Not much of an indicator since it was the same when I first visited Ms. Hammonds. She kept her S-Class Mercedes out of the hot Florida sun. I'd have done the same—if I'd had a garage and a hundred thousand dollar car. Especially if I had such a luxury ride.

I parked under the porte-cochere, checked my briefcase to make sure I hadn't forgotten the report, then headed for the massive front entrance. As I reached toward the bell, I noticed the door was ajar. Not open, mind you, just a small gap like someone had come out and let the door swing closed behind them. I pushed the button and the chimes of Big Ben sounded. They didn't seem a bit out of context.

While waiting for the echo to die away, I looked around. It was a fancy protected entryway with a half-circle stained glass window above the oversized walnut double doors. The window had the inevitable palm tree etched into it. An air conditioning vent pumped cold air into the semi-enclosed area, making it almost comfortable, despite the ninety-plus degrees temperature a few steps away.

When I was there before, the maid had opened the door, then reported my presence to Ms. Hammonds. I figured she could be in the back of the house—a long way from the front. Since I didn't want to appear pushy, I waited longer than my norm before nudging the bell again. As before, the day ticked away with no response.

I supposed it could be the maid's day off. Since I'd never had enough money to employ a domestic, I wasn't sure how their workweeks went. If so, Ms. Hammonds might be slow getting to the door. I waited.

After what I considered a suitable time, I rang the bell a third time. Same result.

Could Ms. Hammonds be out, no one home? Always possible and even probable, given the length of time I'd stood there. Yet, the unsecured door beckoned me. Would I be remiss to walk away, leaving the house open? Wouldn't I be doing my civic duty to stick my head in to see if everything was all right? I mean, it was something any good citizen would be expected to do, right? Sure, it would.

I sounded the chimes of Big Ben once more. By this time, my normal personality was kicking in. I have a great deal of difficulty with patience. I realize that might sound incongruent with my working as a PI. My job requires I spend hours waiting for something to happen, whether it be a stakeout on a criminal or waiting for a husband or a wife to make a meet. In those instances, I fidget, I pace, I play mental word and number games. I've taught myself to multiply three digit numbers by three digit numbers while lurking in inconspicuous places.

I checked my watch—for at least the tenth time. No response to the doorbell. Time to see what the story was. I pulled on the door and peeked into the house. The contrast between the outside brightness and the inside dimness made it tough to see.

I stepped across the threshold and hit a switch on the panel beside the door. When the lights came on, I saw two things—the first was closed blinds. The second sent a chill to my soul. In the middle of the foyer, a body sprawled on the floor. From the position of the arms and legs, I knew the person was not napping.

I rushed over, hoping against hope my first impression was wrong. But checking the carotid artery gave truth to my fear—no pulse. With all the blood on her clothing and puddled on the floor around her, I wasn't surprised. The body lay face down, but I was sure I knew her. From the shape and size, it had to be Ms. Hammonds. It looked like her husband got to her before I did. I wanted to roll her over, but knew that would be stupid. The police would not appreciate my messing with their crime scene.

Her husband. Could he still be in the house? I whirled around, my eyes digging into every corner. No one there, but I saw only one of the twenty or so rooms that made up the Hammonds' mansion. I took my pistol out of my purse, then set off to ensure I was alone—or that no one wishing me harm was there.

While searching the lower level, I called nine-one-one and reported my discoveries. The operator told me to meet the police out front, but I ignored her. If someone was in the house, I wanted to know.

In a large pantry off the kitchen, I found the maid. She, too, was dead. From the marks on her neck, my guess was someone had strangled her. As I completed my trip around the downstairs, I heard a noise from the front of the house, then a call of, “Police. Anyone here?” I took a deep breath and started toward the front room.

The cops met me in the hall with the obligatory order to drop my weapon and assume
the position
against the wall. I complied and a young patrolman named Johnson explored areas I preferred not touched by a stranger. However, I understood. I'd have done the same if I had found anyone during my search, and I wouldn't have concerned myself about his or her private parts.

Once he finished, I showed my PI credentials. “Before this goes too far, I suggest you go after the victim's husband. His name is John Hammonds, and he's an attorney with Hammonds, Perches, and Ballson in Fort Lauderdale.”

“And why should I do that?”

“Because,” I said, frustration setting in, “she hired me to catch him with one of his women. She was going to divorce him and clean out his bank accounts. From the look of things, he figured it out and took care of the problem.”

Johnson said, “Sorry, your hunches aren't enough for me to act on. You'll have to save it for the detectives. They should be here soon. Anyone else in the house?”

“I didn't make it upstairs, but I found another body.” I told him
about the maid. “She must have seen him, so he killed her also. I'm telling you, the sooner you arrest the husband, the quicker you close the case.”

“Like I said, ma'am, that's the detectives' call. Now, if you'll just wait out front with Officer LaBelle, I'll secure the scene.” He walked me to the front door.

On the lawn, I repeated my plea to LaBelle. Same results. Someone had given them specific instructions about their duties at a homicide scene, and I assumed they had scored high in that class.

That left me nothing to do but exercise patience—again—so I walked to my car, climbed in, fired it up, and started the air conditioner. Mom always said you don't have to practice to be miserable. Standing in South Florida's blazing sun equaled miserable. Sitting in an air-conditioned car equaled better. No contest.

I took the surveillance report out of my briefcase. A wasted effort
. No one now to deliver it to. I spent a few minutes feeling sorry for the lost fee, sorry for myself.

But if I thought my day was bad, it hit rock bottom when the unmarked police car came to a stop behind me. I may have steamed up my rearview mirror when Detectives Dick Bannon and Major Sargent got out. I knew them. They knew me. I had no respect for them. They didn't like me. And those were the parts of our relationship you could mention in mixed company.

They didn't look any different from the first time I saw them—or the last time. They were both six-footers, give or take an inch. Dark blue off-the-rack suits that showed the wear and tear of the street. However, the clothing didn't really matter, they just carried an aura of cop. Maybe it was the squint of their eyes or the way they walked. I couldn't identify it, but they may as well have worn their badges on their foreheads.

Bannon tapped on my window. When I lowered it, he said, “Well, Ms. Bowman, so nice to see you again. I understand we have another homicide with your fingerprints on it.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “You have a homicide. I'm just the citizen who found the bodies.”

“So I heard. Let's find some place we can sit and talk. This sun is too hot for my liking. The M.E. is on the way.”

“My favorite skirt-PI,” Sargent said from behind Bannon, giving me his
pretty
smile, the one he reserved for use with his most sarcastic remarks. “Somehow I just knew we'd meet again. How many bodies this time? Dispatch said only one, but I figure I misheard. You're better than that.”

I wanted to tell him there was one less body than I'd like—his—but decided that wouldn't be smart. Also, I had to admit, he had a point. The last time I saw him and Bannon, the body count would have made a car-bomber proud. Rather than match their attitudes, I went with, “Sorry, it's two. And yes, before you ask, one of them was a client of mine. Sabrina Hammonds, wife of John Hammonds of Hammonds, Perches, and Ballson.”

“Looks like you're moving up in society,” Bannon said. “And I'm impressed. You even learned the name of your client. Last time we crossed paths, you didn't have a clue about the identity of the woman who hired you.”

That elicited a laugh from the two of them and a grimace from me. He was right, but I wasn't there to revisit that situation. Of course, I could have enjoyed telling them I'd solved the case, not them.

They hadn't changed a bit since our last encounter. If forced to talk to them, and they were cops so I had no choice, I preferred
Bannon. At least I could catch him in a listening mode once in
a while. Sargent, never—always sour, always sarcastic, always a horse's ass.

I said, “If you can drag yourselves out of the past, there's a dead
woman in there whose husband killed her. I tried to explain to the two uniforms, but they have heads carved from the same oak tree as yours. Is it a requirement to have a hardwood cranium to be a cop in this town?”

I smiled my most innocent smile while hesitating, then jumped in when I saw a response appear in Sargent's eyes. “Now, listen carefully, and I will explain this to you. Don't worry about taking notes, I will enunciate very slowly. Ms. Hammonds came to me because her loving husband has been sleeping around on her. She planned to divorce him and take every dime he has. He discovered her plot and took care of the problem before it went too far. That's it. End of case. Now, I recommend you put out a BOLO on him before he skips the state.”

Bannon looked at Sargent and shook his head. The look in his eyes told me there was a hole in my hypothesis.

“Yeah,” Sargent said. “She's hallucinating again. Ma'am, Ms. Private Investigator, Mr. Hammonds is on his way. He should be here any minute. He was in court when we made contact. It took a few minutes for him to get an adjournment, or he'd be here already.”

My stomach sailed south. “You sure?”

“Oh no, Ma'am, I'm not sure. I just make up stories like this on the fly. However, I really must get on about my business instead of listening to your fairy tales. But, if you'd like, I'll give you time to explain your crazy theory to him as soon as he arrives. Detective Bannon, if you will please take the
lady's
statement, I'll get things rolling inside.”

“Hold up, Major,” Bannon said. “That could be Mr. Hammonds turning into the driveway now. Ms. Bowman, please don't leave. I'd better escort Mr. Hammonds. He can't like what he'll see.”

_____

I cooled my heels for the next two hours while detectives, uniforms, and the medical examiner did their thing. After an eternity, th
e bodies were removed. Various groups went into the house with few leaving. I recognized some of the faces, crime scene techs I'd seen on previous jobs. I didn't envy them. The place had at least twenty rooms that would require detailed examination. I hoped they didn't find any
more victims.

To save gas—one never knew how much the next tank full would cost—I
killed my engine and left the car. The Hammonds had a gazebo in an area of the yard shaded by palm trees so I camped out there. The time gave me a ch
ance to review the bad fortune that placed me in a position to find the bodies.

Ms. Hammonds had hired me to get
the goods
on her husband, John Hammonds, Attorney at Law. She said he was unfaithful, and she wanted a divorce—along with the houses, the cars, his property, and all his money.

Based on her description, he was easy to spot leaving his office. Picture the successful attorney as played by the newest Hollywood superstar and that was John Hammonds. Over six feet tall, weight under control, and black, well-trimmed hair that bounced with each step—but not too much—wearing a suit that fit him perfectly. While he didn't have the Hollywood-scruffy beard, his five o'clock shadow made his face swarthy. The kind of man who could make any girl's heart flutter—handsome by every definition in every dictionary.

Since I'd planted a GPS tracking device under his right rear wheel well, following him was no problem. He drove straight to an expensive restaurant where he approached a woman sitting alone at a table in the bar, kissed her on the cheek, and sat across from her, taking her hand in his. She didn't fit the image of a floozy, having passed several years of her prime, but their actions showed they were close. From my position across the room, nursing an overpriced mixed drink, heavy on the water, I could see familiarity flowing between them. They were circumspect though, not groping in public. After a couple of drinks, they went to dinner while I sat in my car and watched through the window, munching a stale sandwich.

They took their time as if they were in no rush to get to the deed. When they left, they went in Mr. Hammonds' car. He drove to a Hilton, let the valet have his car, then walked with her through the lobby. I followed his example and stayed with them until she led him into a room. Enough for me. Case wrapped, time to go home to bed.